Their love wasn't the kind you shout about-it was soft, sneaky, tucked into the little things they didn't even plan. He'd snap pictures of the sunrise-smudgy golds and pinks-and send them right when her nightmares kicked her awake, like he could hear her gasping in the dark. She'd catch herself humming his favorite song when his head hurt, not knowing why, just feeling this itch to make him better. One time, they both picked up the same random book-some weird old thing with a cracked spine-on the same day, in different shops, and he mailed it to her later with a note: *"Yeh humara hai, Cassette." (This is ours, Cassette.)
"Teri awaaz, Cassette," he said once, his voice cutting through a thunderstorm, *"woh sunke lagta hai main kabhi akela nahi tha."* (Your voice, Cassette, it makes me feel like I was never alone.)
She kept his letters in an old biscuit tin, the kind that used to rattle with her favorite treats as a kid. They smelled like him-wood and citrus, sharp and cozy-and when the nights got too big, she'd dump them out on her bed, lining them up like a map of him. The first ones were all jitters, ink blotchy where he'd pressed too hard. But the later ones? They flowed, all loopy and sure, like he'd found his footing with her.
His latest one was about an old couple he saw: "Unki ungliyan itni tedhi thi ke bas chhoti ungli se ek doosre ko tham ke chal rahe the." (Their fingers were so crooked they just held each other's pinkies to walk.) *"Sochta hoon, Cassette-hum bhi kabhi aise honge kya?" (I wonder, Cassette-will we ever be like that?) There was a wet spot by his name, smudging the ink. Rain? Tears? She traced it with her finger, her chest tight, picturing him hunched over the paper, missing her so bad it spilled out.
Then, a twist-she woke up one morning with his cologne in the air, strong and real, but the tin was shut tight under her bed. She sat there, heart pounding, wondering if he'd dreamed of her too, if he'd left a piece of himself behind.