At first, Vinna didn't notice it.

The messages slowed down — not vanished, just delayed.
The study sessions that had almost become routine were now "maybe tomorrow" or "I'll let you know."
Rishi still replied. Still sent memes occasionally. Still dropped polite "good luck" texts before her tests.

But the energy was missing.

The spark. The ease.

And for someone like Vinna — someone who'd never let people in easily — the shift didn't go unnoticed.

At first, she brushed it off. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe JEE prep had gotten intense. Maybe he needed space.

But by the fifth day of silence, it started to ache.

It was Sunday when she finally asked.

Vinna [11:04 AM]:
"Hey. Haven't seen you around. All okay?"

No reply.

She stared at the screen, waiting. The chat stayed stubbornly on "Delivered." That little word felt heavier than it should.

That evening, she made up her mind. Texts weren't going to cut it.

She went upstairs.

Mrs. Samtani opened the door and smiled warmly. "Oh, Vinna beta! Rishi is in his room."

She hesitated. "Would it be okay if I just... said hi?"

The older woman nodded, stepping aside. "Of course. He's been holed up like a grumpy old scientist all week. Maybe you can cheer him up."

That worried her more than she expected.

She knocked gently on his door.
No answer.

She pushed it open.

He was sitting on the floor, textbooks spread around him like fallen dominoes. His laptop screen showed a paused video lecture. His hair was messy, hoodie crumpled, and his usual calm expression... wasn't there.

"Hey," she said quietly.

Rishi looked up, blinking slowly. "Oh. Hey."

"You look like you fought a syllabus and lost."

He gave her a weak smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

She walked in and sat down next to him, not saying anything for a moment. The silence was thick—but not heavy. Just honest.

Finally, he sighed. "I bombed the last JEE advanced mock."

"How bad?"

"Real bad. Like, I-didn't-even-finish-the-paper bad."

She turned to him, serious. "Rishi, one test doesn't define you."

He didn't reply.

"Remember what you told me?" she continued. "Happy endings don't show up in chapter 7."

He looked at her. His eyes were tired. "Yeah, but what if I've been stuck in chapter 7 for months?"

Vinna reached for one of the question papers. It was scribbled, scratched, and marked with red pens. She didn't comment on it. Just held it lightly and said, "You're allowed to mess up. But you don't get to disappear."

He looked at her again—really looked—and something softened in his expression.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," he admitted.

She shrugged. "Too late. I've seen your messy handwriting, your embarrassing score, and your hair in ten directions. I'm basically family now."

That made him laugh — a real laugh, tired but genuine.

She smiled. "You don't have to do this alone, you know?"

He nodded slowly. "I know. I just... forgot for a minute."

They didn't study that day.
They just sat on the floor, eating leftover samosas from the fridge and listening to old Hindi songs from his playlist. It was the kind of evening where no one said anything profound. No breakthroughs. No academic miracles.

But something important happened.

The distance faded.

And in its place came something stronger — not dramatic, not fiery — but quiet, constant, and real.