The station was nearly empty.
It wasn't one of those bustling platforms with rushing feet and hurried goodbyes. This one breathed in silence. There were no blaring announcements, no whistles cutting through the air. Just the distant hum of a fan that had long stopped trying to cool anything.
It was 6:47 p.m.
Clouds were gathering again, forming a quiet rebellion in the sky. The kind of clouds that didn't promise rain—they threatened it. Like they knew people weren't ready yet, but came anyway.
Aarav sat at the edge of the third bench from the entrance, one leg shaking uncontrollably. Not from nervousness. Not even from habit. Just... movement. Any movement. Something to keep him from thinking too much.
His hoodie was half-zipped, revealing a faded T-shirt with a quote he no longer believed in. "Don't look back — you're not going that way." The irony made him want to laugh sometimes.
But he hadn't laughed in months.
A cigarette sat between his fingers, unlit. He didn't smoke. He never had. He just liked the feel of it. It gave people a reason not to ask questions.
The world had become a little easier to avoid that way.
He glanced sideways. The station tea vendor was half-asleep. A drunk man babbled something in a corner. A couple — too young to know heartbreak yet — were holding hands under a flickering light.
And then... there she was.
At first, she blended into the background. Just another figure curled on the last bench, unmoving. But there was something about the way she slumped — not like someone resting, but like someone who had been left.
Aarav tried not to stare.
But he kept glancing. And glancing turned into watching. And then watching turned into standing.
He walked toward her, his steps hesitant. Not heroic. Not curious. Just... human.
"Miss?" he said, voice barely above the wind.
No response.
"Hey—are you okay?"
She didn't move.
Aarav leaned in. Her hair was tangled, half-wet from the earlier drizzle. Her arms hung awkwardly, one wrist bruised. Her face—partially hidden—was pale, drawn, and unresponsive.
He checked her breathing. Faint—but there.
For a moment, he considered walking away. It wasn't his business. He wasn't a hero. He didn't save people. He didn't even know how to save himself.
But something in her silence reminded him of his own.
He picked up the torn backpack lying beside her and slung it on his shoulder. He looked around—no one watching, no one caring. The world had already passed her by.
He knelt, whispered, "I'm taking you to get help," and gently lifted her.
She was light. Too light. Like someone who hadn't eaten properly in days.
They reached the hospital twenty minutes later. The auto driver didn't ask questions—he'd seen enough of the city to stop being shocked.
The nurse at the emergency desk raised an eyebrow. "Relative?"
"No," Aarav replied.
"She looks bad."
"I know."
He didn't have identification for her. He had no answers. Just her sketchbook and her silence.
"Name?" the nurse pressed.
He opened the front pocket of her bag, found a piece of paper—lined and stained—with the word Anaya written in ink that had almost faded.
"Anaya," he said.
"Surname?"
"I don't know."
The doctor asked for forms, insurance, explanation.
Aarav looked him in the eye and said, "Do whatever it takes. I'll cover it."
She woke up two days later.
Her first word wasn't "Where am I?" or "What happened?"
It was: "Is it over?"
Aarav didn't answer. He was sitting beside her bed, notebook in hand. Not writing. Just... holding it.
Anaya turned her face toward the window. "How long?"
"Two days."
She was quiet for a long time. Then: "You brought me here?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
He paused. "Because you looked like you didn't want to be seen. And sometimes, those are the ones who need someone the most."
A dry laugh escaped her lips. "Or maybe I just looked pathetic."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But I didn't think that mattered."
By the fourth day, she could sit up.
By the fifth, she could walk.
On the sixth, the hospital asked her to leave if no family came forward.
She didn't argue.
Aarav watched her gather her things in silence. She didn't ask for help. She didn't say goodbye.
But just as she reached the door, she turned.
"Do you know a place I can go?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Just for a day. Or two. Somewhere quiet. I won't stay long."
Aarav hesitated. Then nodded.
His flat was small—just one room, a broken ceiling fan, and books stacked in places they didn't belong.
He cleared the mattress. Gave her the bed. Slept on the floor.
She never thanked him.
He never asked her to.
Over the next week, they spoke in pieces.
Aarav learned that Anaya had once been an artist. That she hadn't touched a pencil in months. That she used to draw cities without shadows.
She learned that Aarav wrote stories he never showed anyone. That he didn't believe in happy endings. That he once tried to disappear, and somehow failed.
They shared quiet tea. Long evenings on the balcony. Nights where neither of them slept, but neither was truly awake.
And slowly—without intention—something unfamiliar settled between them.
Not love.
Not yet.
But... awareness.
Of presence.
Of breath.
Of not being completely alone.
One night, as rain returned to the city, Anaya asked, "What are you running from?"
Aarav looked at the sky.
"Everything."
She smiled bitterly. "Then we're both fugitives."
He looked at her. Really looked.
"Maybe we're just survivors," he said.
And for the first time, she didn't flinch at the word.