The Distance between Us

College came with a rush of new experiences, new people, and the overwhelming feeling that everything was moving faster than they could keep up with. For Sidharth and Amritha, the excitement of starting this new chapter of their lives brought with it the inevitable reality of being miles apart. 

Sidharth had moved to a university in another city, one bustling with opportunities and distractions. The campus was larger than he expected, and every day felt like a blur of new faces, orientations, and activities. He thrived in this environment. His natural charisma made it easy for him to make friends, and his days were filled with laughter, spontaneous adventures, and late-night conversations in dorm hallways. College life, with all its chaos and promise, was everything he had imagined—everything except for Amritha.

Amritha, on the other hand, found herself in a different kind of whirlwind. She had chosen a smaller college, one that focused more on academics than social events. It was perfect for her—quiet, focused, and, in many ways, isolating. She spent her days buried in her studies, lost in books and assignments, trying to build a life for herself that didn't rely on anyone else. Yet, despite the peace that came with the solitude, there was an empty space that she couldn't ignore. It wasn't loneliness, per se. It was the quiet pull of something that felt unfinished—a connection that had started, but wasn't allowed to fully bloom.

Sidharth's World

A sprawling metropolitan university, neon-lit and chaotic. His dorm is a mess of vibrant Bollywood posters—Dil Chahta Hai, Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani—a reflection of his life: loud, fast, and full of motion. Nights blur together with debate club sessions, open mics, and crowded parties, where every new face becomes a "brother" by 2 AM. The noise is part of him, and he thrives in it.

Amritha's World

A quiet liberal arts college nestled in a misty hill town. Her room is simple—one bookshelf stacked with books by Camus, Plath, and The Bell Jar (the dog-eared page 72 a constant reminder of all that she's yet to explore). There's a cluttered desk filled with scattered philosophy essays, and the window overlooks a forest of pine trees that seem to stretch endlessly. Her world is calm, introspective, and a far cry from Sidharth's. And yet, somewhere between the silence and the solitude, she finds herself thinking of him more often than she admits.

The First Semester: Illusion of Closeness

Sidharth: Texts her daily—photos of campus murals, voice notes humming "Kuch Kuch Hota Hai" after late-night parties, rambling about his film society's "Bollywood vs. Realism" debate.

"You'd hate it here," he jokes. "Too much noise. But I think you'd hate how much I love it."

Amritha: Replies occasionally, her texts clipped. Sends him PDFs of Sartre essays he never opens.

"Noise is just distraction dressed up as joy," she writes. "But glad you're... thriving?"

They're both pretending. Sidharth, wrapped in optimism and distractions, and Amritha, with her detachment and quiet resistance. Neither of them is willing to admit how much the distance is affecting them.

The Drift: Mismatched Rhythms

Sidharth: Joins a student film project. Posts Instagram stories with a charismatic, camera-ready grin, surrounded by laughing friends. Tags Amritha in a meme: "When you're living the 'Kal Ho Naa Ho' life but miss the Naina." She doesn't respond.

Amritha: Submits a paper titled "The Myth of Eternal Love in Modern Cinema." Her professor calls it "brilliant but bleak." At 3 AM, she texts Sidharth a snippet: "Love isn't a myth—it's a mirage. We chase it because we're thirsty, not because it's real."

He replies a day later: "Deep. But have you tried actually sleeping?"

Even as they try to keep things light, it's clear that the gap is widening. Sidharth is immersed in his world, surrounded by energy and new faces. Amritha, however, is starting to wonder if their connection can survive this kind of distance. Her words are growing heavier, more reflective, while his seem to float aimlessly in the air.

The Fight: Monsoon Misalignment

Sidharth promises to visit during Diwali break but cancels last minute for a film shoot.

Amritha: "Priorities, right? Don't worry. I've got a Foucault chapter to keep me company."

Sidharth: "It's not like that. This project could be....my big break—"

Amritha: "Break what? Your ability to show up?"

Silence.

Sidharth: Posts an Instagram story of the new co-director—vivacious, smiling, with a "Carpe Diem" tattoo on her arm. Amritha deletes her social media.

The promise of connection slips further away. What once felt like an easy bond now seems more like an obligation. Amritha's frustration simmers beneath the surface, and Sidharth—despite his busy, fast-paced world—feels the shift. The quiet tension is becoming impossible to ignore.

The Rain Check: Breaking Point

Sidharth: Calls her late at night after a drunken party, his voice slurred.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm—"

Amritha: Cuts him off.

"You're not sorry. You're just lonely. And I'm not your monsoon metaphor."

FLASHBACK

Sidharth: (12:14 AM)

Remember that monsoon debate in Mr. Khanna's class? You argued rain was just weather. I said it was a metaphor.

Still team #JustWeather?

Amritha smirks, recalling their heated 11th-grade philosophy clash. She'd rolled her eyes when he quoted Barfi! and called rain "the sky's love letters." Now, she watches droplets slide down the glass, typing slowly.

Amritha: (12:22 AM)

Team #JustWeather. But I'll admit, it's good for dramatic texting. What's up?

Sidharth: (12:23 AM)

[Photo attached: A dark street corner with a small chai stall, steam rising from his cup in the cold night air.]

Stuck here. The universe is mocking my "live every moment" mantra.

You'd thrive—no sunsets to romanticize.

Amritha: (12:27 AM)

Wrong. Rain's the realist's muse. No illusions about lasting forever. Just... washes things clean.

500 Days of Summer's park bench scene was in the rain. No Bollywood dance number. Just truth.

Sidharth: (12:29 AM)

Ouch. But okay—truth: I rewatched KHNH last night. Aman's rain song hits different when you're actually in rain.

What if we're both wrong about love? What if it's not fireworks or embers...

Amritha: (12:33 AM)

...but the rain itself? Here then gone, but the ground remembers?

...but something that drowns and grows things?

Sidharth: (12:34 AM)

Exactly. Messy. Uncontrolled.

You free tonight? There's this tiny theater screening Before Sunrise. No martyrs, just... talking.

Amritha: (12:37 AM)

Before Sunrise? The one where they wander Vienna all night and part in the morning?

You're trying to convert me to "beautiful impermanence," aren't you?

Sidharth: (12:38 AM)

Nah. I'm just finally listening to the girl who wrote "Love is a losing game" in the margins.

Bring an umbrella. I'll bring the existential crisis.

Amritha: (12:40 AM)

Deal. But if you quote Kal Ho Naa Ho during the film, I walk.

Sidharth: (12:41 AM)

Scout's honor. But fair warning—I'll cry at the train station scene.

She sets her phone down, watching rain pool on the sidewalk. For years, they'd orbited each other—hallway nods, half-finished debates—always safe in their roles: the dreamer and the skeptic. But this... this feels like stepping into the rain without an umbrella. She texts back.

Amritha: (12:45 AM)

Bring tissues then. I'll pretend not to notice.

PRESENT 

Sidharth posts a cryptic quote: "Distance isn't measured in miles. It's measured in silences."

Amritha writes in her journal: "I miss the boy who believed in sunsets. But I don't know him anymore."

The argument isn't just about the missed promises—it's the realization that what they thought was a connection isn't enough to bridge the ever-widening distance. Sidharth's drunken apology rings hollow, and Amritha's words slice through the quiet of her apartment. She's no longer the person he can lean on. The gap between them feels too wide to cross now.

Next Chapter: The Almost-Reunion: Winter Break

Sidharth: Shows up unannounced at her college.

"I thought if I saw you... we could reset."