Kavya had called him at 11 p.m., voice fractured and low. “Arjun, I think I’m going to do it. Tonight. I just wanted someone to know why.” Then a click. Then silence. He had run twelve kilometers through broken streets and sleeping colonies, his lungs burning, because his scooter had chosen that precise evening to die.
“ Main hoon, ” he replied. “ Na. ”
He didn’t sit beside her. He stood two feet behind, hands in his pockets, breathing still uneven. Not from the run anymore. From the weight of what he was about to say. main hoon. na
Main hoon. Na? — I am here, aren’t I?
She froze. Not because the words were unfamiliar—they were her mother tongue, Hindi, the language of her childhood—but because of how he said them. Not as a statement. As an anchor. Kavya had called him at 11 p
He didn’t rush to hug her. He didn’t say everything will be okay . He simply took off his jacket—wet, torn, useless—and laid it over her shoulders.
But he had split it. He had turned the question into a promise. I just wanted someone to know why
“I’m not here to fix you, Kavya.”
Main hoon. Na. — I am here. Period. Don’t argue.