Chapter 5: Coffee, Static, and the Man with No Tells

Some conversations begin with fireworks.
This one began with a teacup.

Ira stared into hers like it contained answers. It didn’t. Just over-steeped Darjeeling and a swirl of secondhand nerves.

Aarav, across from her, didn’t stir his. He simply held the cup �" gently, steadily �" like someone used to sitting in silence.

It should’ve been awkward.
But it wasn’t.
Not exactly.

It was… uncertain. Like they’d both opened a door neither of them was sure how to close again.

---

“You really don’t mind?” she asked, breaking the stillness.

Aarav looked up. His gaze was quiet �" not evasive, just hard to read. Like looking through frosted glass. You could tell there was a person behind it, but not what they were feeling.

“Should I?” he said.

“I read your therapy session.”

“I know.”

“And now I’ve asked to write a story based on it.”

Aarav tilted his head, thoughtful. “Writers do strange things.”

She blinked. “That’s it? No offense? No lawsuit threats?”

He gave a soft shrug. “Offense needs energy. I’m trying to conserve mine.”
---

Ira didn’t know what to make of him.

He was… too calm.
Not defensive. Not angry. Just watchful.

His voice was soft, almost careful. Like he knew how much space he took up and tried to take less. But his words had weight. They landed in the silence like stones in water �" causing ripples whether he meant them to or not.

“You said something,” she began, “in the transcript.”

A flicker crossed his face �" not fear, not discomfort. Just awareness.

> “You said you disappear emotionally �" even when you’re sitting next to someone.”

He nodded slowly, like it wasn’t a quote but a fact he had lived too many times.

Ira leaned in. “Do you do that with everyone?”

Aarav’s eyes met hers �" not cold, not warm. Just steady.

“I don’t try to,” he said. “But I think people feel it anyway.”

---

She didn’t know whether to believe him. He seemed honest. But in that disorienting way some people are �" when honesty becomes a shield instead of a bridge. As if telling the truth quickly enough will stop people from asking why it hurts.

“Shimla,” she said gently. “Is it where it started?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then:

“It’s where I stopped pretending it didn’t.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened there?”

“Do you want the version I give to therapists, or the one I only tell myself when I can’t sleep?”

“I want the one you haven’t said out loud yet.”

A small smile ghosted across his lips. “Dangerous request.”

“I’m a writer,” Ira said, lifting her pen like a badge. “I ask those for a living.”
---

They sat in silence again �" but it wasn’t empty now. It buzzed, low and electric.

Aarav sipped his tea.

“I don’t know if I’m interesting enough for a story,” he said.

“You’re not,” Ira replied without thinking. Then flushed. “I mean �" not in that way. You’re not a story. You’re a �" I don’t know �" a maze. A soft-spoken, emotionally complicated maze.”

He chuckled. Genuinely. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“Even better.”

---

She studied him. Every answer from him felt… smooth. But not fake. Like someone who’s practiced how to bleed neatly.

And that’s what unnerved her the most.

He wasn’t hiding.
But she couldn’t read him.
Because he was telling the truth like it was fiction �" beautiful, mysterious, too curated to feel safe.

And it made her want to know more.
---

“I’m going to write the story,” she said quietly. “With your permission. But I don’t want it to be about your pain. I want it to be about you.”

Aarav didn’t speak for a long time.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“If you want to know who I am, Ira,” he said, “you’ll have to learn how to listen to the silence too.”

She swallowed.

“Is that where the truth lives?”

“No,” he said, with something unreadable in his voice.
“That’s where I buried it.”