By entering the college, I got a message from my online friend — the only one who asks for me in the shadows where no one notices. Her message blinked on my screen: "Don't eat junk food, wear your jacket, and don't skip classes."

I smiled and replied, "Aye aye, cap!" Then I walked into class and spotted my best friend, Kavya, waving from the back row. Six hours slipped by between lectures, jokes, and sleepy notes scribbled half-heartedly.

After college, I headed straight to my workshop — or should I say, our restaurant. It's not just a building; it's a dream stitched together with late nights, hope, and courage. Built from scratch by me and my online friend, the same one who keeps reminding me to take care of myself, even from miles away.

We started it with a mix of pocket money, part-time job savings, and countless voice calls filled with planning, laughter, and fear. He had the dream, I had the push — and together, we built something that felt impossible at first. A 50–50 share, not just in money, but in heart.

Now the restaurant stands there like a heartbeat in the middle of the street — warm lights, soft music, and the scent of coffee drifting into the night. People come, sit, and stay longer than they planned. They say it feels peaceful, that the place carries a strange calm — and every time I hear that, I just smile. Because they don't know it's ours. They don't know the story behind the walls.

My family doesn't know either. I tried to tell them — once, twice, maybe more — but they brushed it off, saying I should focus on studies, not fantasies. So I stopped talking and started building.

Now, when I wipe down the counters at closing time, I sometimes look at the empty chairs and whisper, "We did it." The lights flicker soft, the night hums outside, and I feel it — a quiet pride, like the world finally heard me even when no one else did.

It's not just a restaurant anymore. It's my escape, my proof, and my peace — built from silence, faith, and a friendship that never needed distance to measure loyalty.

After the work, I went home — the place everyone calls a house, but for me, it's just walls and silence. The lights were on, yet it still felt empty, as if the warmth had left long ago.

I dropped my bag near the door and made my way to my room. After changing into a loose shirt and sitting on the bed, I called him — my online friend, my quiet constant.

He picked up after a few rings. The screen glowed faintly, showing his face — eyes tired, hair messy, a weak smile trying to hold itself together. I could see the exhaustion in his expression, the kind you can't hide no matter how hard you try.

I asked about his health, but he just shook his head slightly, avoiding the question. That silence told me more than words ever could. So instead of pressing further, I began to talk — about my day, my classes, the crowd at the restaurant, and how Kavya almost spilled coffee on a customer.

He listened quietly, his eyes soft with something unspoken. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he just looked down, lost in his own thoughts. The sound of his breathing mixed with my voice, filling the empty spaces of my room.

When I finished, he whispered, "You've worked hard today. I'm proud of you." His voice was low, rough at the edges — but it felt like the gentlest thing I'd heard in weeks.

We talked a little more, about dreams and plans, about how someday we'd sit together in the restaurant we built — not as two screens, but as two people sharing one space.

Soon his voice grew softer, fading with sleep. I told him goodnight, watched him close his eyes, and then ended the call.

The room felt colder after that — but also peaceful. I lay down, staring at the ceiling, the quiet hum of the fan mixing with the echo of his words. And slowly, with a faint smile, I drifted off — carrying his tired face and soft voice into my dreams.

The next day began slow — the kind of morning that smells of rain even when the sky's clear. My alarm buzzed at seven, but I just lay there for a while, half-awake, half-dreaming, the echo of his goodnight still tucked in my mind.

When I finally got up, the house was still — the same silence, the same faint hum of life pretending to exist. I made tea, the way he once told me he liked his — less sugar, more warmth. It made me smile.

College was the same routine: lectures, corridors full of chatter, and Kavya pulling me into random conversations just to make the hours lighter. But somewhere between notes and laughter, my thoughts kept slipping back to him — wondering if he'd eaten, if he was feeling better, if he'd slept at all.

During the lunch break, I texted him a simple "How are you now?" The message stayed on delivered for a while, then finally turned blue. His reply came minutes later: "Better. Just tired. Don't worry, cap."

That one line felt heavier than it looked. I wanted to call, but I knew he'd tell me to focus on my day. So I did — or at least, tried to.

When the last lecture ended, I didn't go straight to the restaurant. I walked through the old lane behind the college instead — the one with cracked walls and wildflowers sneaking through them. It reminded me of what we built: something fragile, but alive.

By evening, I reached the restaurant. The lights were already on, the air rich with spices and chatter. People were coming in, smiling, laughing — they loved this place, and that alone made every struggle worth it.

I worked through the shift, managing tables, taking orders, helping in the kitchen — but every now and then, my phone would buzz, and I'd see his name. Just short messages: "Drink water." "Don't skip dinner." "You look tired in your story."

It was quiet, steady care — the kind that doesn't need to be loud to be felt.

When the night finally thinned out and the last customer left, I sat by the counter, phone in hand. I sent him a picture of the empty restaurant, the soft glow of the hanging lamps, and wrote, "We did good today."

He replied almost instantly: "Proud of you, partner."

And in that moment, even the silence around me felt full — like the world was quietly clapping just for us.

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