Toote rishton ka shor nahi hota,
Bas khamoshi thodi gehri ho jaati hai.
Aur kuch toote pal... yaadon mein chup jaate hain.

------------------------------

Tara
— About 9 months before the breakup —

It had been five months since I moved in with Aarav. A flat we both liked — bright in the mornings, quiet at night. At first, everything felt easy. Fun. Like we were playing house — cooking together, arguing about which side of the bed was better, splitting bills, watching shows late into the night. But slowly, small things started to bother me. Not big problems. Just tiny moments where I felt like I was carrying more of the mental load, keeping track of laundry, remembering to buy groceries, making sure the sheets were dry before bedtime.

He wasn't careless on purpose. But he was... used to things being done for him. Or not noticing when they weren't. And I wasn't sure how to bring it up without sounding like I was picking a fight. So most of the time, I didn't.

Until that night. The fight didn't start as a fight. It wasn't loud. No one raised their voice. It started with a wet towel on the bed. Again.

I had just finished showering. I walked into the bedroom with water still dripping from my hair and saw it there — damp and crumpled on the bedsheet. I had told him before, more than once, not to do that. But there it was. It made me pause. Just for a second.

I picked it up like it had done something wrong. I could already feel the cold wet patch on the sheet underneath. I held the towel in my hand and walked out to the living room where he was sitting on the couch, watching cricket like everything was fine.

"You know the bed gets wet when you do this," I said.

I didn't sound angry. Just... calm. Too calm, even to my own ears.

He glanced up from the screen. "I forgot," he said.

"You always forget."

He looked back at the TV, then muted it. "I'll change the sheet."

"That's not the point," I said.

He didn't ask what the point was. I didn't say it out loud either. But it wasn't about the towel. It was about how I had to keep reminding him. About how I was starting to feel like the only one trying to keep the small things from falling apart.

I threw the towel on the chair. Not the floor — I wasn't trying to be dramatic. I just needed to put it down. I picked up my phone and started scrolling, not really looking at anything. Just pretending to be busy so I wouldn't say something I'd regret.

The silence sat between us for a while.

Then I asked, "Did you tell them about Delhi?"

He didn't answer right away. Just sort of froze for a second.

"I was going to," he said.

"When?"

"Soon."

I looked at him. Not directly. Not like I wanted a fight. But I was trying to read his face. I felt like I was always trying to read him lately.

"It's not a big deal, right?" I said. "You just forgot. Like the towel."

His jaw tightened a little. That's how I knew it landed.

"That's not fair," he said.

"You're right," I said, eyes still on my phone. "It's not. But it's accurate."

He didn't respond. And I didn't know what else to say. It wasn't about the towel. Or Delhi. Not really. It was something underneath — something we weren't naming. Like cracks in the wall that were still small, but growing.

That night, we didn't talk more. He went back to the couch. I went to bed. He changed the sheet like he said he would. But I still felt the dampness. Even after it was dry.

The towel was still hanging on the chair, and the sheet had been changed. We hadn't talked much after that short fight. He went back to his cricket match. I went back to scrolling my phone, pretending everything was fine.

But the quiet didn't feel like peace. It felt like avoidance.
We were both sitting in the same room, but not really together.

I kept thinking about the Delhi thing. How casually he said "soon." Like it was just another task on his list. Like it didn't involve both of us. And then I remembered something — earlier in the day, I had opened his laptop to order groceries. A tab had been open. I didn't think much of it at the time. But now, it clicked.

I got up, walked over to the table, and opened the laptop again.

Still there. "Project Delhi – Tentative Roles."

No explanation. No warning. Just sitting there like it was waiting for me to find it.

I came out of the bathroom, my hair wrapped in a towel, still thinking about that email. My chest felt tight — not from anger, but from that sinking feeling you get when you realize someone kept something from you, even if it's "technically not a lie."

I saw the damp towel still on the chair. Picked it up with two fingers like it was something gross. I couldn't help myself.

"This again?" I said.

Aarav looked up from the couch, distracted. "Shit, sorry."

"You've been sorry four times this week."

"I'll change the bedsheet."

I didn't reply. I wasn't going to have the same conversation twice. I laid the towel neatly over the chair and walked past him. He muted the TV. I could tell he knew I wasn't just annoyed about the towel anymore. I sat down across from him and started scrolling my phone — not because I wanted to, but because I didn't trust myself to speak calmly just yet.

After a minute, I said, "I saw the email on your laptop."

He didn't move. "Which one?"

"'Project Delhi – Tentative Roles.' Sound familiar?"

He closed the laptop too quickly. Guilty. "I was going to tell you."

"When?"

"I don't know. When it became real."

"It is real."

"Tara..."

"No, it's fine," I said, not looking up. "It's just your job, right? Not like it affects me or anything."

He rubbed his temples like I was overreacting. "You're making it sound like I've already left."

"You're making it sound like I don't get a say in whether you do."

Silence again. The kind that isn't quiet. Just heavy. We still made dinner that night. Chopped vegetables. Heated the tawa. Rolled dough. Did the usual things like we always did. But something felt off. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... different. The kind of quiet that doesn't feel peaceful. The kind that sits between two people like an unanswered question.

I was rolling rotis, pressing them down harder than I meant to. Aarav was chopping onions way too slowly, like he was stalling. Neither of us said much. Until I did.

"You didn't even think of asking if I'd come with you?" I asked, flattening a ball of dough with the palm of my hand.

He didn't look up. "I figured you'd say no."

I stared at him. "You figured wrong."

Finally, he looked at me. Not annoyed. Not defensive. Just... tired. Like he'd already gone through this in his head, but without me.

"I didn't want you to feel pressured," he said.

I kept my eyes on the rolling pin. "That's not your decision to make."

He nodded, almost like he expected that answer. "You're right."

The kitchen went quiet again. The fan hummed above us.

"I mean," I said after a moment, "it's not like we haven't talked about this before. About moving. About starting somewhere new."

"Yeah," he said. "Sri Lanka, remember?"

That made me smile. Just for a second. "You still have that itinerary?"

He hesitated. "Yeah. Tucked somewhere."

"I color-coded it."

"You had snack breaks labeled."

I laughed, finally. A real one. The kind that almost made me forget why we were even upset.

But it didn't last long.

I rolled out another roti and said, "Do you ever think we're better at planning the idea of us... than actually being us?"

He didn't answer. And maybe that was the answer. Because sometimes it's not about winning the argument. It's about realizing one of you is already halfway out the door, and the other is still trying to pack for a trip you didn't even know was happening.

A week later, I quietly removed my red sketchbook from the shelf. I didn't say anything. He didn't ask. But I saw him glance at that space once. Between the old recipe book and the folder that held the building's electricity bills. The corner that used to stick out wasn't there anymore. He noticed. We didn't talk about it. Maybe because I wasn't sure why I'd taken it in the first place. Or maybe because he didn't want to know.

We were okay on the surface. Still talking, still laughing. Still doing things couples do — shopping for groceries, folding laundry, ordering biryani on lazy Saturdays. But underneath, I was keeping track of the cracks. And I think he was too.

That weekend, we went out with some friends for dinner. A couple of drinks, some loud stories, laughter that felt a little too forced at moments. The kind of night that feels fun until you come home and remember things are still... delicate.

We came back to the flat a little tipsy. I kicked off my sandals and dropped onto the sofa.

"My friend Meenal thinks you're emotionally constipated," I said, letting the words hang in the air like they were nothing.

He raised an eyebrow. "Did she say that or did you say that pretending she said it?"

I grinned. "Bit of both."

He tossed a pillow at me. I caught it.

"I'm not emotionally constipated," he said, dropping down beside me.

"Okay," I said, challenging him, "prove it."

He leaned in and kissed my forehead.

I rolled my eyes. "That's cheating," I whispered, but I let it slide.

We put on a movie, something random on Netflix. Neither of us was really paying attention. Somewhere between the second plot twist and the start of the end credits, I fell asleep on his chest.

 And for a little while, everything felt okay again. Warm. Familiar. Safe. Like maybe things weren't breaking. Like maybe we were still fine. But the thing about cracks is— Once you notice where they are, you start seeing them everywhere. In the way he didn't reach for my hand as quickly. In the way I packed away my art supplies without telling him why. In the pauses that lasted just a little too long. We still laughed. Still touched. Still shared space. But I couldn't shake the feeling that we were slowly drifting apart... quietly, almost politely.

---- A few weeks before the breakup ----

Another night, the conversation circled back. It always did. In small pieces. Quiet remarks over dinner or while brushing teeth. Nothing dramatic. Just soft admissions that left marks.

"I think I'm afraid we're just... delaying the end," I said, staring at the ceiling.

The fan spun slowly above us. Everything else in the room was still.

Aarav turned to look at me. "What end?"

"This. Us. The version of us that works."

He didn't reply. And I didn't need him to. Because I already knew some part of him was thinking the same. We were still going through the motions. Waking up side by side. Sharing toothpaste. Asking "want tea?" and "did you eat?" like normal people. But we had started to feel like visitors in each other's lives. Polite. Careful. Not cold. Just... distant in a way we couldn't explain. And then came the final conversation.

---- The night of the breakup ----

It was raining again. Of course it was. Some kind of joke from the universe. I stood by the window, watching drops trail down the glass like they had somewhere more important to be. My hair was tied up. The apartment smelled like chai and leftover pickle. The kind of smell that usually felt like home. Aarav sat on the floor, pretending to sort old bills. He wasn't really reading them. Just holding paper for the sake of something to do.

"You know," I said softly, "you once told me that if you ever left, you wanted it to be in the rain."

He looked up. "I said that?"

"Yeah," I said. "You said I'd have something else to blame."

He gave a small smile. Tired. "Sounds dramatic."

"You were," I said. Not unkindly. There was a pause. The kind that stretches longer than it needs to.

"So... is this it?" I asked.

He looked at me. I could see in his face that he didn't want it to be. But I also saw that he didn't know how to stop it. How to fix us.

"I don't want it to be," he said.

"But you don't know how to fix it either." He stayed quiet.

I nodded. "That's okay."

No anger. No scene. Just... quiet. Like both of us knew the answer, and were just taking turns saying it out loud. I picked up my keys from the table. No suitcase. No shouting. No tears. Just me, walking out the door. Just like that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aarav's POV

She didn’t slam the door. Didn’t even close it with the kind of finality I’d been bracing for. Just a quiet click that made the apartment sound bigger. Emptier.

I didn’t notice the silver hoops until later, faint against the white sink. Her favorite pair. Lazy Sundays. Cheap wine on the couch. Laughing at movies we could both quote without thinking. She wore them to house parties too, hair pulled back so they caught the light. Always took them off before washing her face. I picked them up. Turned them over like they might tell me something if I held them long enough. They didn’t. I set them down.

The bills were still in a pile on the floor, right where they’d been before she left. The chai next to me was cold, the scent dulled. Rain tapped against the glass, steady, like it wanted in. Her towel from this morning was still on the chair—damp, smelling faintly of her conditioner. I stared at it too long.

Eventually, I moved. Rinsed the cup. Set it upside down to dry. Put the earrings in a small box in the drawer. Three minutes of motion that felt like an entire day. Turned off the lights. Lay on the bed. Left the towel exactly where it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Autors POV

A Week Later. Tara was back in her paying guest room in Dadar East. Not much had changed. The bed was still too close to the window. The wooden floor still made noise near the door. The medical shop downstairs still opened at 6 a.m. with a loud shutter sound. But something inside her felt different. That morning, she woke up and realized — she wasn't using sleep to avoid things anymore. She was just... sleeping.

She found her old sketchbook where she had left it. The cover was bent. When she opened it, the drawing of a hand holding a glass of chai was still there — Aarav's hand. She had drawn it quickly once, during a quiet evening. Back then it felt sweet. Now it felt like a small cut that never fully healed.

Later that day, she taught her art class. The kids wanted to talk about the rain, so she told them stories from her sketchbook — a mix of truth and invention. She was drawing again. The work looked the same, but it felt different. Heavier.

A Month Later , At her favorite secondhand bookstore, she found an old novel with folded corners and scribbled notes in the margins. Someone had written thoughts and underlined sentences all over the pages. She bought it without thinking much. It was raining lightly when she stepped outside. For some reason, it felt right. Like a quiet reminder that some chapters end — even if the story continues.

That night, back in her room, she opened a message thread on her phone. No new messages. No old ones either. Just saved drafts. Unsent. Unfinished.

Messages like:
"Did you eat?"
or
"Monsoon's here again." But she never hit send.

On His Side

Aarav didn't move to Delhi. He got posted to a different city — not as busy, not as loud. His work shifted to flyover design again. His days were full, but his nights were quiet. In the first two weeks, he started sleeping in her old hoodie. The one she used to wear while making tea or painting. It still smelled a little like her — coconut shampoo and something floral. It was too small for him. The sleeves were a bit tight. But he wore it anyway. Like holding on to something he couldn't say out loud. He didn't tell anyone about the Delhi job. His friends noticed he seemed a bit off.

"You look tired," one of them said.

He just smiled. "Bombay weather."

Nobody asked more questions. Everyone understood even if nothing was explained.

--- Three Months Later ---

One evening, she texted him. "I saw you at the chowky today. You shaved?"

He stared at the screen for a moment. Then typed back: "Yeah."

She replied again: "Looked clean."

That was it. No long chat. No deep talk.

Later that night, he bought a cup of street chai — the kind she used to love. Not too sweet. Strong. No cardamom. He stood on his balcony, drinking it alone. The city lights reflected in the wet streets below. No laughing over burnt toast. No umbrella fights in the rain. No jokes about too much elaichi. Just him. A cup of chai. And silence. Something had ended. Quietly. But he knew it had truly ended.

Twenty days after their last message, Tara texted him again.

"The kids asked about you today — the crocodile sketch one."

Aarav replied: "Tell them I miss my eyebrows being featured."

It made her smile. There was a kind of comfort in that exchange. Like they were two people still circling each other from a distance — close enough to feel something warm, but never close enough to crash into each other again.

One weekend, Aarav opened the old, half-torn travel plan she had once made for Sri Lanka.
She had titled it in all caps: "BOMB BOMBED ITINERARY."

He looked at one specific part:
"3 PM – Munch roadside vadai at Galle (with samosa break if moody)."

He stared at the page like it was a piece of some old life he couldn't step into anymore.
He didn't close the file. He just left it open, walked away, and didn't turn off the light in the room.

Months Passed They didn't talk properly for months after that. But in December, out of nowhere, Tara sent him a photo. It was a stray dog — skinny, messy, but with kind, smart eyes.

Her caption read: "He tried to steal my sandwich."

Aarav replied: "I would've defended your sandwich."

It was silly. Short. But something about it broke something open in him — a strange mix of smiling, aching, and missing her, all packed into one message.

Later that night, he sat on his balcony again. There was lightning far away, flashing behind the buildings. He started typing more words into their chat, then stopped. Then typed again. "If we hadn't tried so hard to be rational... maybe I'd still be holding your sketchbook now. Maybe I'd wake up to you digging through my elaichi jar again."  He stared at the message. Then quietly deleted it.

Months later, they both found themselves back in Dadar one Saturday. She was buying chai from her tapri. He went in to grab water bottles at the medical shop. Their eyes met under the cloudy sky. Neither said a word. She paid and stepped back. He left the shop with one bottle. The rain let up briefly. They stood two feet apart. A soft breeze brought in the smell of wet lemongrass and leftover emotions. He cleared his throat. She looked at him, curious but cautious.

"Hi," she said. "What are you doing in Mumbai? When did you come?"

"Yesterday," he replied. "Work. And to see my parents."

She nodded slowly. "How long?"

"A few days." He glanced past her, then back. "Haven’t been here in a while."

"Feels different?"

"A little."

She smiled — not hopeful, not resigned. Just curious. She held his gaze for two seconds too many. He cleared his throat and left. That was the last believable moment they had. Not closure. Not promise. Just... a bridge so fragile it might break, or might hold. ..They didn't talk again in earnest for months.

But in August, he sent her a photo of an empty bench at Marine Drive, rain-darkened and slick. His message: "Your spot’s still here."

She replied: "Not my spot anymore."

He typed, paused, and sent: "Still kept it dry for you."

It was absurd. It broke something open in both of them—smile, ache, longing all rolled into one simple line. But still—they didn't meet. Not in person.Not at a traffic signal. Not by accident at the bookstore they both still visited.

Two years passed without a single face-to-face. Only scattered messages. Quiet digital footprints. Enough to know the other was alive. Never enough to ask if they were okay. That silence—intentional or accidental—became its own rhythm. A relationship lived quietly between phone screens and unsaid things.

That’s how it stayed, until two years later, when a storm and a power cut left them in the same room again.

No big conversation.
Just a shared hoodie.
And chai with too much elaichi.

********

If you've made it this far, hey — I know this one was a bit heavier. But sometimes it's not the big betrayals or loud fights that end things. It's the slow fade-outs, the missed sentences, the moments where someone wanted to be chosen... and wasn't.

So here's question for you:
Do you think love ends when people stop caring — or when they stop showing they care?

Write back if you feel like it. Or just sit with the thought. Either way, I'm glad you're here.

don't forget to vote.

See you in next one, till then take care.🌧️