The Years Between

The hostel room was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chatter of boys in the corridor. Shivansh sat by the window, the city lights flickering like restless thoughts.

Shiya’s voice echoed in his mind.

“You always leave before I can say what I want.”

He hadn’t slept much since returning. Her words had followed him like a shadow—sharp, aching, true.

But he didn’t run from them.

Instead, he let them stay.

He poured himself into college, into books, into numbers. Finance became his language of control—predictable, logical, clean. While others partied, he studied market charts. While the world slept, he watched forex candles rise and fall like tides of fate.

Crypto, forex, equities—he mastered them all.

Not for the money.

But for the silence it gave him. The focus. The purpose.

The Birthday Night (Final Version)

The house was quieter than usual.

No teasing footsteps in the hallway. No off-key humming of birthday songs. No Shivansh.

Sakshi and Shiya sat side by side on the sofa, the glow of the birthday candles flickering between them. Their parents had tried to make the evening special—there was cake, laughter, even a few relatives on video calls. But something was missing.

Someone.

Sakshi sighed, resting her head on Shiya’s shoulder. “It’s not the same without him.”

Shiya nodded, her smile faint. “He always made it feel like magic.”

They didn’t say more.

But the silence between them was full of longing.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Their father opened it to find a delivery man holding two carefully wrapped boxes.

One indigo. One sea green.

He handed them over with a smile. “These arrived just in time.”

Sakshi and Shiya stared at the packages, hearts racing.

Inside Sakshi’s box: a silver bracelet etched with the word anchor, and a note—“For the one who always held us together.”

Inside Shiya’s: a leather-bound journal, its first page inscribed with delicate handwriting—“For the words you never got to say.”

Before they could speak, the phone rang.

A video call.

Shivansh’s face lit up the screen, tired but smiling.

“Happy birthday, meri jaanu log,” he said, voice warm and familiar.

Sakshi laughed through her tears. “You remembered.”

“I never forget,” he said. “I just arrive differently now.”

He paused, then added with a quiet smile, “I sent you both something. Did it reach?”

Shiya held up the journal. Sakshi showed the bracelet.

“It did,” Shiya whispered. “Just in time.”

Shivansh smiled. “Good. I wanted you to feel me there. Even if I couldn’t be.”

And in that moment, across distance and screens, they did.

They felt him.

Not just remembered.

After 3 year

Present.

The day the board results came, the house buzzed with nerves.

Sakshi and Shiya sat side by side, fingers intertwined, their hearts thudding louder than the ticking clock. Their parents hovered nearby, pretending not to be anxious, but their eyes betrayed them.

Then the screen flashed.

Both scores—above 90%.

Gasps. Then tears. Then laughter.

Their parents embraced them, voices trembling with pride. Sakshi clutched Shiya’s hand, both girls stunned, breathless, glowing.

And just as the celebration began, the door creaked open.

A suitcase rolled in.

Shivansh stood in the doorway, eyes shining, smile quiet.

“You came!” Sakshi ran to him, wrapping him in a fierce hug.

He laughed, hugging her back. “Of course I did. I wouldn’t miss this.”

Their parents stared, stunned. “You didn’t tell us you were coming!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he said, stepping into the room.

Then he turned to Shiya.

She stood still, unsure.

He walked to her slowly, gently, and pulled her into a quiet embrace.

“You did it,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

She closed her eyes.

And in that moment, she didn’t care about the months he’d been gone.

He was here.

And that was enough.

But the surprises weren’t over.

“I have something for you both,” Shivansh said, reaching into his bag.

He pulled out two boxes—sleek, wrapped in matte black paper.

“I know you worked hard. I know you gave it everything. So… these are for you.”

Sakshi opened hers first—a brand-new laptop, light and powerful.

Shiya followed—hers was the same, but in a deep forest green.

They gasped.

But it wasn’t the laptops that made them cry.

It was the gesture.

It was the boy who had once left quietly, now standing tall, arms full of love and pride.

Their parents looked at him, eyes wide. “You bought these?”

He nodded. “I’ve been working. Trading. Building. I started a company last year. It’s small, but it’s growing. I wanted to give back.”

Sakshi’s eyes filled. She didn’t care about the specs or the brand.

Her brother was back.

The one who used to braid her hair before school. The one who stayed up with her during exam nights. The one who left without goodbye—but returned with everything she needed.

She hugged him again, tighter this time. “I missed you.”

He smiled. “I missed you too.”

And Shiya—she didn’t speak.

She just looked at him.

At the boy who had once made her laugh through tears. Who had held her hand in silence. Who had left, and returned, and grown into someone she now loved.

Not quietly.

Not secretly.

But fully.

Her feelings had bloomed slowly, like the diya’s flame—soft, steady, undeniable.

And now, standing before her, he wasn’t just the boy she missed.

He was the boy she saw.

The boy she believed in.

The boy she loved.

Shivansh met her gaze.

And something in his eyes flickered—recognition, warmth, a quiet pull.

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, the silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Of pride.

Of presence.

Of something that had always been waiting to be named.

After the results and the surprise gifts, their parents smiled and said gently, “Now you rest, Shivansh. You’ve come straight from traveling. We’ll celebrate later.”

But Shivansh shook his head, eyes soft. “No. I came for them. I’ll rest after.”

He turned to Sakshi and Shiya. “Go get ready. We’re going out.”

Sakshi grinned. “Your favorite restaurant?”

He nodded. “Of course. Some things never change.”

They left to get dressed, laughter trailing behind them.

Shivansh sat in the hall, the suitcase tucked beside the sofa. His and Shiya’s parents joined him, settling into the quiet warmth of the moment.

He leaned back and smiled. “Ma, can I get a cup of tea?”

His mother chuckled. “Still addicted?”

“Always,” he said. “Some habits are sacred.”

The tea arrived—strong, cardamom-laced, just the way he liked it.

As he sipped, their parents looked at him with quiet awe.

“You opened a company at this age?” Shiya’s father asked.

Shivansh nodded. “I studied the financial markets—forex, crypto, equities. I spent nights learning, testing, failing. Then I earned enough to acquire a small firm. It felt right. So I did.”

His voice was calm, but beneath it was the weight of sleepless nights, silent battles, and the ache of growing up too fast.

Just then, Shiya entered the room.

She paused at the doorway, watching him speak.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel the old sting of comparison.

She didn’t feel small beside his success.

She felt proud.

Proud of the boy who once stayed up with her during exams.

Proud of the man who now sat beside her parents, sipping tea like nothing had changed—except everything had.

She walked in and sat beside him.

He looked at her and smiled.

She smiled back.

Later, Sakshi arrived, dressed and glowing. “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” Shivansh said, standing.

🍽️ Scene: At the Restaurant

The car ride was filled with music and memories.

As always, Sakshi and Shiya took the back seat.

Sakshi leaned forward, teasing. “Okay, Mr. CEO. Tell us—how did you even earn that kind of money? Did you rob a bank?”

Shivansh laughed. “No bank robbing. Just charts and patience.”

Shiya joined in, her voice softer. “When did you know you wanted to acquire a company?”

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “When I realized I didn’t just want to earn—I wanted to build. Something that lasts.”

Sakshi grinned. “You sound like a movie dialogue.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

They reached the restaurant—warm lights, familiar smells, the same corner table they used to sit at as kids.

As they ate, Sakshi kept the questions coming.

“How do you even understand all that market stuff?” she asked between bites. “I still struggle with basic math.”

Shivansh smiled. “It’s not about numbers. It’s about rhythm. You learn to listen to the market like you’d listen to a song. It tells you when to stay, when to leave.”

Sakshi rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like a philosopher.”

He laughed. “Maybe I am.”

Then, with a mischievous glint, Sakshi leaned in. “Okay, serious question. Did you make a girlfriend in college?”

Shivansh blinked, mid-sip.

Shiya froze.

She hadn’t even considered it.

In all her quiet longing, in all the moments she replayed his voice and his smile, she had forgotten that college meant new people, new bonds, new possibilities.

Her heart thudded.

She looked down at her plate, pretending not to care.

But her fingers curled slightly, gripping the edge of her napkin.

Shivansh reached across the table and gently twisted Sakshi’s ear. “Jayda badi baatein nahi kar rahi ho.”

Sakshi laughed. “Arre, just asking! You’re famous now. Girls must be lining up.”

He smiled, then looked at Shiya—just for a moment—and said, “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

she smiled, shaking his head. “Itna bhi famous nahi hoon.”

Then, softer, more serious: “And I haven’t done anything great. Bahut logon ne mujhse pehle yeh sab kiya hai. Main unse abhi bhi kaafi peeche hoon.”

Shiya looked up, surprised.

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just honesty. Humility.

He wasn’t chasing applause.

He was chasing meaning.

And something inside her stirred.

She didn’t just admire him.

She respected him.

Shiya looked up.

He wasn’t joking.

He wasn’t deflecting.

He was simply telling the truth.

And something inside her softened.

She didn’t smile.

Not yet.

But her chest felt lighter.

She looked at him—really looked—and saw the boy she had missed, the man she had come to love.

Not just for his success.

But for his presence.

For his quiet loyalty.

For the way he always returned.

She didn’t speak.

But her silence was full.

Of relief.

Of hope.

Of something that had just begun to bloom.

Later, as the plates cleared and the laughter faded into quiet conversation, Shiya asked one last question, voice low. “Did you ever feel alone?”

He paused.

Then nodded. “Often. But I kept going. Because I knew… somewhere, someone was waiting.”

She didn’t reply.

She didn’t need to.

Her eyes said it all.

And in that silence, something shifted.

Not just between them.

Within them.

A bond—threaded through childhood, distance, and quiet love—had begun to bloom again.