The fever came out of nowhere, hot and mean, while the monsoon roared outside. For three days, she was a wreck—sweat soaking her sheets, dreams full of rain and his voice calling her name. On the fourth morning, her phone went crazy—forty-seven missed calls and one message from Mann: *"Main aa raha hoon, Cassette."* (I'm coming, Cassette.)
Her stomach flipped. *"Nahi, Mann!"* she typed, fingers slipping. *"Wada yaad rakh—hum tab tak nahi milenge…"* (Remember our promise—we won't meet until…) She couldn't finish. It was their unspoken deal—no meeting till the stars lined up, till life said *go*.
*"Aur agar tu mujhe chhod ke chali gayi toh?"* he shot back, all panic and love. (And if you leave me behind?) *"Tere liye main wada tod doonga, Cassette. Tere bina jeena nahi hai."* (For you, I'd break my promise, Cassette. I can't live without you.)
They fought for hours, her head spinning, his words pleading. Finally, they landed on something—he'd come, but he'd stay outside. He'd be there, but not *there*.
At dusk, she saw him through the window—a tall, skinny shadow under a navy umbrella, seventeen steps from her door. She counted every one, her nose pressed to the glass. He set down a thermos of turmeric milk, still hot; a pack of biscuits she used to fight her brother for; and a cassette tape scribbled with *"Tumhare Bina."* (Without You.)
Later, when she played it, it was just him breathing—sixty minutes of him, alive and steady. She curled up, letting it fill her, his breath syncing with hers till she fell asleep, a goofy smile on her face. At the end, there was a whisper—soft, almost lost: *"Main yahin hoon, Cassette."* (I'm right here, Cassette.) She rewound it, desperate, but it was gone, like he'd let it slip and then pulled it back.
Next morning, she found a tiny origami crane by her window—wet, crumpled, like he'd left it in the rain. She held it, heart racing, wondering how close he'd really come.