Hello hii welcome ,so this is the first chapter. let's just start with a tiny complaint.
Why does it always rain harder the second you forget your umbrella and wear your nicest clothes?

Also, I'm convinced monsoon and awkward silences are secretly dating. You'll see what I mean. Anyway, I hope you're reading this with a cup of chai. 

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Na baat hui, na shikayat ki, 

Bas aankhon ne woh keh diya jo saalon se rukaa tha.

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I didn't knock. Honestly, I thought about it. Stood outside for a whole second, rain dripping off my elbow, considering whether it would be weird to ring the bell. But then I thought—what was the point? This apartment used to be mine too. Knocking now would feel like asking. Like I needed permission. And I wasn't asking anymore.

The key turned like it never stopped being used. A quick click, a soft creak, and I stepped into the past like it had just been waiting with the lights low and the windows damp. God, the smell. Lemongrass incense, old wood, and something else... something warm. Like sun on a cotton bedsheet that hadn't seen sun in days.

I shut the door behind me and bolted it out of habit. Then I heard movement. A soft shuffle. The clink of a glass. That unmistakable sound of someone trying not to make noise but being incredibly obvious about it.

I turned.

And there he was. Aarav.

Towel around his neck. Water droplets still tracing his collarbone. Glass of water in hand. Barefoot. We stared at each other like someone had frozen time just to make the moment more unbearable.

"Tara," he said. Just like that. My name, not a question. Not a statement. Just... there. On his tongue like it had never left.

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't expect you."

"Didn't expect you either," he replied, placing the glass down gently on the table, like louder movements might set off a landmine. "Hotel got flooded. Kamlesh Kaka gave me the key."

Of course he did.

I nodded. "PG's a disaster. The landlord locked up and left for his village. I figured this was the only place left that wasn't floating."

He didn't respond. Just nodded back, eyes flicking to my bag and my very wet shoes.

"I'll take the bedroom," I said, peeling off my soggy dupatta. "You can take the floor. Or the couch. Or whatever."

He blinked. "You sure? I can—"

"I'm not negotiating." I pushed past him, water trailing behind me like an unwanted friend, and disappeared into the room.

Changing into dry clothes helped. So did tying my hair up into a bun and pretending like everything was normal. I was fine. Absolutely fine.

I opened the fridge to find some sad leftovers. Khichdi. Definitely made by someone who didn't care about joy. I reheated it anyway. Hunger won over taste. Without thinking, I plated two bowls. One for me. One for him. Just like old times. Stupid reflex. I handed his bowl to him wordlessly and settled onto the window ledge with mine. He took it without comment and sat across the room on the rug.

The fan overhead hummed like it had its own mood swings. Rain kept tapping on the glass. I watched it blur the world outside, the way grief blurs a memory — soft around the edges but still there.

"You still hate khichdi," I said eventually, just to say something.

He chewed slowly. "Yeah. But there wasn't anything else. And I was hungry."

"Practical."

"You always hated wasting food."

"Still do."

He didn't smile. But there was something like amusement in the way his eyes softened for a second.

After we finished, he washed the plates. I let him. Seemed fair.

He made tea without asking me how I liked it now — like it was muscle memory. Maybe it was. Maybe we'd both forgotten enough to remember only the basics.

He placed the cup next to me.

I didn't say thanks.

I just sipped and said, "Still too much elaichi."

He let out a small breath. "Some things don't change."

"Some do," I said, staring into the cup.

Silence. Not the tense kind. The strange kind that feels almost comfortable. Familiar. Dangerous.

He sat across from me on the floor again, one arm propped behind his head like he was pretending to be more relaxed than he was.

"You always hated silence," he said after a while.

"Not always. Just the kind where things are waiting to explode."

He didn't answer. Didn't need to.

I took the mattress when it got late. He didn't argue. He pulled out a bedsheet from the cupboard, laid it down near the bookshelf, and folded a towel under his head. The floor creaked a little as he shifted. I lay on my side, facing the window. My back to him. Not that it mattered.

Thunder cracked loudly around 2 a.m. I flinched. Old habit.

I turned slightly, just enough to see him sitting up again, elbows on his knees, staring into the dark like it held secrets.

"You okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He didn't look at me. "Just... thinking."

I turned back around. I didn't want to ask what he was thinking about. Not really. But I already knew.

Morning

I woke to light pouring through the edge of the curtain and the smell of... tea. I shuffled out of the room and found him in the kitchen, still barefoot, still in that towel-shirt combo, pouring tea into two cups.

"Don't assume I want one," I said, rubbing my eyes.

He handed it to me anyway. "Didn't assume. Just made two."

I took it. Sat down at the table.

We didn't talk much after that. It was quiet, minus the group chat from the chawl downstairs blowing up with flood updates and conspiracy theories. Some kid screamed about his shoe floating away. Someone was blasting Kishore Kumar on a speaker with way too much bass. It was weirdly nice.

"You still sketch?" he asked suddenly.

I paused mid-sip. "Sometimes."

"You used to sketch the rain."

"I still do," I said. "But I haven't had time. Or space."

He looked like he wanted to ask something else but didn't.

So I stood up and walked to the cupboard. It was still there. The red sketchbook. A little bent. A little stained. I opened it, flipping past pages of monsoon lines, chai cups, and umbrellas. Then I stopped. There it was — a sketch I never finished. His hand holding an umbrella. I stared at it for a second, then shut the book. Didn't say a word. Just put it back in the cupboard and let the rain continue its background score.

I didn't expect us to talk about the breakup. I didn't expect much, honestly. But I didn't expect this calm either — this odd peace sitting between us like furniture no one wanted to move.

The apartment was still small. Still slightly messy. Still home-like in the most inconvenient ways.

And Aarav was still... Aarav.

But maybe I was different now.

And maybe that was enough.

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why was I holding my breath writing this like i'm the one stuck in that awkward apartment 😭 seriously.

also random but important: are you team elaichi (Cardamom) in chai or team absolutely not, don't touch my tea??

Let me know in the comments — and don't forget to vote, share, and throw some love if you're vibing with Tara & Aarav's slow-burn awkward chaos.