The bus pulled out of the station at 5:43 AM.
It was cold. The sky a pale blue, still undecided if it wanted to turn gold or grey.Rihanna didn't look back at her town—not once.
She sat by the window with a single backpack and a blank journal.
Zoya had hugged her for too long at the station.
"Don't disappear," she whispered.
"I won't," Rihanna replied. But she already knew she would.
Her new college was in the heart of a loud, living city. High-rise buildings, 24-hour cafés, bright lights that bled through curtains at night. There were no narrow streets here. No gossiping aunties. No places haunted by memories of Aarav.
No one knew her here.
That's what made it perfect.
She didn't tell people she was a romantic. She didn't mention her art. She wore black eyeliner like war paint and kept to herself. Her classmates found her "cool" in the distant, mysterious way. They didn't know how much of her was just emptiness wearing ambition like armor.
She studied hard. Grades perfect. Attendance decent. Personality?
Blurred.
By day, she was a student of literature and psychology.
By night, she was someone else entirely.
She ran an anonymous Tumblr blog where she posted dark poetry and long threads about obsessive love stories. Mafia romance breakdowns. Edits of blood-stained suits and fragile girls who bite back.
Her handle?@thornsanddevotion
She gained followers fast.
People commented: "This feels so personal."They had no idea.
She replied to no one. But every night, she read messages like prayers:
"This post? It's exactly how I feel.""Who hurt you?""You should write a book."
She was writing something, in a way.
Her life.
In two versions.
One evening, her phone rang.Unknown number. But something in her chest recognized the rhythm.
She picked up.
"Hello?"
There was a pause. Then a voice she hadn't heard in nearly a year.
"Ri?"
She froze.
It was Aarav.
Her mouth went dry.
"I was just… I saw something that reminded me of you," he said quietly. "I didn't expect you to pick up."
She didn't speak. She couldn't. The voice that once made her heart ache now just sounded… small.
"I'm sorry," he said, out of nowhere.
It didn't matter. It came too late. It didn't change the damage or the way she had rebuilt herself from it.
So she said only this:
"You were the reason. Not the story."
Then she hung up.
And blocked the number.
That night, Rihanna stood in front of her mirror, wiping away her eyeliner.
She stared at herself. At the tired eyes, the lips bitten raw out of habit.She didn't look innocent anymore.
She didn't want to.
She picked up her journal and wrote one line:
"You don't survive heartbreak. You let it change you."
Then she opened her laptop. Drafted a job application.
Destination: Italy.
Her professors had told her about an international internship program. One that selected a few students to work abroad for a year—immersed in culture, language, and something called "real-world experience."
She just wanted to disappear further.
She clicked "submit."
And the universe, again, whispered, "Closer."