UnSaid-II

 

                                 Quiet Ties of Care  - Part 2

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Interlude: The Song She Didn’t Know She Loved

He once made her listen to all his favorite songs — many in Punjabi or Himachali, languages she didn’t know. He sat with her, explaining each line, like a quiet translator of feelings. She remembered the way his voice softened when he reached a line he loved, the way his eyes carried the story. She listened because he asked her to — and slowly, she began to love the music too.

That day, when her roommate told her Harsh had replied, something stirred. Not pain. Just a kind of... ache. She didn’t want to reach out. She didn’t want him. But she found herself wanting one of those songs.

She didn’t even remember the name. Just a feeling. A trace of lyrics. She searched and searched — tracing the story behind the song, trying keywords, melodies she could barely hum.

And then she found it.

She played it on loop the entire day. And somewhere in the third or fourth listen, it hit her: it was Harsh who made her love this song. He who made it make sense.

But now, she didn’t need him to explain it anymore. The song had become hers.

She even recommended it to two of her friends — not as his favorite, but as a song she loved.

And that’s how healing begins sometimes. Not by forgetting. But by reclaiming.

The song didn’t leave with him. It stayed. And so did she.

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📞 Interlude: The Missed Call

One evening, something small happened — small, but sharp in its clarity.

Kennie’s roommate needed her mess ID, but it was with Harsh, who still hadn’t returned from his hometown. She texted him. He replied that Sam, his roommate, had come back and she could ask him.

So she called Sam.

Sam said, “Let me check with Harsh.”

A few minutes passed. Then Sam called back and said, “He’s not picking up.”

Without hesitation, Kennie’s roommate said lightly,
“He never picks up my calls, but let me try anyway.”

She tried — normal call, WhatsApp call.
No answer. It was already 7:45 p.m. The mess would close by 8:30.

Then, she turned to Kennie and asked,
“Can you try calling him? Maybe he’ll pick up your call.”

She didn’t know.
She didn’t know about the silence that had stretched between them for twelve days and counting.
She didn’t know what that ask meant to Kennie.

But Kennie smiled gently and said,
“If he’s not picking your call, he won’t pick mine either. His phone must not be with him.”

And that was it.

Five or ten minutes later, Harsh did call her roommate back.
She asked him if he could please tell Sam about her ID card.
He said he already had.
Then Sam came, ID card in hand.

Simple. Smooth. Resolved.

But something in that exchange sat heavy with Kennie —
Not because he didn’t pick her call.
But because there was no call to pick.
Because even in a moment where someone else thought she might still have a place —
She knew better.

The line between them wasn’t busy.
It was disconnected.

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🍽️ Chapter: Strangers Who Remember Too Much

That evening, the three of them — Kennie, her roommate, and Sam — went to the mess together. It was light, casual. Conversations floated around — jokes, complaints, nostalgia. On the surface, it was harmless. Warm, even.

Then Sam said,
“Merko to sharam aati hai… our juniors will be here soon and our seniors helped us so much. How will I help anyone?”

Then he looked in Kennie’s direction — not directly, but clearly enough —
“You still can help… you know stuff, you’ve got practice teaching.”

It was indirect. But Kennie knew what he meant.
She used to teach Harsh.
And suddenly, the spoon in her hand felt too heavy.

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t.
She just stared at her plate, the taste of food lost in the weight of what used to be.

Sam had no idea. None of them did.
They didn’t know how the two of them — once connected by quiet comfort —
Had grown so distant that now they were strangers with shared history.
Strangers who knew each other’s favorite songs, pain points, and passwords.
But no longer knew how to say hello.

Then the topic shifted. They were talking about the 1st of July — their upcoming placement cell meeting.

Her roommate asked Sam,
“When are your other three roommates coming back?”

He replied,
“One is coming tomorrow… Harsh and the other said they’ll come in a week or so.”

She frowned and said,
“But we don’t have a week. The placement cell meeting is mandatory.”

To which Sam casually laughed,
“Oh please. To whom are you saying this?”

A truth floated beneath that joke —
Harsh is the favorite.
The teacher-in-charge won’t say a word to him if he misses it. Everyone knows that.

Her roommate chuckled,
“Yayy, favorite child of ma’am.”

Sam added,
“Yeah yeah, we’re not the favorites of Ritika ma’am unlike some people.”

Kennie didn’t know what possessed her to speak then — maybe instinct.
She said, “Oh wow, some are… Everyone is a favorite of some teacher. I’m not a favorite of anyone.”

Sam looked at her, smiled, and said something that split her from the inside without knowing it:
“You are the favorite of someone who is ma’am’s favorite — look, transitivity property.”

And it landed like a punch.

Her chest tightened.
There it was again — Harsh, in a sentence, in a joke, in the middle of rice and daal.
The Harsh who hadn’t messaged in 13 days.
The Harsh who was once her friend, now a ghost with a heartbeat.

She didn’t argue.
She just said, softly,
“No… it’s not like that.”
And went back to eating, her voice quieter than her appet