Resilient at heart, a quiet soul she stays,
Aspired by Bha"RADHI"yar’s fire, she finds her ways.
Dreams dance with Jackie Chan’s fearless art,
Held by her teachers, with few friends close to heart.
In Tamil’s embrace, she’s herself from the start.
R-A-D-H-I
Radhi had always been a girl of contradictions.
Soft-spoken, almost shy, yet with a quiet strength that few could see. She came from a large, influential family — the kind that looked perfect from the outside, polished and proud, but within its walls carried sharp edges and shadows.
Her parents lived together but never truly with each other. Conversations often ended in silence, and silences carried more weight than words. Her father moved through the house like a visitor, quick to blame, slow to care. Her mother endured, her strength mistaken for weakness, her warmth hidden beneath layers of resignation. With three younger siblings watching, Radhi often felt as though she had to be both shield and anchor — too young to carry such weight, yet old enough to understand it would always be hers.
Love, to her, was never something she saw — only something she imagined. It lived in movies, in her own words as she wrote love stories and romanticized about a guy she had never met, trusting in God’s perfect timing, in the fleeting tenderness of stories. In real life, it remained an unanswered question, a longing that made her firm yet fragile.
School had been her safe harbor. She studied in an all girls Christian convent, where mornings began with hymns echoing through long, arched corridors, and discipline was stitched into every hour. She wasn’t Christian, but something in her heart leaned toward that world — the soft glow of stained glass, the solemnity of prayer, the rhythm of psalms that made even silence feel sacred. She never sought the safety of crowds, never hungered for attention. For Radhi, trust was a rare jewel, and silence often spoke more than words.
She always remembers a day by a smell, a color, a weather. Her first day of college carried the soft fragrance of Dove soap on her pink salwar and the gentle warmth of a breezy morning. She paused at the small Ganesha temple near the entrance, whispered a quick prayer, and felt a pang of fear as she stepped into the bustling campus. Boys everywhere, their voices loud and unyielding, and she never lifted her head, keeping her gaze low as she navigated the unfamiliar corridors.
Finally, she spotted Bells in her class — a familiar face amid the chaos. Relief washed over her for a moment, though her heart still fluttered with quiet anxiety as she stepped into this new, intimidating chapter.
Back in school, it had been the other way around. Bells had joined her in 11th grade — a transfer from a bustling co-ed school suddenly placed in the stillness of a Convent. The silence, the strict teachers, the whispered prayers — everything had felt foreign to her. Radhi had noticed it instantly. She shared notes, stayed back to help her catch up, made her laugh when the quiet felt too heavy. Bells had found her footing because Radhi had held her hand through it.
And now, years later, life had gently reversed their roles. In this vast, noisy college, it was Radhi who felt small and uncertain — a Convent girl trying to find her space among confident voices and crowded corridors. When Bells waved at her that day, calling her over with the same warmth Radhi once offered her, it felt poetic — as if friendship had circled back, reminding her that no one ever truly stays lost for long.
And in return, Bells brought color — laughter between lectures, music during breaks, and stories of her old gang: Savithri and the boys from her co-ed days, a group known more for their harmless mischief than anything else.
That day, during lunch, Bells opened her box and slid it toward Radhi without a word. It was egg rice — Radhi’s favorite from their school days. Bells remembered. Without hesitation, Bells divided her portion into two, pushing half toward her.
“You really thought I’d forget?” she teased, her eyes twinkling with the same warmth Radhi had once shown her back in school.
Radhi smiled — the kind of smile that softened her face and reached her eyes. Between lectures, Bells made her laugh with silly doodles in the notebook margins, shared her earphones for a half-sung melody, and kept up a stream of chatter that filled the silence Radhi used to carry like armor.
By evening, when the day began to wind down, they sat together on the bus, tired but content. Bells leaned against the window, humming softly, and Radhi gazed outside at the orange sky. That’s when her eyes drifted toward the tennis court — the fading sun catching on his face, dust swirling with every serve. There, under that warm, golden light, he was playing.
He caught her attention instantly. Even from a distance, his strokes were sharp, his footwork light, the rhythm of his movements almost musical. His serve sent the ball arcing high against the dusky sky, his racket meeting it with effortless confidence and precise control.. She asked herself, Why am I looking at him? Who is he? How can someone be so full of life? Radhi couldn’t look away, drawn to the effortless way he carried himself.
The buses were leaving the college gate one by one, moving slowly, blocking the way and giving her a few extra seconds. She muttered a quick prayer, Just a little longer… Then she panicked... Why am I even calling God for this? What am I doing? Her heart fluttered, but she couldn’t help stealing another glance at him.
“That’s JB, he and I studied together in school", Bells murmured beside her, following Radhi’s gaze. “He’s into everything — tennis, music… one of those people who does it all. We had a small group back then. His house and mine are close by. He has to come in our bus only — I forgot to introduce you, Didn’t you see him in the canteen today, having lunch with us?"
Radhi didn’t answer. But the scene — It etched itself into her memory like the opening line of a poem she would never forget.
Radhi (thinking to herself): I vaguely remember… he was in the evening batch, while I was in the morning. My maths tuition sir mentioned him—out of 95 students, JB was the only one who scored 100 in differential equations…
Flashback 📸
Radhi (softly, to herself): I expected to do well, but I missed it by just one point…
(Tuition class, after test)
Tuition Sir (concerned): “Radhi, why did you miss a mark? Let me see your paper.”
He glanced over her paper, then smiled knowingly.
Tuition Sir: “See here… this problem? JB got it perfectly. He’s the only one in the batch really studying. All the others… careless, don’t even try.”
Radhi (thinking, quietly to herself): Hmm… the first time I’ve ever seen a guy this serious about studies. And his handwriting… wow. Neat, clear, precise. He must really be something... Whatever!
Later the next day, Bells introduced Radhi near the PT block to her co-ed school friends: Savithri, Nithi, Narayan, Yugesh… and JB. It was casual — a name, a smile. His was easy, boyish, warm. Hers was small, shy, hesitant, like a secret she wasn’t ready to share.
A few days later, she saw him again inside the PT room. He had dropped his tennis bag in the corner, laughing with his friends, filling the space with his presence as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
Later, while walking up to her class, she suddenly bumped into someone. Her head, always instinctively down, lifted inch by inch—and she saw his feet, then the crisp line of his lab coat, and finally, his graceful smile.
“Oops! Sorry, Miss Radhi. We can meet later,” he said, a playful lilt in his manly voice, “Now, in a rush to my Control Systems lab.”
She mumbled a quiet, embarrassed reply, cheeks warming, and hastily stepped aside, her heart fluttering as she continued to her class, the moment lingering in her mind long after.
Days passed, There was this guy, Radhi's senior — tall, handsome, bold, and reckless — the head of the cultural committee, with a lot of girl fans. He had been obsessed with Radhi, not just for her presence, but because he believed her father was influential. Their families were distant business friends, and he thought claiming her in that dramatic way would assert his connection. In a reckless show of affection, he had etched her name as a tattoo on his hand.
It terrified her — not the ink itself, but the weight of what it meant, a promise she had never asked for, something far too heavy for her heart to carry. She never let him speak to her. Instead, it was his classmates — the girls from his batch — who approached Radhi, urging her gently, “Just talk to him once.” But how could she? For what he had done, without even having spoken a single word to her, only frightened her more. She quietly conveyed through one of those girls that she was not, and could never be, the kind of girl he imagined her to be.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the storm passed. He had to prepare for an interview, and Radhi saw him step forward, redirecting his life where it needed to go. In some quiet way, she was relieved — not just for herself, but for him too.
That day, JB's class guys leaned over the table, whispering and nudging each other, talking about that senior who had once etched her name in his hand—why wouldn’t he?
“She’s pretty, no?” one murmured, glancing her way. “Beauty with brains! Always with her head down, doesn’t even look up. She’s classy.”
Another added, “I heard her dad’s into politics. Strict family, no freedom—maybe that’s why she’s so quiet.”
The chatter buzzed around her like distant static, meaningless yet impossible to ignore. She sat at the edge of the canteen table, quiet, barely touching her food, never meeting anyone’s gaze. And JB, despite himself, found he was listening more than he intended, noticing things others didn’t—and liking what he saw.
JB’s mind voice: She’s something else… quiet, careful, and still… impossible not to notice. There’s a weight to her, but also a lightness, like she’s carrying her world inside her and yet letting none of it spill. Strong, yet gentle. Serious, yet somehow… quietly magnetic. How can someone just sit there and make the room feel different without even trying?
That evening, Radhi stepped into the bus, weaving through the chatter and laughter of students settling into their seats. Bells waved from the middle, grinning as she made room. Radhi slid in beside her.
At the back, Deena sat alone, ID card lazily twirling between his fingers, eyes half-closed, lost in thought. Bells’ gaze followed him, and she let out a soft hum. “Hm… he’s the guy material,” she said, a note of admiration in her voice. Radhi glanced briefly, shrugging, uninterested, while Bells’ eyes sparkled with mischief.
Irene, sitting across, caught the exchange and leaned over, a sly smile playing on her lips. "For me, it’s simple — Christian, plays the keyboard, smart… like JB.”
Radhi froze for a fraction of a second, her heart skipping as if Irene had pulled the air from the bus.
The girls nudged her. “And you, Radhi? What’s your type?”
The girls wanted to know because a lot of guys secretly liked Radhi, and they were curious if she had noticed anyone in return. Irene and Radhi, being the toppers of the semester, drew even more attention wherever they went.
She didn’t look up, just whispered quietly to herself, “Maybe I’m saving that for the future. I don’t feel like it here.”
Bells nudged her shoulder. “Always the mysterious one, Radhi.”
Radhi smiled faintly, the warmth of friendship surrounding her, yet her mind lingered on the name that had dropped casually into conversation — JB.
Later, near the PT block, JB leaned toward Bells.
“Why madam is not talking at all? Is she scared of us?”
Bells laughed. “That’s just her. She’s shy. You’ll get used to it.”
But he didn’t get used to it. If anything, her silence pulled at him more. He found himself looking for her — in the canteen, at the PT room, in the corner of group lunches. She never joined when the others planned meet-ups outside college, never lingered after class. Always home, always tucked away in her own world.
Next day, it was Radhi's “comical certificate birthday,” a small celebration in class, nothing too special. Deena, who usually kept to himself, suddenly handed her a white ceramic doll — the same as her profile picture. Radhi froze, awkward, unsure how to react. Bells liked Deena, and now he was giving a gift to Radhi. She felt a twinge of guilt for Bells and a rush of awkwardness for herself.
Radhi (awkward, holding the doll): “Uh… thanks, Deena. It’s… really nice.”
Deena (smiling, a little shy): “I saw it on your profile… thought you’d like it.”
Radhi (awkward, holding the white ceramic doll): “Th-thank you… I… didn’t expect this.”
Deena (grinning, teasing): “Well, a gift for a birthday deserves something in return, no?”
Radhi (blinking, flustered): “I… what do you mean?”
Deena (playful, persistent): “Just a little favor… Can I get Bells’ number?”
Radhi (relieved, laughing softly): “Ah! That’s a relief… I’ll get back to you on that.”
Radhi (thinking, smiling to herself): Phew… safe. At least Bells doesn’t know yet.
Radhi (hesitant, holding her phone): “Bells… Deena asked me for your number.”
Bells (immediately, with a laugh): “Why not? I thought he’s a cool guy. Why can’t he ask me directly? Hah… must be shy with me. Anyways, I’ll deal with him.”
Radhi watched, amused, as Bells and Deena hit it off, the universe weaving its ironic humor — the guy Bells liked now befriending her over a small gift. She shook her head, smiling, thinking it was oddly satisfying to see them get along.
That night, Radhi’s phone buzzed with a new notification — Bells has added you to the group “Campus Chaos 🎓”.
She smiled faintly; it had been a while since she’d been part of any of their group chats. Bells never changed — still dramatic, still the glue that held everyone together.
The chat was already alive when she opened it.
Bells: Surprise addition, everyone 👀
Bells: Look who’s finally in the group — Radhi! 😄
Nithi: Omg finally! Welcome, Miss Missing in Action 😂
Yugesh: Great, one more person to roast me about my lab coat 😭
Savithri: You should be roasted. Who wears a lab coat to a freshers’ party?! 😒
Narayan: Man thought it was a viva, not a vibe 🤣
Nithi: At least he showed up — unlike Narayan’s attendance 🤭
Bells: 😂 You people never change! Anyway, now it’s official — the gang’s back together!
(Radhi read through, smiling quietly. It felt warm— almost something had changed.)
Then, amidst the laughter-filled texts, a new message appeared.
JB: Welcome, Radhi 😊
Her pulse quickened — calm, ordinary words, yet they felt charged.
Before she could react, the chat rolled on.
Yugesh: Ohooo JB himself has time to text amidst his smashes at the Court? 👀
Savithri: Wow, multitasking king! 😂
Bells: He can ace a match and charm a chat 😎
Nithi: Priorities well-balanced. Impressive 😏
(Radhi watched, the corner of her lips curving into a quiet smile.)
Finally, after the chatter slowed, she typed —
Radhi: 🙂
She barely typed.. He quietly watched..
That night, as the group Campus Chaos 🎓 came alive with pings and laughter, Radhi was just scrolling absentmindedly — until one notification froze her thumb mid-air.
JB: Happy New Year, Radhi. 🎆
For a moment, she just stared at the screen.
Her breath hitched — JB? — a message straight to her, not the group.
Him: “Had dinner?”
She froze, staring at the screen. Why him to her one on one? Why now? After a moment, she typed back..
Her: “Thankyou! Yes.”
A pause. Then another buzz.
Him: “Good. You didn’t eat lunch properly today at the canteen.”
Her breath caught. Out of everyone laughing, arguing over food, he had noticed her plate.
Her: “I wasn’t that hungry.”
Him: “Or you were too quiet to ask for more.”
She didn’t respond to the catch. Instead, she locked her phone, pretending it didn’t make her heart flutter. A strange fear crept in, the kind that comes when something feels too good, too sudden. She didn’t know what scared her more — that he’d notice her again, or that he wouldn’t.
And later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her thoughts wandered—
Did he really notice me? Or does he text every girl like this? Why not in the group?
So he has private chats with everyone then… oh god, stop, I’m overthinking again.
Is he flirting… or am I just reading too much into it? And worse—am I already falling for him?
Still, no matter how much she tried to push it away, overthinking about him felt sweet.
If it had been anyone else, she would’ve just ignored the message… maybe even blocked him.
But this was JB — and somehow, even silence from him felt like a conversation.
That first night, it ended there. But the next evening, he texted again.
Him: “So… you’re always this silent, or only in college?”
Her: “Always.”
Him: “Impossible. People who are always silent… usually think too loud.”
She didn’t reply right away. Just sent a small smiley. He teased her for it, but didn’t push.
By the third day, he asked:
Him: “Why don’t you join when they all meet outside? Coffee shops, movies, all that?”
Her: “Not allowed.”
Him: “Family rules?”
Her: “Yes.”
Him: “Hmm. So madam goes home, studies, sleeps. That’s it?”
Her: “Yes.”
Him: “Then when do you laugh?”
That question stayed with her longer than she expected. She typed after minutes of hesitation:
Her: “I don’t know.”
Him: “Then I’ll make sure you do. At least once.”
He spoke with an ease that felt careful — like he knew just how far to go without crossing her guard. His messages weren’t bold, but there was a warmth in them, the kind that comforted her.
JB couldn’t stop smiling, his heart oddly light. The girl who never spoke to any guy… is talking to me. There was something about her — didn’t know why his pulse quickened reading her simple replies, but it did. It felt like she was letting him into a world she rarely opened, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted to stay there a little longer.
Her heart wanted to leap as well, but her mind warned her to stay still. It wasn’t distrust — just caution, the kind born from knowing how easily warmth could turn to fire.
One evening he asked her out of the blue, “What’s your favorite food?”
“Dosa,” she said softly, almost without thinking.
“And yours?” she asked after a pause.
He smiled. “Cake. But more than eating, I love cooking. I always cook for the people I care about.”
She looked up at him, startled. “You… cook?”
“Decently enough,” he shrugged, grinning. “And one day, I’ll cook for you too.”
Her breath caught. It sounded playful, but something in the way he said it slipped past her defenses, landing quietly in her heart.
A few days later, she baked her first cake — soft, simple, uneven at the edges — and carried it in a small box to the group. She slid it across the table almost shyly, letting everyone take a piece so it wouldn’t be obvious. Laughter, teasing, and crumbs followed, but he was quick, making sure plates circled back his way. Somehow, by the end, the biggest chunk had landed in front of him.
He caught her glance, half-smiling as he forked into it, and said only, “Homemade?” — but the way he held it, carefully, as if it meant more than cake, lingered with her long after.
Radhi froze, unsure how to respond.
Bells leaned in quickly, answering for her, “Yes… she made it.”
JB smiled, gave a small nod, and went back to eating as if that was all that needed to be said.
Radhi’s shoulders loosened, a quiet relief settling in. Bells had covered her silence without making it obvious.
At home that evening, her phone buzzed.
Him: “So… how do I apply for a lifetime cake subscription?”
Her: “No such thing exists.”
Him: “Then I’ll invent one. Starting with your box, which is still with me.”
Her: “Keep it safe, then.”
Him: “Safe? I’m polishing it like a crown jewel.”
Her: “It’s just a box.”
Him: “Not ‘just a box.’ It carried the first cake you ever baked. Historical artifact.”
Her: “…You’re impossible.”
Him: “We’ve established that already. Now, when do I return the artifact?”
Her: “Tomorrow.”
Him: “Tomorrow? That long? What if I forget?”
Her: “You won’t.”
Him: “True. Hard to forget something from you.”
Her cheeks warmed at the line. She stared at it for a long time, then finally replied:
Her: “Don’t expect more cakes so soon.”
Him: “So soon? Means there will be more?”
Her: “….”
Him: “Ok fine, silence is yes. I’ll wait.”
And the next day, when he finally returned the box, it carried not just the memory of her cake but something else — a pink band, plain and quiet, yet more precious than anything she had worn before.
No one knew.
The next day, she slipped the pink band onto her wrist. As soon as JB noticed it, her phone buzzed during class.
Him: “So… I see my little surprise reached your wrist safely.”
Her: “…Yes.”
Him: “Looks nice on you. I’m glad you accepted this small gift of mine.”
Her: “…Thanks.”
Him: “It suits you… better than I imagined.”
Her heart fluttered, and she kept her eyes on her notebook, feeling a quiet warmth spread through her.
It was in moments like these — small, fleeting, almost childish — that Radhi felt something dangerous take root. A sweetness she wasn’t supposed to taste, an addiction to a happiness she had never known. She knew it wasn’t right, knew it could never end well, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. It was the kind of joy that felt like stealing, and though guilt pressed at the edges, her heart refused to regret.
And what was it about him? He wasn’t the bold senior who tried to claim her with reckless gestures before even knowing her. He wasn’t the distant admirer who never found the courage to step forward. With them, she felt only pressure or unease, the weight of someone else’s expectations. But with him, everything was lighter, quieter — a companionship that asked for nothing and gave more than she could understand.
And yet, wasn’t this the contradiction? She, who had turned others away so easily, was now the one crossing invisible lines — daring to give, daring to feel.
A few days before his birthday, the group gathered in the common room. Bells smiled and said, “Let’s plan a small cake-cutting for JB.”
Everyone discussed quietly — who would bring the cake, where they would gather — while Radhi stayed in her corner, watching. She didn’t say much, only nodding along.
Over the next few days, she quietly searched shops and finally picked a plain white shirt for him. Yet when it came to giving it, she hesitated. She didn’t want him to mistake her gesture, didn’t want a simple gift to be read as something more. After all, with so many girl friends around him, one shirt from her should not, must not, become a sign. And though she felt that little skip of a beat whenever she thought of him, she was careful — careful not to let him see it, careful to keep her feelings folded safely away.
On the day of his birthday, after the group had sung and the cake was cut, everyone handed their gifts one by one.
When it came to Radhi, she stepped forward, hands slightly trembling, and offered the shirt.
“H-Happy Birthday…” she whispered.
JB took it, smiling warmly. “For me? Thanks.
The group, noticing the soft moment, nudged him playfully. “JB, play something for us!”
He picked up his guitar without a word. The first notes trembled softly, unsure, tentative — but they grew, each chord carrying the weight of things he couldn’t say. The melody wove around her, delicate and raw, speaking in pauses where words would fail.
Then his voice came, low and tender, merging with the strings:
En kaadhalae en kaadhalae
Ennai enna seiya pogiraai
Naan oviyan endru therindhum nee
Yen kannirandai ketkiraai
Siluvaigal siragugal
Rendil enna thara pogiraai
Killuvathai killivittu
Yen thalli nindru paarkiraai
The lyrics, unpolished, floated through the room, and for a moment, the world shrank to the space between him and her. When the last note faded, there was a pause — and then soft, appreciative claps, from the crowd. He bowed slightly, letting the applause wash over him, but his eyes didn’t leave her.
The rest of the evening slipped by in quiet glances and half-smiles, a subtle tension lingering like the echo of his last note. She watched him pack his guitar, careful, unhurried, as if each movement was part of a ritual she wasn’t meant to fully understand.
By the time the night ended, nothing had been said, yet something had shifted. The music had spoken for him, and she had heard.
Next morning, the ordinary world resumed — classes, shared corridors, casual laughter. Yet in every glance, every brush of shoulders passing between them, the echo of last night’s music lingered, unspoken but undeniable.
Bells and Radhi ended up in the same branch, same class. JB’s was different — down on the ground floor, the kind of room you had to pass no matter where you were headed in college.
When Radhi walked past his room, JB would risk a glance through the window — careful, measured, as if no one should catch him looking. He thought he was being cautious… until he realized half the boys in his class were already doing the same thing.
He leaned back in his chair, lips twitching into the faintest smile. So much for subtlety… he thought. Looks like I’ve got competition I never signed up for.
The next day the campus felt different — alive in a way it never was on ordinary days. It was the inter-college culturals, and everywhere Radhi turned, there were unfamiliar faces, bursts of music, students rushing with ID cards swinging, a hundred conversations blurring into one festival-like hum.
She had already finished her literary events and was half-ready to leave when Bells hooked her arm.
“Light music, come,” Bells insisted, eyes bright.
Radhi shook her head quickly. “No, Bells. It’s late. I really should go.” Bells said with a mischievous grin, tightening her grip. “Don’t be boring. Just this one.”
Radhi sighed, half-amused, half-annoyed. She knew once Bells decided something, there was no escaping it. And so she found herself following, the music from inside already drifting out, the hum of instruments being tuned, the chatter of voices settling into the promise of an evening performance.
It had just started to drizzle. And the first time she saw him wear it, the white shirt, on stage — a mic in his hand, the lights falling sharp across his face. Somehow it felt as though her small, trembling gift had followed him there, carried into the glow without him even knowing. She remembered that day by a smell, a color, a weather.. Petrichor (the smell of rain, a distinct earthy, fresh scent) white and drizzling..
The hall was thick with silence, a thousand eyes fastened on him, their gaze pressing like weight on his shoulders. Yet his own eyes were elsewhere — not scattered across the crowd, not lost in the lights. They were carved into one single point, etched on her, as if she alone carried the rhythm he sought. For everyone else, it was a performance. For him, it was a dialogue between his music and her presence.
Radhi felt it in her very cells — as if they had been asleep all this time and his voice was the one waking them, commanding them to rise. He let the keys confess for him, each note carrying the unspoken promise, the quiet words he could never say aloud.
And then the words fell — “Mogathirai, Moondram Pirai, Moongil Maram…” — familiar, aching, beautiful. A song that carried the tenderness of wind brushing across skin, a song from a time when love was sung not with spectacle but with longing. His voice carried it with startling honesty; it wasn’t flawless, but it was alive, raw, unguarded. As he touched the keys, hesitant at first, then certain, the melody flowed out into the hall like it had always belonged to him.
The crowd swayed, especially the girls. A guy who plays an instrument isn’t just pressing keys or strumming strings—he knows where to touch, where to linger, how to draw the music out of it. That kind of confidence, that kind of connection, is irresistibly hot, but Radhi sat still, rooted. For her, the song wasn’t in the hall at all — it was inside her, echoing through marrow and breath, as if the wind in his voice had found her very core. It felt less like a performance and more like a secret, sung into the air between the two of them.
His voice carried traces of where he came from, trained in the quiet corners of a church choir, softened and strengthened by hymns that once filled echoing halls. Perhaps that was why, when he sang, it was never just sound — it was depth, a resonance that seemed to reach further than the room itself.
And Radhi, listening, felt a strange alignment in her heart. She thought that must have been the reason she had spent fourteen years in a convent school — all those mornings of bells and prayers, of hymns she never fully understood — only to be made ready to receive this voice.
Their story then unfolded in fragments — long bus rides to towns like Karaikudi, where she played basketball and he played tennis, each chasing their own victories. They returned glowing from state-level championships, carrying the thrill like a secret only they understood. Quiet evening followed, at college filled with laughter and ease, where being with him at his best — confident, effortless, entirely himself — felt like sunlight spilling into shadowed corners of her heart. His world — his music, his friends, his calm certainty — slowly wove into hers. She still spoke softly, still felt shy around others, but with JB near, the world felt less intimidating.
She pinged him for the first time..
Her: “So… what are your future plans?”
Him (grinning): “Honestly? I’ve always been fascinated by the sky.”
Her (curious): “The sky?”
Him: “Yeah… the clouds, the planes… it feels endless, like anything’s possible.”
Her (teasing): “Anything, huh? Even becoming some daring pilot?”
Him (softly, with a hint of a smile): “Maybe… though some adventures are sweeter with someone who gives you purpose.”
Her (blushing slightly, smiling): “I can just imagine you, Officer, in your Air Force uniform.”
Him (grinning): “You can? Then I’d better pass my exams… can’t let you see a half-baked Captain.”
Her (teasing): “Half-baked, huh? All that pressure from me?”
Him (smirking): “Exactly. You push me… and honestly, I kind of like it.”
He (leaning in, curious): “So tell me—what are your interests? What do you wish to become?”
She (hesitant, with a soft laugh): “Hmm… mine’s not flying too high in the air. I write blogs. I love yoga and Bharatanatyam. Definitely no interest in IT, and not core engineering either. Something in business management, maybe. One day, I’d love to earn just enough to travel, to keep the people around me happy… and to feel content myself.”
He (grinning): “Wow. That’s such a simple dream—yet it says a lot. It’s real. It’s you. Do me a favor—send me the link to your blog. I want to see how you write.”
She (smiling shyly): “Sure, here it is.”
(Fifteen minutes later…)
He (after reading, wide-eyed): “Wow, I just love your writing style. I told you—people who are quiet think out loud. You should try scripting and narration. You’d be amazing. And your poetry… wow. Ms. Shakespeare—you rock. I can’t wait to see you writing more.”
She (teasing): “Wait—you read it so soon?”
He (romantic): “For others, I need time. For you, I need only a heartbeat.”
She (smiling): “You’re impossible… Anyway, did you have your dinner?”
He (softly): “Not yet… but your words filled me more than food ever could.”
She rolled her eyes with a quiet smile, cheeks warming at his charm.
She: “Goodnight, then. Don’t stay up too late.”
He: “Goodnight, Ms. Shakespeare. Sweet dreams...”
And through it all, there was a thread of care, stronger than either of them admitted. In sickness and in health, they showed up for each other. A fever, a missed class, a small worry — they were present, steady, without needing to explain. That presence, unspoken and unwavering, became the foundation of what they shared.
One evening, she stayed back after college. She had a few records that needed to be signed, and he had rehearsals to finish. He asked her to wait for him until he was done. When the hall finally grew quiet, he walked over with his guitar, playful yet sincere, and sang just for her—turning an ordinary delay into a moment she would never forget.
This is for you from “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths (1986)
*And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-tonne truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine*
She laughed softly, a little shy, teasing to cover the flutter in her chest.
But inside, her heart whispered: My God… what a voice. Irresistible. The kind of voice you’d want to wake up to, fall asleep to, live your life by.
She tried to look casual, to hide how her pulse raced, but her fingers clutched the edge of her notebook a little too tightly. For the first time, she wondered if music could be dangerous—because his was not just a song, it was a spell.
Her (gentle laugh): “Guess I just got a private concert.”
Him (smiling): “Only the first of many… if you’ll keep waiting for me.”
Her eyes flickered, caught between shyness and curiosity.
Her (flustered smile): “So… do you sing for all the girls who stay late?”
Him (warm, sincere): “No. Just for the one who makes the waiting feel worth it.”
Her heart skipped, and she looked down, pretending to pout.
Her (half-joking): “You know you’re making it hard to catch my bus, right?”
Him (soft chuckle): “Then maybe I should walk you instead… give me a little more time with you.”
She couldn’t hide her smile anymore.
Her (quietly): “Hmm… let’s leave.”
As they stepped out together, the night air was cool and quiet. He carried his guitar on his back, walking just close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.
Without warning, he hummed a familiar tune and sang softly, just for her:
“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”
She froze for a second, her heart stumbling over the words. He glanced at her with a grin, his voice playful but warm.
Him: “But I can’t help falling in love…”
Her shy smile returned, softer this time, her cheeks glowing under the streetlights. She shook her head, whispering like a secret she wasn’t ready to admit out loud.
Her: “You’re impossible…”
But inside, she thought to herself—maybe this is what it feels like to be serenaded by someone who means every word.
Their lives were not the same, but in the spaces between them, it never seemed to matter.
In his home, love was the air they breathed. His father had married for love, and it glowed in every corner of the house — in the warmth with which he called his wife “Ma,” in the gentle care that made even silence feel safe. His mother, once an army nurse, carried her strength like an invisible shield, yet her touch was soft, her voice kind. Trust and tenderness held that family together, shaping him into someone who believed that love was steady, dependable — a promise kept without needing words.
For Radhi, love was something entirely different. She had seen its cruelty, its power to wound without leaving a scar the world could see. In her family, love had been a storm, tearing apart what could have been. She remembered someone from her family— how his laughter dimmed when he was forced to leave behind the girl he adored, bound instead to someone chosen for him. She still carried the image of his eyes, heavy with quiet resignation, a heart broken not by rejection but by surrender. To Radhi, love was not a promise but a risk — beautiful, yes, but dangerous, fragile, and never guaranteed to last.
So she told herself to be careful. To not love. To protect her heart before it could break. Because deep down, all she really wanted was for the people she loved to be happy, to be cherished, even if it meant keeping her own longing quietly locked away.
The next day, he was practicing on the court, focused and breathless, while she sat on the green mat, watching quietly. Between serves, he caught her eye and signaled, just a few more minutes. Then his phone buzzed. He tossed it to her, mouthing, “It’s Mom.”
“Hi aunty, Radhi here,” she said softly. “JB’s still playing—he’ll be home soon.”
After the call, as she slipped the phone back into his bag, she noticed a neatly folded Argentina T-shirt—freshly ironed, the one he often wore after matches. On impulse, she took it, slipping it into her own bag with a quiet smile.
That evening, in her room, she tried it on. The fabric hung loose, the scent of him lingering in every thread—sun, sweat, and something unmistakably JB. She closed her eyes, breathing him in. She never told him. He never noticed. And that made it even more hers.
She could feel what began as friendship slowly blurring into something more. She had never spoken to a boy before, and perhaps that was why her eyes, untouched by habit or ease, rose only to meet his. Amidst girls who were casual around boys, hers was a stare unpracticed, almost shy, carrying a naanam that felt rare — a kind of virgin innocence he had never known. Her smile came only in his presence, not bright or rehearsed, but soft, as if drawn out of hiding. JB saw it all — the quiet dignity she carried, the small warmth she reserved only for him, the beauty that asked for no attention. It was this simplicity that moved him.
It was one of those evenings when their conversation had no real direction—just drifting between silly jokes, half-told stories, and quiet pauses that said more than words ever could.
She had been telling him about her day, about something trivial that made her laugh, and he had been responding with his usual mix of teasing and genuine interest. But beneath the laughter, there was a stillness in his replies that she couldn’t quite place.
Her (teasing): “You’re unusually quiet tonight. Did I finally manage to bore you?”
Him (after a pause): “No… I’m just listening. You don’t know how much I love listening to you.”
Her (smiling to herself, trying to play it off): “Smooth answer.”
Him (soft chuckle, then serious again): “I mean it. I don’t think you realize how much space you’ve taken up in my head.”
She blinked at the words, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Something about the way he said it—so direct, so unguarded—made her chest tighten.
Her: “That sounds dangerous.”
Him: “It is. You’re dangerous to me.”
Her (laughing nervously): “And why is that?”
Him (after a long pause): “Because I never thought someone could become both my comfort and my chaos at the same time.”
Her heart skipped.
Her (trying to lighten the weight): “Chaos? Wow, thanks.”
Him: “No, listen. You make my day messy—in the best way. I can’t focus when you’re quiet. And when you talk, I don’t want it to end. You’re the one thing I don’t get tired of.”
Her fingers froze. She could almost hear his voice behind the words, lower now, not playful but trembling.
Her (softly): “Why are you saying all this now?”
Him: “Because if I don’t, I’ll keep holding it in. And I don’t want to regret it later. You deserve to know.”
The typing dots appeared and disappeared. Then finally:
Him: “When I picture my days ahead, I can’t imagine them without you in them.”
Her throat tightened. She pressed her phone closer, like his words might reach through the screen.
Her (whispering to herself before typing): “You’re making it hard to breathe right now.”
Him: “Then let me say it clearly. No jokes this time, no teasing. Just me being honest with you… Will you be mine?”
The words sat there like they carried all the weight in the world. Three simple words, but they held every late-night conversation, every laugh, every secret, every unspoken longing that had built between them.
Her tears blurred the screen before she could even type. Her reply came slowly, each letter trembling out of her. But she didn’t type.
Her mind screamed no — reminding her of rules, of boundaries, of her family’s harsh words waiting like thorns. But her heart whispered yes — a fragile, trembling yes she didn’t have the courage to say out loud.
Her silence grew longer. His screen stayed on, waiting. The typing dots never came. Each second that passed felt like hours to him, each unread moment clawing at his chest.
Him (finally, hesitating): “…Are you still there?”
The words flickered on her screen, desperate, afraid. And she sat there, phone wet with her tears, knowing he was waiting on the other end—scared, uncertain, bracing for an answer she couldn’t bring herself to give.
She cried. Cried again. Cried until her chest ached.
Why? Why did something so pure, so beautiful, already feel like pain?
Her mind screamed no — reminding her of rules, of boundaries, of her family’s harsh words waiting like thorns. But her heart whispered yes — a fragile, trembling yes she didn’t have the courage to say out loud.
Because even in that moment, she could see it — the end. A future heavy with sorrow, with battles she was too young to fight. Nothing about it seemed like rainbows, nothing promised a gentle forever. What should have been happiness already carried the shape of pain.
Should she accept? Should she not?
Every path before her felt heavy with consequence. To say yes was to walk into storms she could not yet see, to say no was to bury a piece of her own soul — and his. And yet, beneath it all, a cruel thought lingered: if his heart had belonged to another, perhaps their story would have found a cleaner ending. With her, happiness felt like a fragile shard of glass — too beautiful to hold, too certain to cut. She wanted it, craved it, yet feared it in the same breath. It was a strange, aching sorrow — the kind born of loving something you were never taught to keep, of reaching for joy with trembling hands, afraid it might shatter the moment it touched her palms.
And yet, she was someone he could certainly not miss, the kind of presence that carved itself into his very being. In her, he saw a strength that made him believe he could challenge Destiny itself — that love, however fragile or forbidden, was worth every risk. He held back only because he knew the weight of her world, but inside, every glance, every smile, every quiet moment with her made him certain: she was the one he could not let go.
That night, after laying his heart bare, he sent her messages — desperate, trembling fragments of himself.
“I hope I didn’t cross a line… but I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
.
.
“I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”
.
.
“Did I make things harder for you? Tell me if I did, I’ll fix it.”
.
.
“Do you know how much courage it took me to say those words? But I don’t regret it.”
.
.
“The truth is, I’ve loved you longer than I even realized.”
.
.
“Even if you never answer, I’ll be glad you know.”
.
.
“Am I selfish for wanting you even if the world says I shouldn’t?”
.
.
“I don’t care if this ends in pain. Loving you is still the best thing I’ve ever done.”
.
.
“Good night again… I’ll try to sleep. But you’ll be in my dreams forever in my life, no matter what”
.
.
2:07 a.m.
“Still awake… every time I close my eyes, I see you.”
“I wish you knew how quiet the world feels without your words.”
3:14 a.m.
“Even now, my heart says you’re reading this, just not ready to reply.”
4:02 a.m.
“It’s almost morning. I hope you’re sleeping peacefully.”
.
.
“Whatever your answer is, I’ll carry it with respect. Always.”
The last message was a voice note
Iravil kaayum muzhu nila
Enakku mattum sudum nila
Vaaraiyo enai nee seraiyo
Thoonga vaikkum nilavae
Thookam indri neeyae vaadinaiyo
Thendralae thendralae
Mella nee veesu
Poovudan mella nee peesu
And as dawn crept in, his eyes heavy from a night without rest, his heart still beat with the same stubborn hope: that silence was not rejection, but a pause — and that someday soon, she would break it.
Radhi sat by herself that night, staring at the pink band he had once given her, rotating it in her wrist.. It felt almost alive against her wrist, like it carried his heartbeat. And as tears blurred her eyes again, she knew this wasn’t a passing phase. This was love — real, unshakable, frightening, and beautiful. She thought to herself,
“As long as I’m breathing, I have a reason to praise the Lord... (The Elevation Worship piece he once played on stage)
As long as I’m breathing the air he breathes, we will still be together.”
She wiped her face, but the questions lingered.
Could she carry a love the world around her would never accept?
Could she hold onto him without losing herself?
5:21 a.m.
She typed:
“I read everything. I’m not ignoring you… I just don’t know how to answer.”
Again, her finger froze. Again, she hit delete.
Her thumb hovered over send. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought the whole world could hear it.
And then, with a shuddering breath, she erased it all. Screen blank. Silence again.
6:04 a.m.
Her eyes swollen from crying, she unlocked her phone again. This time, her heart overruled her fear — she typed:
“I don’t know what tomorrow will look like, but tonight I realized one thing…...”
Her answer had to come soon. And in that answer, a new chapter of her life was waiting to begin.
Chapter 2 awaited — the moment her silence would finally be tested.
