UnSaid

                                    Quiet Ties of Care

They were bound not by promises or grand declarations, but by a quiet understanding — a shared comfort that grew between walks, borrowed books, and soft conversations. Kennie admired Harsh’s silence, while he seemed to find ease in her presence.

She began helping him with DSA — not out of obligation, but because she genuinely wanted to see him succeed. Their bond was subtle, unspoken, but full of warmth. And though he’d once told her he couldn’t offer his heart — tied by a promise from his past — she stayed, carefully, not expecting anything more than honesty.

But the days shifted.

After a long period of silence, Harsh finally admitted something: he didn’t like chatting. Kennie replied simply — “Okay, I won’t text you again on chat.” And she meant it.

A week passed. There were no messages. Not from her. Not from him. Each day, she wondered if he’d break the silence. Each night, she reminded herself that he wouldn’t.

Yesterday, Kennie’s roommate texted Harsh for some work. She messaged in the morning. He didn’t reply. At 11 p.m., she texted again, blunt and to the point. The next morning, he responded. Just like that.

“Some Replies Arrive, Just Not for Me.”

He answered. Not Kennie, but her roommate. It wasn’t the words that hurt, but the clarity that followed…

He wasn’t busy. He wasn’t unaware. He just chose silence until the message demanded nothing from him emotionally. And somehow, that truth hurt deeper than any goodbye.

That day, while closing tabs after exams, Kennie found one last open window — Harsh’s LeetCode, still logged in. Curious, she looked. He had been solving problems every day, starting from the day after their last conversation. Every. Single. Day.

It hit her.

He had picked up the rhythm of DSA. But not once did he check on her. Not once did he write. Maybe he had found someone new to guide him. Maybe now that exams were over, she no longer served a purpose.

It felt like he had used her — for knowledge, for support, for convenience. Not with cruelty, but with indifference. And somehow, that hurt more.

But Kennie was not broken. She was disappointed, yes. But not bitter.

She gave freely — and that’s something only the strong can do. She knew her worth wasn’t tied to his recognition. Her care, her kindness, her time — all were genuine. And that made this story hers alone, not his to write over.

So she closed that tab. And maybe, quietly, a chapter.

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Epilogue: The Quiet Questions

Still, sometimes she wondered.

Was it all a lie? The way he showed up at 5:30 in the morning to drop her at the railway station... the way he walked beside her to collect her things... how he’d ask if she was okay when she looked off, or checked on her when she missed the mess.

Those moments — were they real? Or were they stitched from the thread of usefulness? Did he care only because he had a reason to? Did his warmth have an expiry date?

Maybe he did care — back then. Maybe his care wasn’t fake, but fleeting.

And maybe that’s the hardest kind of loss — not when someone never cared, but when they did... and then stopped.

But she would not let his silence rewrite what she knew about herself.

Because she didn’t just teach him DSA. She taught herself grace.

And grace would carry her further than he ever could.

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Final Note: The Choice Not Taken

When the UGC NET admit card came out — the exam they both filled, the one Harsh only filled because Kennie did — she paused.

She thought about sending him a message. A simple reminder. Just one line to let him know.

But she didn’t.

Because this time, she chose herself. She realized that reminding him wasn’t an act of kindness — it would’ve been another extension of care he no longer reciprocated. It was not her responsibility to hold his timeline together, to follow up on what he chose to pursue.

And so, she let the silence be. Not with anger. Not with regret. Just quiet self-respect.

Sometimes love is knowing when not to reach out. And this was one of those times.

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