Aanya didn't stay still for long.
Not because she was restless—
but because the space between them suddenly didn't feel like it existed the same way anymore.
She leaned closer first.
Not speaking.
Just looking at him like she had decided something without telling herself what it was.
Sagnik noticed immediately.
"You're not sitting properly," he said softly.
"I am," she replied, already leaning again.
Then she laughed a little.
At nothing.
At everything.
Her hand came up briefly, brushing his shoulder like she was checking if he was real.
Sagnik caught her wrist gently.
Not firm.
Just enough.
"Aanya."
She paused.
Blinking slowly.
The name seemed to anchor her for a second.
But only a second.
Her expression softened again, drifting.
"You're very quiet," she murmured.
"I'm right here."
"I know."
That answer was too simple.
Too honest.
She leaned forward again, less controlled now, resting her head briefly near him like she was testing distance rather than closing it.
Sagnik's breathing changed slightly—but he didn't move toward her.
Instead, he exhaled slowly.
Reminding himself.
Not like this.
Not in this state.
He shifted just enough to create space between them—not rejection, just grounding.
"Aanya," he said again, quieter. "Sit properly."
She frowned faintly, as if trying to understand the instruction.
Then, slowly, she did.
Not fully stable, but settled.
A few seconds passed.
The noise in her head—or the world's noise—seemed to fade into something softer.
She blinked once.
Twice.
And then her shoulders dropped.
Sagnik watched that change carefully.
"You're tired," he said.
"I'm not," she muttered automatically.
But her voice didn't match her words anymore.
A minute later, her head tilted slightly forward.
Then stayed there.
Asleep.
Just like that.
The sudden quiet felt heavier than her earlier chaos.
Sagnik didn't move for a moment.
Just looked at her.
Then carefully stood up.
He adjusted her position slightly so she wouldn't strain, slow and careful, like handling something fragile without making it obvious.
After a moment, he picked her up gently—not rushed, not dramatic—just enough to move her without waking her.
She shifted slightly in his arms but didn't wake.
Still.
Trusting in the unconscious way sleep allows.
He carried her to the bed and placed her down carefully, pulling the blanket over her.
For a second, he just stood there.
Then turned away.
The room felt too small suddenly.
He didn't trust himself to stay too close to that stillness.
So he moved to the beanbag instead.
Sat down.
Hands loosely clasped.
And only then did he exhale properly.
The kind of breath you don't realize you were holding.
In the quiet room, her presence was no longer loud.
But it was everywhere anyway.