"Are you listening to me?", mom breathed out, in sheer annoyance. "What happened to his mom?", I questioned, blankly, and mom gasped, dramatically. "Don't you know?", mom questioned back, bewilderedly, as if I said the unthinkable, and I shook my head to the sides, slowly. "He lost his mom. A month ago", mom revealed and I felt a crack in my heart. "A month?", I echoed in a soft whisper. "Don't you talk to him? I thought you'd know everything that's why I didn't mention about it before", mom narrowed her eyes. "I—we lost touch", I uttered half a truth, guiltily. "She passed away in her sleep, it seems. I found out only two weeks after her death, and I went to meet Darshan in Mumbai with Papa. I felt so bad for him. He's living alone in his apartment, taking care of his dad's company and doing concerts, at once. But he's not happy, I can see it in his eyes. I cooked a good meal for him and cleaned his house, before returning to Surat. I feel he's lost, and it's going to be hard for him to find himself if he continues to live the way he is living", mom sighed in disdain.

"How is he now?", I asked, almost fearfully. "Silent. Just silent. He's not saying anything, other than the fact that he did not see it coming his way. And he talked a lot about his business and concerts, as if he wanted to distract himself with something. He still hasn't come to terms with the truth, and I don't think he will if he remains this reluctant", mom answered, and I wasn't surprised; he did not change, at all. "Oh", I breathed, pursing my lips together. "I'll forward his number. Talk to him. If you talk to him, he'll feel better. His dad told me that he has a friend circle filled with people related to his work, and he feels awkward to open up to them. I tried talking to him, but I'm too old to understand him. But you're an outsider and you're his age; maybe, if you talk to him, he'll speak his heart out to you?", mom suggested. "I don't know. He's a conserved person, mom", I mumbled, studying my nails. "But he's also emotionally unstable. He needs help and I can sense it, Dityaa. He doesn't have the right person to talk to. He loves his dad a lot, but they share a formal relationship; it's not the relationship you share with your dad. It's okay if he doesn't open up to you. You talk to him. Tell him about good things. Remind him about the beauty of life. Ask him to take a break. Tell him he'll be okay. I'm certain he'll connect with you. Please. Please do this for me, I beg you", mom's voice cracked and she almost cried. "Okay, okay, I'll talk to him. Stop crying", I calmly said and mom swept the tears off her eyes. "It breaks my heart. He's your age, and look at what he's going through. He's holding his breath, Dityaa; I can feel it when I look at him. Talk to him. That kid needs help", mom explained, and I smiled at her, emotionally.

No matter what crippled apart between us, I still loved and respected him. I'd read him inside-out, as a person, when we were together; he'll hug his storm close to him, and illuminate everyone's lives, whilst living in the dark. I had a gut feeling that he'd do something wrong, and I wanted to hold him up. It was going to be awkward and hard, but I wanted to keep our differences aside, for a moment of time, and confront him. If he questioned why, I thought I'd tell him that I called him up, on my mom's insistence, but deep inside – I chose to call him up for me, and my peace of mind. I wouldn't dose off, until I was comforted with the truth that he was doing okay.

A moment later, my mom sent his contact number and my heartbeats rose; it took me a while to save his number and bring myself to muster the guts, and strength, to call him up. I was nervous, and oddly blank; for the first time, I didn't know what to say and thought I'd need a script to read out, while talking to him. I was going to hear his voice after over three-sixty-five days, and although every day, and night, I died to hear him – that moment, I wasn't prepared. My throat turned dry and my palms began sweating; a prickling heat mercilessly wound itself around me and I felt a pulsating throb against my temples. Keeping my iPhone aside, I filled a glass with water and tightly wrapped my hands around it, taking deep breaths in. It was time for a pep talk, with myself.

"Why are you nervous, Dityaa? Dityaa and nervous? Like, really? You're the most confident girl I know, babe! You're not going to represent India at the Olympics, chill out!", I talked to myself, and my inner-voice literally screamed, 'Representing India at the Olympics is easier than talking to your ex, you dumbshit'. "You don't have to be scared of him. He's Darshan, not a demon. Just be calm and casual. You'll be fine. Just chill. You have done stupider things, Dityaa; this is nothing compared to all the embarrassing things you have done in life. You're about to make someone feel better, when he's sad; how does it matter if he's your ex...y or z?", I smirked. I had the habit – bad habit – of cracking intolerably horrible jokes when I'm nervous. "Okay, drink water, stay hydrated and flood his life with good talks", I said, and gulped down water in one go.

Anxiously, I touched on the call icon on my phone and listened to the outgoing rings, which bullied my heartbeats to rise. 'God, if this call goes well, I promise I will...I will stop stealing pens in my office. I swear!', my inner-voice conditioned with God. As always, he did not answer the call and I tried, again. With every outgoing ring, it was a struggle to stay calm and I clung onto the edge of my seat. I could have peed in my pants, out of nervousness, I'm not joking. "Hi, Darshan. I'm Dityaa. Do you remember me? I'm your ex...what the fuck? He obviously remembers me", I murmured to myself, as the outgoing rings went on, and on.

"Hi, Darshan, I'm—" – "Hello?", his voice emerged from the other end, while I practiced my lines, and silenced me, completely. He sounded low, dull and lifeless. That one line was enough – more than enough – to snatch my voice away from me. I won't lie, I almost died on the inside when I heard him and a drop of tear toppled out of my eye, before a waterfall of tears cascaded down my cheeks. "Hello, who is it?", he questioned and I sniffed in, loudly. "Who is it?", I heard a faint voice in the background. "No idea, man. It's a number from Singapore", he absently told someone, I guess. "Singapore", I heard him repeat himself, and this time, his voice was tinged with disbelief, as though he found out. "D—Dityaa?", Darshan called out, in a somewhat panicky tone, and I had to forcefully purse my lips together to hold my cry in. "Dityaa, it's you, right? Dityaa?", Darshan sounded restless. "Hi", I whispered, finally, and licked my lips. "It's me. Dityaa. Darshan, can I call you back? Give me two minutes. I'm stuck somewhere. I'll call you in two minutes. Please", I lied in whispers. "Okay. I'm waiting", he answered back and I hung up, before throwing my phone on the couch. I buried my face on my palms, and sobbed in silence; it was too much to take at once, right from the truth about his mom to his voice reaching my ears after a whole year. I thought he'd sound distant, but he still sounded as though he belonged to me, and that stabbed me in my heart.

I existed in silence for a while, until the trembles within me ceased. I told him two minutes, but took thirty minutes to regain composure. I was aware that it'd be hard, but I didn't know it would be that hard.