“Glances That Hurt More Than Words”

Sometimes the sharpest knives

Are the ones that never cut —

They just refuse to touch you at all.

The morning felt heavier than usual, though the sky was a perfect Mumbai blue. I’d barely slept — not because of work, but because my mind kept replaying that moment yesterday.

The half-open eyes. The almost-glance. The fact that he hadn’t said a single word to me since we’d started crossing paths again.

When the train doors slid open, the crowd pushed in, and there he was — this time standing almost directly in front of me. No room to turn away, no convenient crowd to hide behind.

Our eyes met.

And they didn’t soften.

If anything, his gaze seemed to harden, like he was building a wall brick by brick between us. There was no anger in it — just that calculated, measured detachment that said, You don’t get to reach me anymore.

It was strange, because while his eyes stayed cold, I could still read him. I’d always been able to. The slight tension in his jaw, the way his thumb pressed against the edge of his pocket — tiny tells that he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted me to believe.

The train swayed, and for a moment our shoulders brushed. He didn’t move. Neither did I.

That’s when the memories started to push through, uninvited.

We’d met in the most ordinary way — two people in the same circle, our paths crossing more and more until they started to overlap entirely.

I was still in high school then, juggling textbooks and teenage moods. He was in the middle of his diploma, already knee-deep in his chosen field. He had this way of making everything sound lighter than it was — even the future.

Our first conversation hadn’t been remarkable. What was remarkable was how quickly it became impossible to go a day without one.

I remembered the way he’d walk me to the bus stop even if it meant taking the long way home. The way he’d stand with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to care when I was late, but the moment I arrived, there’d be that small, unguarded smile.

We weren’t dramatic. We weren’t loud. But we were ours.

Until I broke it.

Fear can be a quiet killer. I’d been afraid — of my parents, of what they’d think, of what would happen if they found out. I’d convinced myself it was better to end it now than risk him getting hurt later. I told him we couldn’t keep going. I told him I was sorry. I didn’t tell him I loved him still, that I was breaking my own heart in the process.

He hadn’t begged. He hadn’t argued. He’d just looked at me — really looked — and said nothing. His silence that day was louder than any shouting could have been.

And now here we were. Four years later.

Same silence. Same eyes. Same unfinished conversation hanging between us.

The train slowed, and we both stepped onto the platform. Neither of us spoke. But as he turned to walk away, his gaze lingered — just a fraction longer than necessary.

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t nothing either.

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