The city was louder that morning.
As if it too had been holding its breath, waiting for yesterday to pass.
Outside Aarav's flat, the rickshaw drivers were already arguing about fares. The chaiwala was cursing at the electric kettle. A child cried somewhere two floors above.
Life had resumed its usual rhythm.
But inside, time moved slower.
Anaya stood by the window, her tea untouched. She was wearing a kurta Aarav hadn't seen before—olive green, soft cotton, the kind you don't buy but hold onto.
"Are you going somewhere?" he asked, voice low.
She shook her head. "I wanted to feel like a person today."
He nodded. Said nothing more.
She turned back to the window. "She really looked sorry, didn't she?"
"She did."
Anaya chewed the inside of her cheek. "I always imagined this reunion differently. I thought I'd scream. Break things. Maybe cry. But when she stood there... I felt nothing."
"That's not nothing," Aarav said. "That's survival. When you've burned long enough, even fire starts to feel cold."
She looked at him. "Where did you learn to say things like that?"
"Books," he replied, sipping his own tea. "And people who left."
At noon, Aarav stepped out for groceries. Anaya stayed behind, promising to sweep the floor even though she always forgot halfway.
He liked walking alone sometimes. The streets had a rhythm he could disappear into. Left, right, puddle. Dog sleeping under a cart. Kid playing with a punctured football. Everything ordinary, everything familiar.
But today, as he reached the corner store, he heard a voice.
"Aarav?"
He turned.
And froze.
A woman stood there, holding a paper bag, blinking like she'd seen a ghost.
She had soft features, a leather satchel, and that look people have when they're trying not to show they've been hurt by time.
"Riya," he said, uncertainly.
She smiled. Small. "Didn't expect to see you here."
He nodded. "It's been... what, two years?"
"Almost three."
Silence.
They used to date. Long ago. Before the accident. Before his brother died. Before he stopped letting anyone in.
"You look thinner," she said softly.
"You look like you moved on."
She didn't deny it. "I did. But that doesn't mean I forgot."
Aarav looked away.
"You still writing?" she asked.
"Sort of."
She paused. "I read that blog you abandoned. The one about your brother."
He stiffened.
"I wish I'd known how to help," she added. "Back then."
"You did what you could."
"I did what was easy," she corrected. "There's a difference."
He didn't reply.
She handed him a card. "I'm doing community writing sessions. For people dealing with loss. You don't have to come. Just... if you ever want to sit in a room and not talk but still feel heard."
He took it without looking at it. "Thanks."
"And Aarav?"
"Yeah?"
"She's not just a girl you're helping, is she?"
His eyes flickered.
Riya smiled again, softer this time. "Be careful. Not because you'll hurt her. But because you might forget how much of yourself you're giving away."
And with that, she left.
When Aarav returned home, the air inside felt different.
Not heavier. Just quieter.
Like the flat knew he'd met a ghost outside.
Anaya was on the floor, drawing. The ceiling fan spun weakly above her, the sketchbook balanced across her knees.
He placed the groceries down. She didn't look up.
"You were gone a while," she said, casually.
"Ran into someone."
"Friend?"
He hesitated. "Ex."
She paused her sketching. "Ah."
"Her name's Riya."
No reply.
"She's doing okay. She… invited me to this writing group thing. For grief, mostly."
Still silence.
Then Anaya asked, "Are you going?"
He sat beside her, leaving space. "I don't know."
She turned a page. "You should."
"Why?"
"Because you keep pouring pieces of yourself into other people. Maybe it's time someone poured something back."
He watched her outline a crooked bridge across the page. "She said something else. That you're not just a girl I'm helping."
Anaya's pencil stopped. Slowly, she looked up at him.
"And are you?"
Aarav didn't answer.
Not because he didn't know. But because naming something fragile too soon can sometimes break it.
She gave a small smile—tired, but real.
"I'm not ready to be anyone's anything," she whispered.
"I'm not asking you to be."
"Then what are we doing?"
Aarav looked down at the sketch. "Existing. Together. For now."
She held his gaze a moment longer. "Okay."
Later that evening, he found her on the balcony, staring at the city again.
He joined her, their elbows almost touching on the rusty railing.
"You didn't ask me what I drew today," she said.
"What did you draw?"
"A house without doors. Just windows."
"Why no doors?"
"Because I'm tired of people leaving."
The words hit harder than he expected.
Aarav whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."
She smiled softly. "Neither am I. For now."
He nodded. "For now is enough."
That night, the rain returned.
Not the heavy, angry kind. This time, it came soft—like it was trying to be forgiven.
Anaya curled up on the mattress, legs tucked under her, sketchbook closed at last.
Aarav lay beside her on the floor, staring at the ceiling, fingers laced on his chest.
The silence between them wasn't filled with tension. It was full of unsaid truths. Of a comfort they didn't quite understand yet.
She turned to face him. "Do you miss her?"
He turned his head slightly. "Riya?"
She nodded.
"I think I miss who I was when I was with her. Before everything broke."
She watched him quietly. "Would you go back to that version of yourself, if you could?"
"No," he said. "Because then I'd never have met you like this."
She smiled—small and almost shy. "And how did you meet me?"
He shrugged. "On the edge of a story neither of us wanted to write."
A pause.
"Are we still writing it?" she asked.
"I think so. Page by page."
She reached out, slowly, and touched his hand. Just her fingertips grazing his wrist.
Not a gesture of romance.
A gesture of here I am.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, he turned his palm over and laced his fingers through hers—softly, like holding a trembling bird.
And they stayed like that.
No promises.
No names.
No future.
Just now.
The city kept raining.
The lights kept flickering.
And in a flat too small to hold the weight of their stories, two broken people lay beside each other—
not healed,
not whole,
but no longer alone.