Reverie

poets are so strange they do tend to live in profound sadness romanticise despair.

Aahan sat at the piano, spine straight but the rest of him quite unraveling. The hush of the audience fell away like old dust as he pressed the first key. A single note, fragile as breath, rang out into silence.

He didn't look up, didn't needed to.

Aahan never knew he'll be at love's doorstep again

not with flowers, but words numb

just keys beneath his fingers

and the weight of a name he's too afraid to speak

Aahan has stopped writing about love years ago though there's hint of hope today even in the air. though everything seems so unwelcoming and unkind.

The lights outside hum low. The air thick, and his voice heavy.

A room drowned in shadows, the kind that cling to your skin like old regrets. A single spotlight bleeds onto the stage where he stands—motionless. Not a performer. Not a poet. Just a boy with a storm in his lungs, holding a microphone like it might anchor him to this world. The silence stretches thin—almost sacred

He takes the stage without looking up. No greeting. No smile. Just the scrape of a stool dragging back and the sound of him sitting down, like the world exhaling.

The smell of coffee lingers in the room people carrying mannered laughs and political topics were quiet now.

His finger hover above the keys

Not trembling- just tired.

Then a single note.

Soft. Clear. Like breath in winter.

And then another.

And another.

The piano speaks where he won't. It has been his speciality. He didn't need words to let people how he felt.

The melody is unfamiliar, yet it hurts in all the familiar places.

He doesn’t sing. Not yet.

But his silence carries lyrics no one else can hear.

And when he finally opens his mouth, the room forgets to breathe.

He starts slow, almost in a whisper -his voice almost trembling

I wanna disappear
Somewhere in the woods

The stare from the audience wasn’t unfamiliar but it felt haunting today. As if they might see the part of him he's been trying to bury by disappearing in coffee and poems

He speaks again his voice a little louder than before

Where the wind forgets
my name
Where I'm not the disappointment
And the weight of my failure

His words emerge not as declarations, but as confessions—

soft, trembling- like paper burning from one edge.

His chest rises too fast,

like each inhale is a rebellion.

Like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets the quiet back in.

Just breathe

Scream

And live

The air stills. No shifting in seats, no coughs, only the kind of silence that listens.

The kind that holds its breath like it knows what’s coming

It’s not performance.

It’s survival.

Each syllable an unraveling thread—

a boy trying to stitch himself together in front of strangers.

The words don’t echo. They fall heavy, settling in the bones of everyone watching.

A home, soft and comforting

Where no one screams

For spilled coffee or messy rooms

He steps forward.

Not for drama— but because stillness is too loud.

Where I don't have to believe

I have to hurt to feel real.

It’s not poetry.

It’s prayer.

Each line a door he’s been afraid to open.

I have to bleed to be seen.

I need to be at death’s edge to deserve—

softness, care, or relief.

The light flickers—

or maybe that’s just how grief moves:

in pulses.

I want to walk

To the peak of my existence

No eyes, no proving

And when he finally opens his mouth,

it’s not a voice that escapes—

it’s the sound of something unraveling quietly.

Just silence—

That comforts

Holds me like love never did

Then his voice falters—

not out of fear, but because some truths taste like blood when spoken.

and if I crumble,

let it be

like petals—not glass.

He closes his eyes,

not to shut the world out— but to feel what it means to still be here.

And finally, as if whispering a secret to the night itself:

But I still want to last

Not to shine

Not to win

Just to finally rest.

The light holds him one more moment— then dims.

Not to end the story, but to let it breathe.

The velvet curtain fell with a hushed sigh, swallowing the last of the applause like a secret. Backstage, the air was dim, filled with the faint scent of stage dust and anticipation.
Old velvet curtains hung like heavy memories, and Aahan sat on a weathered wooden crate, gripping a crumpled napkin with words he’d rewritten four times. like a man who had just walked through a storm of roses—cut by their thorns, perfumed by their praise.
His leg bounced uncontrollably, the rhythm more anxious than musical. The hum of the crowd beyond the stage curtain was distant but persistent—like a tide drawing closer.

He ran a hand through his slightly damp hair, letting the silence return to him like an old friend.
“You were brilliant.”
Asher Sharma strode over with two paper cups of masala chai, one already missing half its contents. “They clapped like your words handed them salvation.”
Aahan took the cup without looking. “They clapped for love, not for me.”
Asher sighed, flopping into the chair beside him. “We’re doing this again?”
“Yes. Because it’s still true.”
Asher leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Just once, I'd like to finish a show without you spiraling into your artist-brooding phase. Let the applause wash over you, yaar. It’s not poison.”
Aahan turned his head, eyes still distant, but with a flicker of a smile.
“It’s not applause I’m worried about. It’s the echo.”
Their silence was interrupted by a knock on the side door, followed by the unmistakable voice of Mira Sen.
“I come bearing deadlines, darling. And possibly a new cover concept.”
She stepped in without waiting, dressed in a sleek black blazer, heels clicking softly against the backstage floor. A woman who could command a room without raising her voice.
“Mira,” Aahan greeted, voice dry. “Didn’t expect you to haunt the back corridors.”
“I haunt where my bestselling poet goes,” she quipped, eyes sharp as ever. “That performance? Gorgeous. Even your frown was poetic.”
Asher smirked. “Told him the same. He prefers to drown in existential dread.”
“I do not drown,” Aahan muttered. “I sink willingly.”
Mira ignored the drama. She pulled out her tablet, swiping through something until she reached a file.
“Alright, here's the thing. The next book—preorders are already being whispered. The crowd wants more of what tonight was. More ache. More love. You’ve carved a niche, Aahan. Let’s not abandon it.”
He exhaled. “I didn’t carve anything. I just wrote what I was feeling. Once.”
“And it changed lives,” Mira replied, folding her arms. “Yours included. That debut put you on every trending list in India and beyond.”
“And boxed me in.”
"It’s been almost four years since Inhale Without Her. "
"You know what people still ask me at every panel? When’s the next love collection coming?"
Aahan looks out the window instead of replying.
Asher half-joking, trying to lighten the mood
"Apparently heartbreak never goes out of style."
Aahan stated quiet, flat
"That doesn’t mean I have to sell mine again."
Mira carefully choosing her words
"It’s not about selling, Aahan. It’s about telling. You told stories once that made people feel like they weren’t alone."
Aahan still looking away
"And what if I don’t want to be seen that clearly again?"
A pause. The silence stretches — not awkward, just full.
Aahan stood up, pacing slowly. “I write about grief, about memory, about silence. But the moment I say the word love, the world wraps a red ribbon around it and says, 'he's ours now' ”
Asher whistled low. “Here comes the poetic tantrum.”
“Let him speak,” Mira said softly.
Aahan stopped walking. “I’m not ungrateful. I just don’t want to become a factory of heartbreak verses. Every time I try to explore something else—identity, loss, even politics—it gets overshadowed. People flip through the pages hunting for something to quote to their ex.”
Asher said gently
"You don’t have to write the same kind of love poems. Hell, you could write about the absence of love, the ruin it leaves behind. But people want your voice. You gave them permission to feel. You gave me permission to feel."
Aahan finally looks at Asher. His gaze flickers, then drops.
Aahan (quietly):
"Not everything personal deserves to be public."
Mira (softly, almost knowing):
"And not everything you keep private stops hurting."

Mira approached, her voice measured. “And  perhaps the challenge is to say what you want through love. Subvert it. Twist it. Show them it’s more than red roses and goodbyes.”
Asher nodded slowly. “Like—make love the lens. Not the subject.”
That caught Aahan off guard.
“You two rehearsed that?”
Mira chuckled. “Asher and I talk when you’re sulking.”

“Betrayal.” Aahan muttered, sitting again.
“But necessary betrayal,” Mira said, kneeling to his level. “Aahan, you’re not just a poet anymore. You’re a phenomenon. That comes with pressure. But it also gives you a stage most writers would kill for. Use it. Write your rebellion through the medium they gave you.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “What if I don’t want to perform anymore?”
Asher’s chai halted mid-sip.
Mira’s face didn’t change. “Then I’ll support you. But it would be a shame. Not because of contracts or sales. But because watching you read your work—it’s transformative. Not just for them. For you too.”
Aahan looked away, jaw tight.
“She’s right,” Asher added. “I know performing exhausts you. But you light up, man. Even if it's in a slow-burning way. You feel.”
They let the silence breathe.
Then Mira rose and pulled a slim folder from her bag, placing it on the chair arm beside Aahan.
“New proposal. Tentative title: How to Be Loved in a Dying World. Not necessarily romantic. Just human. Think about it.”
She straightened her blazer. “You don’t have to say yes. But you do have to keep writing. Even if no one else reads it.”
"You know... whatever you're not saying — it’s still writing itself in your silence."
Aahan says nothing.
But he doesn’t drop the folder.
Asher stood as well, draining his cup.
“Come on. Let's get food. Starving artists don’t write revolutions.”
Aahan stayed seated, fingers tracing the edge of the folder.
Mira paused before leaving. “You’re not boxed in, Aahan. You’re just in a hallway. Write your way through.”
She left.
Asher lingered.
“You okay?”
“I’m always okay,” Aahan murmured.
“Liar.”
Asher clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, bhai. Let’s get you some noodles and mocktail poetry debates. I’ll even let you argue about the misuse of metaphors in contemporary Insta poetry.”
Aahan finally stood, clutching the folder.
“Only if you promise ki tu waitress k sath flirt nahi krega"
(Only if you promise not to flirt with the waitress again.)
“No promises,” Asher grinned. “Flirting is my way of life.”
They walked out together, into the clatter of the city night.
Outside, the world still echoed with applause.
But Aahan Trivedi, poet of quiet storms, walked on—not seeking silence, but ready to write into the noise.

And as the final note faded into silence,

Aahan realized that some melodies never truly end—

they only wait,

haunting the corners of his restless soul.

Word count 1,589 I hope you like this chapter

Do lemme what you liked the most and what changes you'd like to see