Aarav never told anyone why he kept coming back to Varanasi.

People asked. Of course they did.

Colleagues in Barcelona would laugh lightly over coffee, “You go to India every year? Same place? For a whole month? Why?”

He’d shrug.

“Just like it there.”

That answer usually worked. It was simple enough to end curiosity, vague enough to avoid truth.

Because the truth wasn’t something you could explain in a sentence.

Or even in a story.

It was something you carried.

The first morning in Varanasi always felt the same.

Not peaceful. Not spiritual.

Just… familiar.

The air had a certain weight. The kind that didn’t rush you. The kind that made you aware of your own breathing.

Aarav stood near Assi Ghat, hands in his pockets, watching the river move like it had nowhere urgent to be.

He wondered, not for the first time, how something could keep flowing and still feel still.

Maybe that’s what he had been doing too.

Moving.

Working.

Living.

And still… not really going anywhere.

He didn’t come here for the river.

Or the temples.

Or even the silence.

He came because of a name he had stopped saying out loud.

Sarika.

It felt strange, even now, thinking it.

Like the name didn’t belong to the present anymore.

Like it existed in a sealed room somewhere in his mind.

And every time he came to Varanasi, he unlocked that room.

They met in school.

Nothing dramatic about it.

No moment where time stopped.

No background music.

Just… two people who slowly started sitting next to each other.

Then walking home together.

Then waiting for each other without needing to say it.

Sarika had a habit of talking in the middle of serious moments.

Like when exams were going on, she would suddenly whisper something completely irrelevant.

“Do you think pigeons ever get tired of flying?”

Aarav would look at her, confused.

“We’re writing a math paper.”

“I know,” she’d grin. “But still.”

He didn’t always understand her.

But he always listened.

Somewhere along the way, she became part of his routine.

Not in a grand way.

In small ways.

And small things… they’re the ones that stay.

He remembered one afternoon.

They were sitting on a broken bench behind the school building.

She had taken his notebook and started writing something on the last page.

“Don’t read it now,” she said.

“When?”

“Later. When I’m not around.”

He never asked why.

He just nodded.

Years later, he still had that notebook.

He never threw it away.

Never lost it.

Like some part of him always knew… he’d need it again.

The end, when it came, didn’t feel like an end.

It felt like something unfinished.

Like a conversation that got cut mid-sentence.

He still remembered that call.

Not the exact date.

Not the time.

But the feeling.

“Aarav… I can’t.”

That was all Sarika said.

He waited.

Thought maybe she’d explain.

She didn’t.

The silence that followed felt longer than the words.

He could have asked questions.

Could have argued.

Could have said something… anything.

But he didn’t.

Even now, he wasn’t sure why.

Maybe he thought if he stayed quiet, the moment wouldn’t become real.

Or maybe… he understood more than he wanted to admit.

After that, things moved quickly.

She got married.

He didn’t go.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t even look at the pictures someone sent him.

He just… removed himself.

Like stepping out of a room before the lights go off.

Barcelona came later.

A different life.

Different people.

Different language.

Everything changed.

Except one thing.

Every year, for one month, he came back.

To Varanasi.

The guest house owner recognized him by the third year.

“Same room?” he asked.

Aarav nodded.

There was comfort in repetition.

Same room.

Same bed.

Same window.

Even the slight crack on the wall hadn’t changed.

His routine never changed either.

Wake up early.

Walk along the ghats.

Sit by the river.

Drink chai from the same stall.

Avoid conversations.

Return before it got too crowded.

People called it peaceful.

He didn’t.

For him, it wasn’t peace.

It was… closeness.

To something he had lost.

Every place here reminded him of her.

Not directly.

Not always clearly.

But enough.

A turn in a lane.

A shop.

A voice that sounded similar.

Fragments.

He didn’t try to forget.

That was the strange part.

Most people move on by letting go.

He stayed… by holding on.

This year was supposed to be the same.

It started the same way.

Same flight.

Same room.

Same silence.

Until she appeared.

The first time he saw her, she was arguing with a boatman.

Not loudly.

Not aggressively.

Just… refusing to give in.

“You said fifty,” she repeated. “Now you’re saying hundred. That’s not fair.”

The boatman shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Most people would have walked away.

She didn’t.

Aarav watched for a moment.

Then looked away.

It wasn’t his concern.

But later that evening, she sat next to him during the aarti.

No hesitation.

No introduction.

Just sat.

“You don’t look like you believe in this,” she said, watching the flames.

Aarav didn’t turn.

“I don’t.”

She nodded, like that was expected.

“Good,” she said. “Makes two of us.”

That caught him off guard.

Most people either believed too much… or pretended to.

She didn’t seem to care either way.

Her name, he found out later, was Lianthari.

She kept showing up after that.

Not in an obvious way.

Just… around.

At the tea stall.

At the steps.

Once even outside the bookstore he visited.

“Are you following me?” Aarav asked one day, half-serious.

She tilted her head.

“Do you want me to say yes or no?”

He frowned.

“Just answer.”

She smiled slightly.

“No. But it’s interesting you noticed.”

She talked easily.

About her home.

About traveling alone.

About how people are more interesting when they’re not trying to impress anyone.

Aarav mostly listened.

Sometimes replied.

Often stayed quiet.

And strangely… she didn’t seem bothered by his silence.

Days passed.

Something shifted.

He didn’t notice it immediately.

But it was there.

In the way he stayed a little longer at the ghats.

In the way he didn’t mind when she sat next to him.

In the way silence didn’t feel heavy all the time.

One evening, it started raining.

Sudden.

Sharp.

The kind that forces people to stop.

They stood under a narrow shade, closer than usual.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then she said, “Who is she?”

Aarav stiffened.

“What?”

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said. “It’s obvious.”

He almost walked away.

Almost.

But something held him there.

“Her name was Sarika,” he said finally.

It felt strange saying it.

Like the word didn’t belong to the present.

He expected questions.

But she didn’t interrupt.

So he kept talking.

Not everything.

But enough.

When he finished, there was a long pause.

Rain hitting metal.

Distant voices.

“You didn’t move on,” she said quietly.

Aarav looked at her.

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” she agreed. “But you’re not living either.”

That stayed with him.

Long after the rain stopped.

Something about her words… they didn’t comfort him.

They unsettled him.

Days passed.

He found himself waiting.

Not for memories.

But for her.

That realization bothered him.

More than anything else.

One night, she said, “No past today.”

Aarav frowned.

“What?”

“No Sarika. No old stories. Just… today.”

He didn’t agree.

But he didn’t refuse either.

They walked.

Talked.

Argued about random things.

At one point, she laughed at something he said.

And for a second… he forgot everything.

That scared him.

Because forgetting, even for a moment… felt like betrayal.

He pulled his hand away when she tried to hold it.

She noticed.

Of course she did.

“This isn’t going to work if you keep doing that,” she said.

“I didn’t say I want it to work,” he replied.

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Then why are you still here?”

He didn’t have an answer.

The distance grew after that.

Not immediately.

But slowly.

More silences.

More unfinished conversations.

Until one day, she said it.

“I can’t do this.”

Aarav looked at her.

“Do what?”

“Compete with someone who isn’t even here.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t stop her.

She left.

And just like that… the city changed.

This time, the emptiness felt different.

He wasn’t thinking about Sarika.

He was thinking about Lianthari.

That realization came slowly.

Uncomfortably.

Back in Barcelona, everything felt… off.

The routine didn’t fit anymore.

The distractions didn’t work.

He tried to ignore it.

For weeks.

Until one day, he stopped.

Sat down.

And admitted something to himself.

He wasn’t stuck in the past anymore.

He was just afraid of the present.

That changed something.

The ticket he booked this time wasn’t for Varanasi.

When he saw her again, she didn’t look surprised.

Just… guarded.

“You came,” she said.

Aarav nodded.

“I don’t have everything figured out,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

“I’m still… dealing with things.”

“Obviously.”

A small pause.

“But I want to try,” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment.

Like she was deciding something important.

“Trying is not enough,” she said.

“I know,” he nodded. “But staying is.”

Silence.

Then, slowly… she stepped closer.

“Don’t disappear again,” she said.

“I won’t,” he replied.

And this time… he meant it.

The next year, they went to Varanasi together.

Same ghats.

Same river.

Same city.

But it didn’t feel the same.

Because this time… he wasn’t looking for someone who was gone.

He was standing next to someone who stayed.

And somehow… that made all the difference.