The first thing Aarav noticed was the quiet. Not the sharp silence that came after arguments they'd had plenty of those but something softer. A kind of calm that didn't feel forced. Like the city itself hadn't fully woken up yet. No honking. No street vendors shouting. Even the crows, usually the first to complain, hadn't started up.

Aarav opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling still stained in the same corner it always peeled during monsoon season. That never changed. He took a second to register where he was. The floor, near the window. A thin, scratchy bedsheet had been half-thrown over him, probably in the middle of the night. It smelled like cupboard wood, damp cotton, and something vaguely nostalgic maybe the fabric softener Tara used when she still did laundry on Sunday mornings.

He sat up slowly. His back cracked in protest, the kind of sound that reminded him he wasn't twenty-five anymore. Being an adult was wildly overrated. That's when he saw her. Tara was asleep, curled into the corner like she always did when the room was cold. Her hoodie was zipped up all the way to her chin, the hood half-slipped off. One arm was stretched over her eyes, shielding them from the morning light that filtered in through the windows. The other hung near the edge of the cushion, like she'd fallen asleep mid-thought, mid-sentence just paused. He didn't move for a moment. Just looked at her.

It felt strange, this stillness. He rubbed his neck, got up slowly, careful not to wake Tara, and padded toward the kitchen. Tea. That felt like a mission worth taking on. He filled the kettle, added water, a pinch of chai patti, and stood there waiting like nothing had changed. Like they hadn't lost years in between. But Tara was still here. And that, somehow, was enough to make the kitchen feel less empty.

As the water started heating up, he glanced at his phone. No network, and only three percent battery left. He tossed it back on the counter. It didn't matter. It almost felt right to be disconnected for now. He poured the water into two cups, one of which was cracked near the rim the one Tara used to call her "crooked survivor." He had meant to throw it out a few times, but never did. He brought the cups to the table and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He waited.

After a few minutes, Tara shifted on the sofa. She didn't sit up immediately just groaned a little and pulled the hoodie tighter over her face. Tara pushed the hoodie off her face and looked at him with squinting eyes.

"I slept in jeans," she muttered.

"That's on you," he said. "Very poor life choices."

"My back hates me."

"Same. The floor was not kind."

Tara sat up slowly and ran a hand through her messy hair. She looked exhausted, but in a soft way. Not worn down just sleepy. She took the cup from him and gave it a sniff.

"No elaichi?" she asked.

"I remember things," Aarav said.

"Good. Otherwise I'd have to throw this at your head."

They both sipped their tea quietly. The city outside was still, like it was taking a break after a long stretch of noise. Through the balcony door, the sky looked pale a soft grey with hints of blue.

"The rain's finally stopped," Tara said, not really looking at anything in particular.

Aarav nodded. "Mumbai's catching its breath."

She leaned back into the sofa, holding the cup with both hands. "We'll have to leave at some point."

He didn't answer right away. She looked over.

"You don't have work today?"

"I do, technically," he said. "But the audit's delayed again. Some files got soaked."

"Of course they did. Classic Mumbai."

"I might just text my manager that I'm emotionally unfit for corporate duties."

Tara smiled. "Honestly, they should accept that as sick leave."

The tea was still warm, and neither of them was in any hurry to move. It didn't feel like a big moment. Just quiet. Simple. Aarav glanced over at the fridge and noticed something stuck in the corner — a faded souvenir magnet that read "Welcome to Sri Lanka" with a tiny palm tree and flag.

"Wait... really?" he said, pointing at it.

Tara followed his gaze and laughed under her breath. "I couldn't throw it away."

"You didn't even go."

"That's why I kept it. It's a tribute to cancelled dreams."

"That's dramatic, even for you."

"You loved that trip idea more than you let on."

"I loved the snack breaks."

"They were emotional resets."

"Same thing," he said.

Tara smirked and looked down into her cup. For a second, she looked exactly the same as she did that day years ago, standing at the roadside chai stall with her hair stuck to her cheeks, annoyed at the humidity and smiling anyway.

"You remember the umbrella fight?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

"You insisted that carrying umbrellas made you less spontaneous."

"I stand by that."

"You got sick for an entire week."

"I had a good time before that."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. And for the first time in a while, their laughter didn't sound cautious or delayed. It just happened. It felt normal. Not perfect. But honest.

Tara stood and stretched, her hoodie lifting slightly as she moved. The waistband of her old blue pajamas peeked out the ones with tiny cartoon clouds printed all over them. Aarav couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face. He hadn't even realized he was looking at her like that until she caught him.

"What?" she asked, squinting at him.

"Nothing."

"Come on. Say it."

"You still wear those clouds."

She glanced down, gave a half-shrug. "They're comfy."

"They used to be mine."

"I stole them fair and square," she said, already turning to open the fridge.

She stared into it like it might magically offer more options. "Let's see... leftover roti, half a bottle of soda, and one very depressed lemon. Breakfast of champions."

Aarav opened the drawer near him, holding up two Maggi packets.

Her face lit up. "Why didn't you say that first?"

"Gotta keep the mystery alive."

Tara tossed him a pan. "You cook. I'll supervise."

"Like old times."

"Except now I don't hate you," she added with a teasing smile.

Aarav laughed, shaking his head. He'd forgotten just how bossy she could be once she got near a kitchen.

"Not too much water," Tara warned as she leaned over his shoulder. "Are we making Maggi or soup?"

"I like it a little watery," he said, already pouring.

She groaned. "This is betrayal."

He flicked a stray noodle in her direction. She ducked dramatically, then grabbed a spoon off the counter and pointed it at him like a weapon.

"No food fights. This flat can barely survive the monsoon."

"Copy that," he said with a grin.

They moved around the small kitchen with a kind of quiet ease bumping shoulders, shifting aside without speaking, stepping around each other like they remembered exactly how it used to go. It had been two years. Two monsoons. Since they'd really talked. But here they were. Making Maggi. Like nothing had changed. Like something small had reset itself.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, two bowls of steaming Maggi between them. The rain outside hadn't stopped soft, steady, just loud enough to remind them that it was still monsoon. The kind of rain that didn't rush anything. Tara blew on her noodles and suddenly looked up.

"Remember when we burnt Maggi that one time and tried to blame it on a gas leak?"

Aarav let out a laugh. "We nearly wrote a formal complaint to the building society."

"You did write an email."

"And you signed it with my name."

She gave a proud shrug. "Teamwork."

Tara took a bite and made a face, smiling. "Still too watery."

"You're still dramatic," Aarav replied.

They kept eating. No rush, no conversation for a bit. But the silence between them didn't feel strange it felt like something familiar. Something that didn't need fixing.

"I missed this," Tara said softly.

Aarav looked up from his bowl. She wasn't talking about the food.

"I missed just... sitting together. Eating. Not having to fill the silence." He nodded.

"I missed you," she added, eyes on her noodles.

Aarav didn't say anything at first. He let it hang there, quiet but real.

"I missed you too."

She kept her gaze down, gently stirring what was left in her bowl.

"I didn't leave because I wanted to," Aarav said finally. "I just didn't know how to stay and still become the person I was trying to be."

Tara nodded, like she'd already thought it through a hundred times. "And I didn't stop you. Because I was scared if I asked you to stay, you'd hate me for it."

"I wouldn't have."

"I didn't know that then."

They both looked down at their half-finished bowls. The noodles had started going soft.

"Do you regret it?" Tara asked. "How we ended things?"

Aarav paused before answering. "I regret not saying more. I thought being quiet would keep the peace. But it just made the distance grow."

She nodded again. This time slower, like she was hearing it properly.

"I used to imagine bumping into you," she said. "At random places. An airport. A bookstore. I'd be holding some bestselling novel, and you'd act surprised that I wrote it."

He smiled. "Weirdly specific."

"I had time. Two years of overthinking."

Aarav laughed under his breath. "I had this dream that kept coming back we were arguing over pizza toppings and somehow didn't break up."

She smiled. "Healing through imaginary carbs."

The quiet settled between them again. This time it was warm, not uncertain. 

"You think," Aarav asked, "if we'd done things differently, we would've lasted?"

Tara didn't answer right away.

"I think we needed that space," she said. "To figure out what 'lasting' even means."

"And now?"

"Now?" she said, glancing at him. "I think we don't have to figure everything out today. Thinking too far ahead just... messes with the present." And that, Aarav thought, felt fair.

The rain had picked up again steady now, not loud, just enough to remind them it was still monsoon. It tapped gently against the glass balcony door, like it had something to say. Almost in sync, both Tara and Aarav stood up without a word, their steps quiet as they moved toward the door. Tara slid it open, and the cool air slipped into the room with the smell of wet earth and traffic.

Outside, the city looked almost new. Everything was soaked the streets shining under the scattered lights of auto rickshaws and half-lit signboards. In the distance, a child's voice rang out, complaining about a lost slipper in a drain. Mumbai, unchanged.

Aarav leaned forward, resting his arms on the railing. Tara stood beside him, folding her arms tightly, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands like she always did when she got chilly. They didn't say anything for a while.

"This city really knows how to be annoying and beautiful at the same time," Tara said, more to herself than to him.

Aarav glanced sideways, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Kind of like you."

Tara raised an eyebrow, but there was amusement in her eyes. "Did you just compare me to Mumbai?"

"I did."

She tilted her head slightly. "That's... romantic?"

"Depends which area you are."

That made her laugh. Not just a polite chuckle, but the real kind the kind that came from somewhere easy and familiar. Her head tilted back slightly, and for a brief second, she looked like the version of herself Aarav used to know. Maybe she still was. Maybe she'd just been waiting, like he had.

After the quiet settled again, Tara let out a soft breath. "I should go pack."

Aarav nodded, not moving. "Yeah."

She looked at him then, properly. "Are you staying another night?"

He looked toward the living room. His bag was still sitting by the shelf. Her hoodie was still draped over the armrest like it hadn't been touched since last night.

"No, There is no point staying here," he said.

She didn't reply.

Instead, she turned and walked back inside slowly, casually brushing past him. Her fingers grazed his, just lightly. On purpose or not, he wasn't sure. But it was enough.

Aarav stood there a moment longer after she disappeared inside, the cool air brushing against his skin. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers grazing his. It wasn't much — but after two years of absence, it felt like a beginning.

By the time the drizzle had thinned to a mist, Tara was stuffing the last of her things into her bag. The apartment smelled of wet cement and chai. Aarav leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same hesitance she'd noticed every time they'd run into each other over the past two years — on the metro platform, at that cousin's wedding, in the lobby of her office building. They'd smiled, maybe traded a joke, and moved on. Never this.

Halfway through folding her hoodie, he spoke.
"I never said sorry for not asking."

She froze. "Asking what?"

"About coming with me. When I got that promotion in Delhi. I just... assumed you wouldn't want to."

Her hands stilled on the fabric. "You assumed," she repeated, making the word sound like a weight being dropped.

"I thought—" he started, then stopped. "I told myself your work was in Mumbai, your friends, your family... this apartment. I thought it would be selfish to even suggest you uproot everything."

She finally looked at him, the same guarded expression she'd worn every accidental meeting since. "So instead of being selfish, you were what? Generous? You left without even giving me the choice."

"I thought it would hurt less than you saying no."

"It didn't," she said flatly. "It hurt more. Because you didn't trust me enough to let me decide."

He shifted his weight, the sound of his shoe against the floor filling the pause. "I didn't want to put you in a position where you'd have to give things up for me."

"You didn't want to give me the chance to say yes," she said quietly. "That's why I couldn't even talk to you when we bumped into each other. Because every time, I remembered that you chose for me."

The rain outside picked up again, brushing against the balcony glass.

"I kept thinking maybe you'd bring it up," she added. 

"I was waiting for the right time," he admitted. "And it just... never felt right. And the longer I waited, the more wrong it got."

She set the hoodie down, leaning against the couch. "We wasted two years avoiding this conversation."

He nodded. "I'm sorry, Tara. For not asking. For assuming. For letting fear make the decision for both of us."

She exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry too. For letting my pride keep me from demanding an answer."

They stood in that silence for a while, the city's damp air wrapping around them.

"So if something like that happens again," she said, her voice steadier now, "you ask. Even if you're scared of what I'll say."

"I will," he promised. "Even if I'm sure I know the answer."

Her mouth tilted in a small, reluctant smile. "Good. Because you've always been terrible at reading me."

When they stepped out into the corridor, the building walls still dripped from the morning rain. She headed toward the rickshaw stand; he toward the main road. At the turn in the hallway, she paused.

"Don't disappear again."

"I won't," he said. Then, after a beat: "Unless you start making watery Maggi again."

Her laugh broke through the damp air, and before she could turn away again, he stepped forward. She hesitated for only a second before he wrapped his arms around her. It wasn't the quick, polite hug. This was still, solid — the kind that said I'm here now. She leaned into it, her cheek against his shoulder, letting the moment linger just long enough to feel like a promise.

When they finally stepped back, she smiled faintly. "Safe trip."

"Stay dry," he replied.

And for the first time in years, Aarav didn't feel like the distance between them was permanent.

********

Phew. So... that was their last morning. Or maybe not-so-last?

You know what's weird about people you love? You never fully stop knowing them. Even after time, fights, silence. Somehow they still finish your sentences. Or remember exactly how much chilli you don't like in Maggi.

Question for you : If you could steal one useless-but-fun skill from anyone instantly — like always picking the fastest grocery line or folding a fitted sheet perfectly — what would you choose and why?

Tell me in the comments. 

Next up: The Epilogue. 

See you ☔