03/01/2026
‘It’s 2 AM. Raghav’s voice crackles through the phone—distant, familiar—like he’s still in the next room, here with me in Seattle, instead of 8,000 miles away in Hyderabad. The TV is paused on Harrison Ford mid–whip crack, the blue light turning my studio apartment into something small and underwater. My dinner plate sits on the coffee table, dal solidifying into orange wax.
“Leave me alone,” I say, smiling despite myself. “What do you want?”’
Flash fiction by Nagireddy R. Sreenath, “Before It Gets Cold”
Flash Fiction by Nagireddy R. Sreenath : ‘We don’t talk about the silence between us: the missed birthdays, the calls that went to voicemail, the distance that grew while neither of us looked directly at it.’