Viraj called me not long after I returned home. His voice, deep and warm, settled into my ears like a melody I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. We talked for hours, about everything and nothing. He told me about his childhood, the years he spent at the orphanage, and the cruelty he endured at the hands of people who were supposed to protect him. There was a calmness to the way he spoke, not detached, but… resigned. Like he had long since made peace with his pain.

It felt strangely natural, like speaking to an old friend I’d known forever, effortless, real. The silence between us never felt awkward, only comfortable.