--- Present Day : Morning After the Storm ---

Tara woke up with a sore neck. A shawl was half-wrapped around her face, and for a second, she couldn't tell where she was. Then she noticed the familiar rust patch on the ceiling — the one shaped like Gujarat with a weird tail — and it came back to her. Right. The old flat. Storm. Aarav. Her feet were cold. The fan was off. Her hair felt puffy and damp, thanks to the monsoon.

She sat up and looked toward the kitchen. Aarav was already there, wearing that old grey t-shirt. He was holding two mugs and staring at the gas stove.

"You okay in there?" she asked, her voice groggy.

He looked over. "Yeah. Just waiting for the water to boil."

She walked over slowly. "You do know that kettle doesn't whistle anymore, right? It's broken."

"Seriously? Since when?"

"Since the Pune trip. You forgot?"

"Oh. I thought I was just being impatient."

She gave him a look. "It's not your fault this time."

He smiled a little. She took one of the mugs from his hand and leaned on the fridge.

"You still putting too much elaichi?" she asked.

"You still going to drink it anyway?"

She shrugged. "I guess." 

She took a sip. Too sweet, and yes — too much elaichi. But she didn't say anything this time. He opened the fridge and pulled out some bread. It looked dry.

She made a face. "Please don't. That bread looks like it's from last week."

He sighed and put it back. "Fine. I'll make eggs."

"Add salt this time."

"Seriously? You're still bringing that up?"

"You made sweet scrambled eggs once. I'm not letting that go."

He shook his head, cracking the eggs into a bowl. She stood by the counter, sipping her tea and watching the ceiling fan slowly turn.

"Power's back," he said. "So is the network."

She nodded but didn't check her phone. She wasn't ready to deal with messages or calls yet. She liked the quiet. They ate quietly at the table. The eggs had salt. And green chilli.

She gave him a small nod. "Not bad."

He looked satisfied. "Told you I remember things."

The silence after wasn't heavy. It felt... normal. Still a little awkward. But calm. They were almost done eating when Tara spotted it — the red sketchbook. It was sitting on the small side table near the couch, half-tucked under an old newspaper. Definitely not where she had left it. She stared at it for a moment, then looked at Aarav. He didn't meet her eyes, but he noticed.

"I found it in the drawer when I was looking for batteries," he said casually. "Didn't open it."

That made her pause. Not because she thought he would snoop — but because he'd thought about not doing it. That small decision said more than she expected. She got up, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and walked over to pick it up. The cover was a little more worn than she remembered. A faint bend at the corner, a tiny splotch of turmeric near the spine — probably from back when she used to sketch at the kitchen table while waiting for rice to cook.

She flipped through a few pages slowly. There were sketches of her students, quick outlines of their faces mid-concentration. A messy drawing of the Dadar flyover during rush hour. Some loose, half-finished still life studies — a lemon, a steel glass, the side of Aarav's face while he was watching cricket. Then she stopped on one page. A sketch of two hands holding an umbrella. Only one of the hands was fully drawn — fingers detailed, knuckles shaded in. The second hand was faint, just lines. It looked like she'd meant to finish it and never did. Aarav leaned forward a bit to see what she was looking at.

"That's mine, right?" he asked.

She didn't say anything.

He gave a small smile. "I remember that day. You were pissed at me. Rained like mad."

She nodded slowly, eyes still on the page. "You forgot the umbrella. Again. And then gave mine to that wet stray dog under the tea stall."

"It was shivering," he said.

"So were you."

"I had a hoodie."

She looked at him. "No, you didn't. That's the day you caught that horrible cold. You kept sneezing for days. Sounded like someone stepping on a balloon."

He laughed, leaning back in his chair. "Worth it. The dog was happy."

She didn't reply, but she smiled — a small, honest one. The kind that showed in her eyes more than her mouth. There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. She closed the sketchbook gently and ran her thumb along the edge. "I forgot I even drew this."

"I didn't," he said. "That day stuck."

She placed the book down on the table. "You always used to say the rain made everything feel like a movie."

"Still kinda does," he said, looking toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dull and grey. Water streaks ran down the glass. A crow was squawking somewhere in the distance.

Tara leaned back against the counter, still holding her empty mug. The taste of chai — sweet and full of elaichi — lingered a bit too long on her tongue.

"Fan works now," he said, noticing her glance upward. "Power's been back for a while."

She didn't move. Didn't check her phone. She just stayed where she was, like if she didn't shift, the moment wouldn't either. The apartment was still quiet. Not heavy like before — just... settled. Like two people who had fought, broken, and maybe patched something invisible without even naming it. The sketchbook sat on the table, closed again. But it was there — not hidden, not packed away. She didn't pick it up again, but she didn't put it away either. And that, for now, felt like enough.

~~~~

Later that day the storm had passed. The apartment was warmer now. The power was back, fans whirring slowly. Tara was folding the bedsheet from the mattress they had slept on. The fabric smelled faintly of rain and a little bit of old cupboard wood. Aarav stood nearby, helping half-heartedly, when he asked, like it was just a casual question, "Did you ever finish your book?"

Tara didn't look up from what she was doing. "No," she said. "Got busy editing everyone else's."

He nodded. "You should finish it."

"Maybe." She ran her hands along the folds to smooth them out. "You ever leave again? After this place?"

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Not really. Just a few short projects here and there. Nothing long-term."

That made her look up. Her expression wasn't sharp — just curious.

"I thought you couldn't stay in one city for too long."

"I thought so too," he replied, almost like he was still figuring that out himself. There was a pause after that. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Familiar. She carried the empty cups to the sink. He went to the windows to check the locks. 

Down on the street, things were back to the usual chaos. The road was still muddy, but the water had drained. Auto rickshaws were honking again. A milkman was arguing with someone about change. Mumbai was waking up like nothing unusual had happened. But inside, the flat felt slightly shifted. The silence between them had changed its shape. It wasn't the kind that followed a fight. It was the kind that came when two people had already said most of the big things and were now sitting quietly with the rest.

Tara sat down on the divan, stretching her legs. Aarav passed by her, then changed his mind and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. His mug of chai was still half full.

After a few moments, he asked, "Do you think we could've made it work?" He didn't look at her when he said it.

Tara leaned her head back against the cushion and let out a slow breath. "Maybe. If we'd known how to talk better."

He nodded. "You were always better at talking."

"No," she said. "I was just better at pretending I was okay."

They both let out a short laugh not because it was funny, but because it was true, and sometimes that's the only way to release it. The kind of laugh people have when they've already cried all the tears about something months or years ago.

Outside, a child screamed, probably mid-game. A pressure cooker whistled from a nearby kitchen. The garbage van rolled past, and someone was yelling about missing trash bags. The sounds were sharp and regular the city had moved on. It didn't pause for old memories.

Tara looked at Aarav. "You staying another night?"

He met her eyes and said, "Unless you want me gone."

She didn't respond. But she didn't look away either. And in that small act not looking away something unspoken settled. Not a decision. Not a plan. Just an understanding: he could stay. For now.

She got up and walked out to the balcony. The air still smelled like wet concrete and leaves. Water was dripping off the edge of the roof, steady and quiet. Mumbai never really dried fully after the rain it just switched from soaked to humid. She leaned against the railing and watched the street below a kid chasing a plastic ball through a puddle, someone handing over chai in glass tumblers, a man trying to keep his slippers from slipping in the mud. The world had gone back to normal. Her life hadn't. Not completely. Aarav stepped out behind her, holding the last of his chai. He offered her the cup.

She raised an eyebrow. "You made that for yourself."

He gave a small shrug. "Sharing is... growth, or whatever."

She took it and sipped. Too sweet. Too much elaichi. He still hadn't changed that habit. But it didn't feel like a bad thing today. She held the cup, but didn't give it back. He didn't ask for it. They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, watching the street move forward. No labels. No big decisions. Just two people who once had something, and still had... something. They were both leaning on the balcony railing now, mugs nearly empty, just watching the street below.

Aarav broke the silence. "Remember when we first moved in here? And the neighbors thought we were brother and sister?"

Tara smirked. "You're the one who said we fight like siblings. That aunty next door just nodded like it made perfect sense."

He laughed. "Honestly, that's still one of your harshest lines."

She shook her head. "It wasn't meant to be mean. It was just... kind of true."

He bumped her shoulder lightly. She didn't move away.

"You were worse though," she said, turning a little to face him. "You didn't even open half your boxes. For weeks. You acted like you were just staying here for a few nights."

He thought about that. "Yeah. I wasn't sure if this place would feel like home."

"And?" she asked. "Did it?"

He didn't answer right away. Then: "Sometimes. Mostly when we weren't arguing."

She nodded slowly. "That sounds right."

They both went quiet again. Not awkwardly just letting the sounds of the city take over for a bit. Honking in the distance, someone dragging a metal stool on the floor upstairs, pressure cooker going off somewhere close.

"You used to sketch out here," he said after a while. "Early mornings. Especially on Sundays. Sitting with that red sketchbook and scowling at crows."

"They were rude," she said flatly. "One of them pooped on my sleeve once."

He grinned. "That was the day you yelled 'Karma is real' at a bird."

She shrugged. "Still true."

They looked at each other. Then both laughed, the kind that came out without trying. The kind that felt okay. Not like old times exactly. But not forced either. Just... easy, for once. They stood there for a few minutes, just leaning on the railing. The rain had stopped, and the sky was still heavy, but the sun was trying — weak light pushing through like someone had wiped a dusty window and only half-finished the job.

Tara exhaled. "I forgot how much I liked this balcony."

Aarav looked over at her. "I forgot how much I missed your commentary."

She glanced at him. "Someone had to balance out your overthinking."

He grinned. "You once called me a 'moody toothbrush with arms.'"

"That was after you got upset because Zomato sent soggy fries."

"They were very soggy."

"You were very dramatic."

She reached for his cup and took the last sip.

"I'm still not over the fact that you gave our only umbrella to a street dog," she said, half-smiling.

"He looked cold," Aarav said with a shrug.

"You looked colder."

"I had your hoodie."

"You stole my hoodie."

"Borrowed it."

She narrowed her eyes. "You had it for three years."

"Long-term borrowing agreement," he said, deadpan.

She laughed. Actually laughed. And then she looked away quickly, like if she let it linger too long, it might mean something. The silence after wasn't awkward. Just full. Like neither of them wanted to admit that these small, dumb conversations about fries, umbrellas, and old hoodies had been the part they'd missed most. Not the drama, not the big gestures. Just... this. Just the way it used to feel when things were okay.

Back inside, Aarav opened his laptop. The WiFi had finally stopped acting up. Tara leaned over and noticed one of the open tabs it was a job board for civil projects in different cities.

She raised an eyebrow. "Looking for something new?"

He shrugged, keeping it casual. "Just checking what's out there. Nothing serious."

She sat next to him on the floor and grabbed a biscuit from the plate he'd brought out. "You know you could just stay here," she said. "We've got unlimited chai, a building pipe that leaks randomly, and enough stray dogs for you to keep rescuing."

He glanced at her, a small smile forming. "Hard to argue with that list."

They sat in a comfortable quiet for a bit. The biscuits were half-eaten, tea had gone cold, and both of them were looking at their screens, but not really reading anything.

After a few minutes, she spoke again.

"Why'd you come back that day? When the rain flooded everything?"

He didn't answer right away.

"I don't know," he said after a pause. "I think I just... felt like you'd still be here."

She looked over at him, but he didn't meet her eyes.

"You weren't sure though, were you?"

"No," he admitted. "But I hoped."

There was something about how he said it honest, unsure that made her chest feel warm in a strange way. Familiar, but also new.

"You always hoped for things," she said softly. "I just pretended I didn't care."

He gave her a small smile. "You were better at hiding it."

They sat quietly again. Then she bumped his arm with her elbow.

"Want to go get pani puri?" she asked.

He looked confused. "Right now?"

"Yeah. I heard the vendor's bell downstairs."

"It's still wet out."

"So? Wear sandals."

"I could catch some weird infection from that water."

"I'll give a great speech at your funeral. 'He died doing what he hated most — walking 30 feet in rainwater.'"

He stared at her, deadpan. She grinned.

He sighed. "Fine. But I'm not eating the spicy ones."

"You always say that."

"And then I suffer."

"Exactly. It's tradition."

He shook his head, grabbed his slippers, and followed her out the door. They walked down the narrow staircase, side by side. It still smelled the same damp socks, leftover dinner masala, maybe some leaking plumbing no one ever fixed. The pani puri vendor was just outside the building gate, his cart barely protected by an umbrella tied to one corner with a piece of string. Tara pulled out her wallet.

"You're paying?" Aarav asked.

She gave him a look. "I'm the only one working right now."

He frowned. "Wow. You could've just said that without attacking my dignity."

"And I brought an umbrella," she added. "You could learn a thing or two."

They stood at the cart, wiping their hands on crumpled tissues, arguing over how spicy was too spicy. She handed him the first puri. He took a bite and immediately started coughing.

"Why is it always this bad?" he said, eyes watering.

"Because your spice tolerance is weak," she said, trying not to laugh.

"You're weak."

"You cried at that detergent ad last year."

"That was emotional," he said. "The girl found her mom."

"It was a soap ad, Aarav."

He didn't argue. Just wiped his eyes and reached for the next one. They finished the plate, ordered another without even discussing it. It felt easy. Familiar. Like the part of their lives that didn't need fixing.

When they came back upstairs, the apartment somehow felt less heavy than it had that morning. Like some of the weight had lifted.

Aarav dropped onto the sofa with a sigh. "You still have that giant pillow?"

She picked it up off the chair. "It's for my back," she said, hitting him with it.

He held up his hands. "Okay, okay. Respect the pillow."

She laughed and tossed it back on the divan. The room felt more lived in again. Not like a memory. Like now.

They spent the afternoon just... being around each other. No plans, no big conversations. She sat near the window sketching random things the balcony railing, the way the curtain folded. He was lying on the floor, watching some strange documentary about old drainage systems. At one point, he read out loud from a Wikipedia article about the sewage problem in Mumbai.

She glanced at him. "Why do you sound excited about this?"

"It's interesting," he said seriously. "The city floods because of this stuff."

"Uh-huh," she replied, half-listening as she kept sketching. And even though nothing big happened, it didn't feel boring. The quiet was easy. Comfortable. As the sun started going down, the light in the room turned orange. She looked up and saw him watching her.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't say 'nothing' like that."

He hesitated, then said, "You just look... like you're actually here."

She blinked. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know," he said. "Just... sometimes, you used to feel far away. Not now."

She didn't joke it off this time. She didn't change the subject or tease him. She just gave a small nod, and let the moment stay exactly as it was. Quiet. Simple. Okay.

By 4 PM, the light outside had changed that weird golden-gray shade Mumbai gets after it's been raining all day. Not bright, not dark. Just soft. Like the city had finally exhaled. Everything looked better than it actually was. Including them.

Aarav was lying on the floor, flipping through an old Reader's Digest like it was a mystery novel. Tara tossed him a fridge magnet shaped like a mango. "Remember we were going to collect magnets from every city we visited?"

He held it up. "How many did we end up with?"

"Three," she said. "And one of them was Lonavala."

He winced. "Oh god. That was just chikki, fog, and a broken umbrella."

"And your migraine from the fudge."

"But you still ate half."

"It was expensive," she said. "And I'm not a quitter."

They both laughed. It wasn't forced. It felt... okay. Like they could remember things without them hurting. Tara walked into the kitchen again. Opened a few cabinets. she wasn't looking for anything. Just needed to move.

"You want something?" he asked.

"Nope. Just realizing I never threw out these expired masalas."

He walked in behind me. "You always had like five kinds of haldi."

"Well, you were picky about spice."

"I still am. Some things don't change."

She turned and leaned against the counter next to him. They were close. Not touching. But close. It felt weirdly normal.

She nudged him. "Remember the rajma night?"

"Which one?"

"The one where you didn't soak the beans because you said pressure cookers are 'modern miracles'?"

He groaned. "And we both got food poisoning and blamed the gas cylinder."

"We were idiots."

"You were slightly less of one," he said. "I was the confident kind."

That made her laugh harder than expected.

"You did learn to cook after that, though."

"Yeah, because you threatened me with a knife during chopping."

"Oh, please. You once narrated a grocery list in poetry form."

He went to the fridge, pulled out the same old pickle jar. "Still here."

"That thing's immortal."

They both went quiet for a second. But it wasn't heavy. Just... full. Like both of them remembered how much had happened in this little kitchen. So many late nights. So many silly fights. And more tea than one house should reasonably hold.

she broke the silence. "Where are you staying now?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere yet. The hotel dried out, but... doesn't feel like going back."

"You can crash here," she said, before thinking too hard.

He looked at her. "You sure?"

She nodded. "Kamlesh Kaka hasn't kicked us out yet. And honestly, the fridge needs help."

He smiled. "That your way of saying you don't mind?"

"That's me saying I'm too tired to pretend I mind."

They didn't say anything after that. They didn't need to. That evening, they sat on the floor with leftover poha, cold toast, and tea that had been boiled too many times. The lights stayed on. The rain didn't come back. And whatever was between them whatever still was didn't need to be explained. Later, she saw the old red sketchbook on the table again.

He glanced over. "You still draw in that?"

"Sometimes," she said. "Mostly grocery lists these days."

"Can I look?"

She handed it to him. He flipped through slowly. When he got to the umbrella sketch the one with his hand only half-drawn he paused.

"You never finished it," he said.

"I didn't know how," she replied. He didn't say anything.

She picked up the pencil on the table and added one soft curve just a small line around the umbrella handle. Nothing major.

"Still not finished," she said. "But maybe one day."

He nodded. "Maybe both of us will get there."

And this time, it actually felt like maybe we would.

That night, they lay in the dark, the ceiling fan humming above them. His breathing settled into an even rhythm, her eyes tracing the faint spill of streetlight across the ceiling. Outside, a car door shut and footsteps faded into the distance. For the first time in months, the air between them felt light.

********

Alright, not gonna lie—Tara and Aarav spending the whole day doing absolutely nothing, then randomly ending up at the pani puri cart like it's just any other day? That wasn't in the plan. But somehow... it worked?

Also—this might sound random, but I'm curious:
👉 What's the most chaotic snack combo you secretly love? Like chips and dahi, or toast dipped in chai? (You can tell me. This is a safe space for strange food habits.)

Anyway, don't forget to vote.

See you in Chapter 7💛