Before the Epilogue — Just Us Talking for a Second

Okay, before we jump into this last bit... can we just pause and talk for a second?

If you're still here, thank you. Genuinely. This story started as a quiet little thing in my head — just two people, a bit stuck (literally and emotionally), some old memories, a lot of chai... and rain that wouldn't shut up.

No plot twists. No villains. Just Tara and Aarav, and that soft, weird space between "it's over" and "maybe it's not."

I didn't want this to be a love story with fireworks. I wanted it to feel like real life. You know? The kind where conversations are awkward, silences are loud.

So if you found yourself smiling, or missing someone, or just quietly rooting for them in your head — I'm really glad. That's all I ever hoped for.

Let's see where they are... one monsoon later.
Come on in.

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

When they left the apartment that morning, they didn't make promises. No grand declarations, no plans sealed with certainty. Just a hug that lingered longer than expected and a few words tossed into the damp air like trial balloons.

But they didn't disappear this time.

The first message came two days later, from Tara.

Did you ever fix your cracked umbrella or still pretending you like the rain?

Aarav smiled at the screen for longer than he should have before replying.

The umbrella still works. It's just "ventilated."

The conversation fizzled after a few texts, but the silence that followed didn't sting the way it used to.

🌈

Over the next few weeks, they circled each other through messages, sometimes vanishing for days, sometimes exchanging a dozen jokes in a row. Tara would send him a photo of her half-burnt paratha; he'd reply with a shot of the overflowing paperwork on his desk, claiming they were "both victims of domestic disasters."

Calls came next. Short ones at first. Five minutes, maybe ten. Always about something casual — a colleague's ridiculous email, her neighbor's obsession with drying clothes in the corridor, the strange rickshaw driver who tried to sell him lottery tickets. But even in those light conversations, there was a quiet sense of testing the waters. How much could they say without tipping over?

The first time they met again was almost accidental. Aarav had been in Bandra for an audit and texted her on a whim.

Coffee? If you're around.

He didn't expect her to say yes. But ten minutes later, she was standing outside a café near Hill Road, her hair tied up messily, a bag slung over her shoulder.

"You're early," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"You're late," he countered, though he'd been waiting fifteen minutes already.

Inside, they sat across from each other with two cups of filter coffee that steamed between them. The conversation felt different in person — pauses heavier, smiles more tentative. They filled the air with talk about movies and the weather, avoiding the bigger things. But when Tara laughed at something he said — really laughed, head tilted, eyes crinkling — Aarav felt something shift. It wasn't like they were starting over. It was more like continuing a sentence that had been interrupted mid-thought.

Meetups became more deliberate after that. Dinner at a tiny Malad restaurant she swore had the best pav bhaji in the city. A late-night walk along Marine Drive when his audit ran over and she "happened to be free." Sometimes they fought over the bill, sometimes they argued about auto routes, but there was always a sense of returning to something familiar.

One night, sitting in his car while rain battered the windshield, Tara asked, "Do you ever think about... you know. What happened?"

Aarav's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Every day," he admitted.

She nodded, eyes fixed on the wipers struggling against the storm. "Me too."

They didn't say more, but the silence wasn't final. It was an opening.

Weeks rolled into months.

When the monsoon ended, Mumbai turned dusty again, the air thick with humidity and the smell of roasted corn at every street corner. Their contact didn't fade. If anything, it grew steadier. A shared Spotify playlist. A sarcastic running commentary during cricket matches. A habit of calling each other after particularly bad workdays — not for solutions, just to complain.

There were still gaps, moments when one of them pulled back without explanation. But unlike before, the other didn't retreat completely. They gave each other space, but always came back.

One evening, Tara texted him a blurry photo of a street dog curled up under her building gate.
She's been hanging around for a week. Thinking of naming her Dosa.

Aarav replied instantly.
More like Vada Pav. Fits Mumbai better.

The next evening, when he came by with a packet of dog biscuits, Tara didn't look surprised. She just handed him the leash she'd impulsively bought and said, "You're walking her."

That was how Dosa — not Vada Pav, despite Aarav's lobbying — became theirs in a way neither of them acknowledged out loud.

Through it all, the past lingered. Some nights, when conversations drifted too close to the old wounds, Tara would grow quiet. Other times, Aarav would overcompensate with jokes, avoiding anything heavier than small talk. But slowly, both of them realized that avoiding the past didn't erase it. So, piece by piece, they started talking.

Like the evening Tara admitted she'd thrown away his old T-shirt after their breakup because it smelled too much like him. Or the night Aarav confessed that he'd once drafted an unsent email asking her to visit him in Delhi — and deleted it because he was afraid of her saying no. The confessions didn't solve everything. But they filled in the gaps of silence they had carried.

By the time winter crept into Mumbai — barely noticeable except in the slightly cooler evenings — their routine felt natural. Aarav had stopped making excuses to call. Tara didn't hesitate before inviting him to small things: helping her carry groceries, fixing her flickering tube light, accompanying her to her cousin's birthday dinner.

And each time, Aarav showed up.

It wasn't perfect. He was still messy with his texts, replying late when work buried him. She was still defensive, sometimes mistaking his silences for disinterest. But the difference was that now, they worked through it. The arguments didn't end in weeks of distance. They ended in sighs, laughter, and another round of chai.

The change came in early February. Aarav got the email from office confirming his permanent posting in Mumbai. For a long moment, he just stared at the screen, barely believing it. No more shifting cities every six months. No more half-packed bags and temporary flats. He was staying.

That evening, he showed up at Tara's place with samosas and the biggest grin she'd seen on his face in years.

"What?" she asked, suspicious.

"I'm official," he said, holding up his phone. "Permanent posting. Mumbai."

She froze, mid-bite. "You're... staying?"

"Yeah," he said. "No more transfers. No more audits in different cities. I'm here."

Her expression was unreadable for a second, then softened. "About time," she muttered, though her smile betrayed her relief.

That night, sitting cross-legged on her living room floor with Dosa snoring between them, Tara asked casually, "So... what now? You going to finally buy proper furniture instead of those plastic chairs?"

"Maybe," Aarav said, then hesitated. "Or maybe we could... you know. Find a place. Together."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any joke could diffuse.

Tara looked at him for a long time, then glanced at the dog, then back at him. "You're serious?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I don't want to keep circling anymore. I want... this. Us. Every day. Even if it means fighting over watery Maggi forever."

Her eyes softened. She didn't answer right away. But when she reached over to take his samosa, muttering, "Only if you stop buying crooked furniture," Aarav knew what her answer was.

Finding a flat in Mumbai was nothing short of a battle.

Every broker they met had a different smile, a different promise, and the same rehearsed line: "Best deal in the market, sir, madam."

The first flat was too small. Tara stood in the middle of the bedroom, arms crossed. "Where will the bed even fit?"

Aarav shrugged. "We can get a folding one."

"This isn't camping," she shot back.

The second flat had space, but the walls were damp and smelled faintly of mold. "Romantic," Aarav said, wrinkling his nose. "We could bond over dehumidifiers."

Tara laughed despite herself, but shook her head.

The third one had a landlord who frowned when he realized they weren't married. "Live-in? In my building? Impossible."

They left without arguing. Outside, Tara muttered, "We should just tell people we're married. Easier."

Aarav raised an eyebrow. "Planning a secret wedding I don't know about?"

"Don't tempt me," she said, but her grin betrayed her amusement.

🌈

After two exhausting weeks, they finally found a one-bedroom flat in Andheri. The balcony overlooked a row of gulmohar trees, and the kitchen was just big enough for two people to bump elbows without knocking over utensils. It wasn't perfect, but it felt... theirs.

Moving in was chaos. Cardboard boxes piled in corners, clothes spilling out of half-zipped suitcases, Dosa running in circles as if she owned the place already.

"You brought this?" Tara asked, holding up his old, crooked study lamp.

"It still works," Aarav defended.

"It looks like it survived an earthquake."

"Exactly. Durable."

She rolled her eyes but placed it carefully on the table anyway.

The first week was a comedy of errors. The gas connection didn't work properly, so they survived on delivery food and instant noodles. The shower alternated between boiling hot and ice cold. One night, the fuse tripped and they spent an hour in candlelight, laughing over shadow puppets and eating biscuits for dinner.

But slowly, routines formed.

Aarav handled morning chai, always too sweet, but Tara pretended to like it. Tara cooked dinner most nights, though Aarav insisted on making Maggi once a week — "tradition," he claimed. They argued about laundry schedules, about who forgot to buy onions, about the mess Dosa left on the balcony. But the arguments ended quickly, usually in laughter or mock sulking that lasted less than an hour.

There were quiet nights too, when Tara graded papers at the dining table while Aarav worked on reports beside her. Sometimes they didn't speak for hours, yet the silence felt companionable, not empty.

Friends reacted in different ways. Tara's best friend teased her endlessly. "So the prodigal boyfriend returns, huh? Living together already? Bold."

"It's not like that," Tara insisted, though her blush betrayed her.

"Sure," Tara's best friend said, smirking. "Just make sure he does the dishes."

Aarav's colleagues were more practical. "Andheri?" one asked. "Man, that's a nightmare for commuting."

Aarav just shrugged. "Worth it."

Their families were cautious. Tara's mother called often, her questions laced with worry but softened by curiosity. "Are you... happy?" she asked one evening.

Tara hesitated, glancing at Aarav who was chasing Dosa around the room with a slipper in his hand. She smiled. "Yes. I am."

Aarav's father was quieter, but when they spoke over the phone, he said, "Stability suits you, beta." Aarav understood what he meant. Aarav's mother was ecstatic.

Not everything was smooth.

There were nights when Tara got frustrated at Aarav's tendency to leave wet towels on the bed. Days when Aarav felt irritated at her habit of reorganizing his things without asking. Once, they fought about money — about splitting rent and groceries, about who paid for what. The argument lasted two days, sharp words echoing in their tiny flat.

But on the third day, Aarav came home with pani puri from her favorite stall, holding it out wordlessly. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and took a bite. The fight dissolved into laughter over soggy puris and sticky fingers.

🌈

As weeks turned into months, the flat began to reflect them. Tara's bookshelves lined the living room wall, stacked with novels and half-read poetry collections. Aarav's desk sat by the window, cluttered with files and sticky notes. Their balcony had potted plants that Tara insisted on watering daily, though Aarav swore they were multiplying like rabbits.

Dosa claimed the sofa as her throne, sprawling across it like she paid rent.

It wasn't just a house anymore. It was home.

One evening, months after they'd moved in, they sat on the balcony watching the city lights flicker against the night. A faint breeze carried the smell of fried food from a nearby stall. Tara rested her head on Aarav's shoulder, and for a long while, neither spoke.

Finally, Aarav broke the silence. "Do you ever regret it? Us?"

Tara turned to look at him. "Do you?"

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Even with all the mess, all the fights... no."

She smiled faintly. "Me neither."

The words weren't dramatic. They didn't need to be. In their simplicity, they carried the weight of everything they had been through — the distance, the silence, the slow rebuilding.

Later that night, as they turned off the lights and settled into bed, Tara whispered, almost as if to herself, "Feels like we finally came back home."

Aarav, half-asleep, murmured, "Maybe we never really left."

And outside, the city pulsed with its usual noise — traffic, trains, stray dogs barking in the distance. But in that small apartment, in their shared quiet, there was peace.

The story of them wasn't perfect. It wasn't cinematic. It was messy, unpredictable, sometimes exhausting. But it was real.

And in that realness, in burnt dinners and overflowing laundry baskets and the comfort of chai shared at midnight, they found something stronger than promises.

They found each other, again.

Time had taken them apart once.
Time had stitched them back, thread by thread.

Now, in the heart of a city that never slowed,
they had carved out a corner of stillness —
a balcony with gulmohar trees,
a dog named Dosa,
and two hearts learning that love
is not about grand declarations,
but about choosing, quietly,
day after day,
to stay.

************

You made it. Through all the rain, awkward silences, and cups of chai.

Tara and Aarav? They're not perfect. Just two people who mess up, argue over stupid things, but still keep showing up for each other. That's love — not fireworks, just the quiet stuff that stays.

If this story made you feel even a little warm, a little seen, or maybe made you wanna text someone you didn't expect to — then hey, I think it worked.

Now, let's get real:

🌧️ What's the silliest fight you've had in the rain?

🎶 If someone made you a playlist, what's the one song you pretend to hate but actually love?

🥟 And if you were stuck in a flood, what's more important — your documents or your snacks?

Drop your answers below. I'll be around.

Thanks for sticking around till the last monsoon. Until next time, keep your chai warm, your umbrellas handy, and your heart open to all the messy, beautiful moments in between. See you in the next one.
— writteninrain