What speed hides

 BACKSTORY 

People call Rahul reckless.

It’s the easiest thing to say when someone rides too fast, smiles too easily, and never really stays in one place long enough to be understood.

Careless. Irresponsible. Just a boy chasing adrenaline.

He doesn’t correct them.

I think that’s the point.

Because if people keep it that simple, they don’t look any further.

They don’t notice how he never lingers after the engine dies.

How his grip on the helmet tightens just a little longer than necessary.

How conversations with him always feel like they’re on a timer—like he’s already halfway out before they even begin.

It’s not detachment.

It’s distance.

Chosen. Practiced.

Almost… necessary.

There’s something about the way he avoids stillness.

Like silence isn’t peaceful for him.

Like silence remembers things.

I don’t know what it is.

A house that stopped feeling like one.

Expectations that turned into weight instead of direction.

Or maybe just one moment—one mistake—that refuses to stay in the past no matter how fast he moves.

Whatever it is…

he rides like speed can outrun it.

Like if he keeps going, it won’t catch up.

People see a boy who doesn’t take life seriously.

I see someone who takes it a little too seriously—

just not in ways anyone bothers to understand.

And no, I don’t feel bad for him.

That’s not it.

I just don’t mistake noise for freedom.

Or recklessness for carelessness.

Because sometimes…

the ones who look the most untouchable

are just the ones who learned early

that stopping isn’t safe

THE SCENE

I didn’t plan on noticing him today.

But then again, Rahul doesn’t really arrive—he announces himself.

The sound hit first. Loud, sharp, unnecessary. A bike tearing into the ground like it had something to prove. People turned.

I didn’t.

Not immediately.

I waited a second… and then I did.

He parked his bike like he owned the place. Took off his helmet, run his fingers through his hair, pulled off his gloves one by one—slow, deliberate. That same smile followed. Easy. Careless.

And then his eyes landed on me.

There it was—that half-smirk.

Like he already knew I was watching.

Why does he ride like that?

Not fast.

Not for fun.

Like he’s trying to outrun something.

“Is it worth—?”, the words just slipped out!

The question came out before I could dress it up.

He looked straight at me.

Not amused. Not confused.

Interested.

Three seconds.

Enough for him to answer.

Enough for me to decide I didn’t need it to be answered.

I turned, adjusted my bag on one shoulder, and started walking toward the cafeteria.

If he wanted to answer, he could follow.

And of course… he did.

I could hear it in his steps. Slightly uneven, like he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or intrigued.

“Okay… at least listen to my answer first.”

I dropped my bag on the bench and sat down, casual. Unbothered.

“Does it look like I care anymore?”

I did look at him then.

Just enough.

He pulled a chair and sat opposite me, placing his helmet on the table like it was part of the conversation now.

“You asked, Meera.”

The way he said my name—slower this time—felt like he was making a point.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I’m waiting around for explanations.”

A flicker of something crossed his face.

Not irritation.

Something closer to… being challenged.

“Funny,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Most people don’t ask at all.”

“Maybe they’re not that curious.”

“Or maybe they don’t care enough.”

I tilted my head, a small smile playing on my lips,my eyes filled with judgement. “Don’t confuse curiosity with concern, Rahul.” I held his gaze a second longer than necessary—just enough for him to realize I meant it.

He looked away for a second, jaw tightening—not in anger, but like he was deciding how much to say.

Then—

“It’s not about the speed.”

I didn’t respond. Just watched.

“It’s about shutting things off,” he continued. “When you’re riding that fast… nothing else gets through. No noise. No people. No… expectations.”

His fingers tapped lightly against the helmet.

Unconscious.

“And when you stop?” I asked, like it didn’t matter.

Like I was just filling silence.

His eyes met mine again.

“That’s the problem, Meera.”

There was no smirk now.

“You stop, and everything’s still there. Same place. Same weight. So…” a faint exhale, almost a laugh without humor, “…you just don’t stop for long.”

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Not because it was heavy.

But because it was honest.

And honesty always lingers a little.

I leaned back, breaking it first.

“Hmm.”

Like I was rating his answer.

Like it didn’t touch anything.

“Okay,” I said, letting a hint of amusement slip in. “Don’t tempt me to ask you for a ride now.”

There it was.

That shift.

That instant return of his usual self.

The smirk came back, effortless.

“Sure,” he stood up, picking up his helmet. “I’d take you, Meera.”

A pause.

“One day. Soon.”

And then he winked at me, picking up his helmet, like that was his cue to be done with this.

Like nothing just happened.

Like he hadn’t just said something most people wouldn’t even admit to themselves.

He walked back toward the ground.

Confident. Untouched.

I stayed where I was.

Phone in my hand. Screen on. Mind somewhere else entirely.

Not because I cared.

Not really.

But because—

He doesn’t ride to feel something.

He rides so he doesn’t have to.

And somehow…

that made perfect sense.

I used to think that was reckless.

Now I think…

it’s just another way of surviving.

I’m not sure which one is worse.

And I told myself it didn’t matter, not anymore.

But when he said, “One day. Soon.”

I realized—I hadn’t said no.