A whole year had passed. By that time, Puja had finished her exams and started her internship.

But Amit lived in every corner of her life. She had thought that time was a healer, but for her, time had become a magnifying glass. Every day without him only highlighted how much he had meant to her.

In Kolkata, the monsoon had returned. The sound of rain hitting the windowpane used to be romantic, but now it just felt lonely. Puja sat at her desk, staring at a document she was supposed to be working on, but her mind was miles away.

Her mother stood at the doorway, watching her daughter. Puja had become thinner, quieter. The vibrant girl who used to argue about movies was replaced by a woman who performed her duties like a machine.

"Puja, puja, ektu cha kheye nao. Ara kotokkhon porbe?"

(Puja, have some tea. How much more will you study?)

Rekha said, placing a cup on the table.

"Thanks maa."

Puja replied without looking up. Her mother sat on the bed, her face etched with worry.

"Puja, it's been a year. Since last monsoon, you've changed. Aapnar mon ki kharap? Aapni aamake bolte paren. Is there a boy in college?"

(Is your mind upset? You can tell me.)

Puja's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face neutral.

"No, maa. Just work pressure. It's a lot to learn at the firm."

"Work is fine, but life is also important."

Her mother sighed.

"Your Baba was saying the other day that you don't even laugh anymore. Ami bujhte parchi je kichu ekta ghoteche."

(I can understand something has happened.)

"Nothing happened, Ma. I'm just growing up."

Puja said, her voice cracking slightly. As soon as her mother left the room, Puja closed her eyes. Growing up felt like losing a part of herself.

She missed the Amit. She missed the boy who promised to eat fish curry just to be with her. She realized now that the differences she had been so scared of were nothing compared to the void he had left behind.

Amit had tried to move on. He really had. He went to weddings, he focused on the business, and he spent time with his siblings. But the incident had left a scar that refused to fade. He had become cynical about love, convinced that it was a luxury he couldn't afford.

His elder brother, Rahul, and bhabhi, Simran, were growing restless. Amit was of marriageable age.

"Amit, oye, idhar aa."

(Amit, come here.)

Rahul called out one Sunday afternoon. They were sitting in the courtyard, and several printed Biodatas were spread out on the table.

"Look at this girl from Ludhiana. She's a teacher, very well educated, and the family is great."

Amit didn't even look at the paper. He kept sipping his lassi, staring at the horizon.

"Bhai, mera mann nahi hai abhi."

(Bhai, I am not in the mood.)

"Oye, mann nahi hai kya hota hai? It's been a year since you stopped talking about marriage. You're always quiet."

(What do you mean by not in mood?)

Rahul said, his voice turning serious.

"Is there someone else? If there is, tell us. We will talk to them."

Amit shook his head.

"Nahi, koi nahi hai."

(No, there is no one else.)

Simran joined them, holding a photograph.

"Look at her, Amit. Kitni sundar hai. Just meet her once? For my sake?"

(She is so beautiful.)

Amit took the photo. The girl was indeed beautiful. She had a kind smile and bright eyes. But as he looked at her, his mind involuntarily searched for a specific shade of yellow. He looked for a girl standing in front of a bookshelf in Kolkata. He compared every girl to Puja, and every time, the new girl lost.

"Nahi Bhabhi, iski aankhein thodi ajeeb hain..."

(No Bhabhi, here eyes are a bit weird…)

Amit lied, handing the photo back.

"Ajeeb? She has beautiful eyes! Last week you rejected that girl from Amritsar saying she was too tall. The one before that was too talkative. Amit, tu bahane bana raha hai."

(Amit, you are making excuses.)

Amit stood up, unable to take the pressure anymore.

"Haan, bana raha hoon bahane! Kyunki mera dil nahi maan raha. Please, just leave me alone for today."

(Yes, I am making excuses! Because I don’t want to.)

He walked away, but the guilt followed him. He knew he was being unfair to his family, and to himself. He was living in a past that he had ended. He had deleted the app, but he couldn't delete the memory.

That night, the silence in Amit's room was unbearable. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan. An year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of pretending he didn't care. He had tried to be the sensible one. He had accepted her rejection because he didn't want to be a burden.

But as he looked at the moon through his window, he felt a sudden, sharp surge of rebellion.

"Why am I giving up?"

He whispered to himself.

"She was scared. She was young. Maybe she's changed? Maybe she's also waiting?"

The thought was like a spark in a dry forest. Within seconds, his heart began to race. He had tried the logical way for a year, and it had made him miserable. He decided, right then and there, that he would give himself, and her, one last chance. 

He grabbed his phone. His hands were actually shaking. He opened Instagram.

He didn't have her handle. He only knew her name was Puja and she lived in Kolkata. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

He started typing, "Puja Banerjee."

Thousands of results popped up. He scrolled through hundreds of profiles. Most were private. Some had no pictures. He looked at every profile picture, zooming in, his eyes searching for that familiar face.

One hour passed. Then two.

"Come on, Puja...kaha ho tum?"

(Come on, Puja…where are you?)

His thumb was tired, his eyes were burning, and the adrenaline was making his stomach churn. It was nearly 2 AM. He was about to give up, thinking maybe she had deleted her social media too.

Then, he saw it.

A small, circular profile picture. A girl sitting in a cafe, looking away from the camera, wearing a simple white kurta. Even with her face partially turned, he knew. 

He clicked on the profile. Puja_09.

It was a public profile. He scrolled down. There were photos of her college, her books, and a few pictures of her in Kolkata. She looked older, more mature, but there was a sadness in her eyes in the recent pictures that mirrored his own.

Amit sat up straight, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. The year of silence was screaming at him to stop, to keep his dignity, to not get hurt again. But the love that had been simmering under the surface for twelve months boiled over.

He just stared at the "Message" button. His heart was beating so loud he thought his brother in the next room might hear it. He looked at her most recent photo, a picture of the rain with the caption: "Some silences are too loud."

"Was that for me?"

He wondered, his mind spinning.

"Is she still thinking about me?"

He didn't send a message yet. He just stared at the screens. He felt the weight of the last year, the loneliness, the rejected proposals, the quiet dinners. This was his last chance at love.

The fear was there, but the hope was stronger. For the first time in a year, Amit felt alive. His eyes were wide, his palms were sweaty, and the digital wall between them was finally starting to crumble.

He looked at her picture one last time and whispered.

"Ek aakhri baar, Puja. Bas ek aakhri baar."

(One last time, Puja. Just one last time.)

The screen stayed lit in the dark room, reflecting the wild, hopeful look in his eyes. He was a man on a mission to reclaim his heart.