Quiet Things Burning
The late afternoon light slanted through the old tamarind trees that lined the college café's patio. A couple of students lay dozing across benches, half-empty cold coffees sweating beside them. The air was sticky with summer and familiar boredom.
Advik sat back in his chair, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, revealing arms tanned by hours spent in the sun. His face was partially shadowed, his eyes tracing the swirling patterns in his coffee. Across from him, Aisha leaned casually in her chair, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her sharp features. Her chin rested in her hand, eyes unfocused, staring past him as if lost in thought.
He studied her face for a second longer than usual, sensing something off.
"You okay?" he asked.
She blinked, then finally met his gaze. "You think you know everything, right? Everything everyone says and does isn't a play. You can't just take a seat outside and watch like it doesn't concern you."
Advik blinked. "I wasn't—"
"You don't know everything. You can't."
"But I want to."
"It's barely worth trying."
"Not if it's you."
She looked at him then, something in her eyes faltering for half a second before she looked away again.
Advik noticed, exhaled gently, then let the moment hang. He didn't want her spiraling. He changed gears.
"So... we're doing this thing now. The silence routine. It's cool. I love ambiguity. Really spices up my otherwise vanilla life."
"You're being dramatic."
"It's part of my charm. It was in the brochure when you signed up to date me."
"We never really signed anything."
"Well. That explains a lot."
"I'm not mad at you," she said, her voice low. "Just thinking."
"That's the part that always gets me." He sipped his coffee. "You think too much, I joke too much. We meet somewhere in the middle and pretend that's what balance looks like."
"You're just upset I didn't come to the lab presentation thing yesterday." She jabbed.
"I didn't even bring that up."
"You've been wearing the same disappointed face for two hours."
"I only have three facial settings. This one's just efficient."
Aisha chuckled, and for a second things felt normal again.
They were interrupted by the rest of the group.
"Look at these two," Shri said as he approached, Myra beside him, their hands brushing like they hadn't decided whether to hold or not. He peered at the half-eaten fries on the table and gasped theatrically. "You ordered without me? Unbelievable. I feel betrayed."
Myra rolled her eyes. "We almost didn't come. Shri forgot what day it was."
"I forgot we existed as a group," Kunal said, joining them with Dev and Ved close behind.
"Wow, we're all here," Ved said, feigning amazement. "Should we mark this historic moment or wait until dessert?"
Dev slid into his seat and shook his head. "Okay, maybe let's just keep it light today? I've had enough morbid energy for one week."
Kunal's tone went dry. "Right? College's already doing a great job pretending the suicides aren't happening."
"Yeah," Myra added quietly. "Three students in two months. Midterms are a pressure cooker this year. Not everyone's built to survive that kind of stress."
"And then it's like—boom, surprise holiday," Kunal said. "Right after someone hangs themselves in their room. Total coincidence, of course."
Myra raised an eyebrow. "Midterms postponed twice, water turning white out of taps, holiday for fog on a clear day... yeah, we're totally not in a simulation."
"White water builds character," Shri deadpanned. "Like radioactive toothpaste."
Everyone chuckled, though the humor felt hollow.
It was easy to slip back into comfort. There were inside jokes, references to shared trauma disguised as humor, and a gentle silence between laughs. Advik looked around, and for a moment, even Aisha looked at ease.
The conversation drifted naturally after that—Ved complained about his data structures assignment, Myra teased Shri about his caffeine addiction, and gradually the group began to peel away. First Dev and Ved, citing library hours. Then Kunal, who had a call with his parents. Shri and Myra left last, still debating whether to hold hands as they walked toward the parking lot.
After the others had gone, the café settled into a soft quiet. Advik and Aisha remained, still seated, their drinks half-finished. The earlier storm between them had passed, but the air still buzzed faintly with static.
"Sorry about earlier, I just… needed space," she said. "Everything's been too much lately."
"You could've told me that."
"You would have tried to cheer me up, said things you don't believe yourself."
Advik opened his mouth, then shut it. Fair.
"I should go," she said. "I've got… project stuff."
He stood with her. "Look, I'm sorry if I—"
She leaned in and kissed him gently. "What's done is done, right?"
He blinked, a little stunned. Then his expression eased. He smiled. "You remember my words from a semester ago, but not the lab."
"So it was about the lab," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"I remember everything stupid you say." She smiled, already turning away. "That's how I show affection."
He watched her walk off toward the hostel road.
He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if they'd just made up or buried something deeper under a layer of forced calm.
She paused under a neem tree. Its leaves cast soft, moving shadows over her face. A light breeze rustled the potted plant beside her. Two large, shiny insects clung to the edge of the pot, their shells reflecting the late sun. They looked almost like beetles, but wrong—too smooth, too symmetrical. One of them froze. Its legs locked stiff. Then, without warning, it reared back and shot a thin stream of fire at the other. The flame hissed through the air, bright and impossible. The second insect twitched once, then went still. Completely still.
Aisha didn't flinch. But it did remind her of the mission.
Then she took out her phone and hit a saved contact.
"Yeah, Phase One is done. I hope you won't fuck this up as well—both for me and for you."
She ended the call.
For a long moment, she just stood there. Advik's words came again, but this time only in her head—soft, weighted, and final:
What's done is done. We move forward. We only look back when we are all the way through.