Bandi_scripts

Two distant souls. One casual wave. A thousand almosts.

In a world where glances linger longer than words, and silence speaks louder than promises, two people begin to drift closer—never quite colliding, never quite letting go. What starts as a gesture becomes a rhythm, and what was never supposed to mean anything slowly begins to mean everything.
This is a story of slow-burning closeness, unspoken feelings, fractured friendships, and the dangerous beauty of being seen too deeply.
Some love stories are loud.
This one hums in the spaces between.

Almost Touching

It was just supposed to be another call. Another night where silence filled the spaces between gist, soft teasing, and tired sighs. We'd been talking more — longer, deeper. The kind of conversations that wandered aimlessly into the night and still never felt enough.

That night though… something cracked open.

She sounded different. Softer. Like her walls were made of paper that evening. I didn't ask too many questions — I never did. I let her talk about her day, about random drama with her classmates, about how tired she felt. But then she stopped, and for a moment, all I heard was breathing.

I didn't even know how to respond at first. I thought she was joking. She'd said things like that before, but this was different. Her voice wasn't playful. It was… sure. Quiet, but sure.

My heart was somewhere between my throat and my ribs. I'd never seen this part of her — not in real time. Not unfiltered. I'd seen her act childlike, dramatic, sarcastic, proud. But not like this. Not this… soft. This raw.

She exhaled. "I don't know. Something about the way you stayed on this call with me. The way you listened even when I was just ranting about nothing. It just… hit me."

She told me how the silence we shared wasn't awkward — how it was safe. How she'd spoken to other guys, sure, but it never felt like this. That with me, she didn't feel the need to perform.

She said, "It's like you're the version of home I never got to live in."

I didn't say anything poetic back. I couldn't. My brain was swimming, and my chest was heavy. Not in a painful way — in that strange, overwhelming kind of way that makes you realize something real is happening, right here, right now.

We didn't say I love you. Not yet. But everything else sounded like it.

That night, I didn't sleep. Not because of excitement. But because everything changed, and I wasn't ready. I wanted her. That much was true. But I was also scared — scared of loving too hard again. Scared that she'd forget what she said. That the next morning, it'd all fade back into casual chats and half-serious flirting.

But when I woke up, she'd sent a voice note.

"I meant every word, by the way. Still do."

The Night spoke