The first week passed like a page half-turned—quiet, fragile, yet somehow comforting. Tushar had begun humming again. Not full songs, but soft murmurs that drifted through Amrita's apartment like dandelion fluff. Sometimes, in the middle of peeling potatoes or while folding laundry, she'd hear him strum two chords, stop, then sigh. Each note was progress.
They had settled into a rhythm.
Tea at seven.
Breakfast at eight.
Long silences filled with the kind of peace that didn't need conversation.
But as the days wore on, Amrita felt something stirring. Not doubt. Not discomfort. But a kind of unspoken wondering. How long would he stay? What would happen when the stillness broke?
One evening, they sat on the balcony with their feet propped on the railing. The monsoon wind was wild, lifting curtains and ruffling papers as if the house itself were asking questions no one dared to voice.
"Tushar," Amrita said, her voice barely above the wind.
"Hm?"
"Do you miss Berlin?"
He turned his face slightly, not surprised but not ready. "Sometimes," he admitted.
She sipped her tea. "Then why not go?"
"Because…" He hesitated. "I'm afraid if I go, I'll lose this."
"This?"
"This calm. This… you."
Amrita placed her cup down and looked straight at him. "You're not here because of me, Tushar. You're here because you're trying to rebuild yourself. And I'm part of that, yes. But your music, your dreams, your need to explore—that's not betrayal. That's living."
He looked at her then, like he was seeing her again for the first time.
"I got another call yesterday," he confessed. "Same director. New project. Vienna this time."
"And?" she asked.
"I didn't answer."
"Tushar."
"I didn't know how to tell you."
She reached over and placed her hand over his. "Then tell me now."
"I want to go," he said finally. "But I also want to stay. And I don't know how to do both."
Amrita smiled. "You don't have to choose one forever. You can go now, and come back later. Or I can visit. Or we meet somewhere in between. Life isn't made of ultimatums. It's made of pauses."
He exhaled a laugh. "How do you always know the right thing to say?"
"I don't. I just stop pretending the hard things aren't real."
They sat quietly after that. The silence wasn't heavy—it was full, meaningful. A space between words that didn't need filling.
The next morning, she woke to find a note on the fridge:
*Amu,
Booked a ticket for next Friday. One month in Vienna. One song in my heart. One friend in my soul.
Let's not say goodbye—let's say, 'To be continued.'
T*
Beneath the note was a Post-it in her handwriting: "Don't forget your socks this time, idiot."
Friday came too quickly.
The airport was chaotic as always, but their goodbye wasn't. It was calm, just like them. He hugged her tight, the kind of hug that writes itself into your bones.
As he walked through security, he turned back and called out, "Write to me!"
She laughed. "Every day."
"And send pictures!"
"Only the ones where I don't look like a panda."
"You always look like a panda."
"Exactly my point!"
And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd.
Amrita stood still for a moment. Not because she was sad, but because she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
As she walked back to the parking lot, her phone buzzed.
A message from Tushar.
She smiled.
Soon.
---
Moral of the Chapter:
Friendship is not about holding someone back—it's about holding them steady until they're strong enough to move forward. True love, in any form, makes room for growth—even if it means growing apart for a while.