Years stacked up, messy and sweet, and their love grew roots in the quiet. She figured out love wasn't loud it was knowing when his silence meant he was happy or when it meant he hurt. She could hear him in her head, every laugh, every stumble, and saying goodnight turned into their little ritual, a promise they'd wake up to each other again.
Mann kept her close too, in a shoebox full of her a dried jasmine flower from her perfume, a napkin with their initials doodled in a silly moment, the ticket he never used when he came for her fever. He wrote her letters he never sent, piling them up like he was saving them for her hands someday.
On clear nights, they'd call and chase the moon together, cameras tilted up. *"Chand dikh raha hai, Cassette? he'd ask, his voice all light and teasing. (Can you see the moon, Cassette?) She'd nod, grinning, and they'd sit there, the glow washing over them. One night, he whispered, *"Chand humein samajhta hai, Cassette. Woh jaanta hai hum kitne pagal hain."* (The moon gets us, Cassette. It knows how crazy we are.) She laughed, picturing it nodding at them, proud of this love that didn't need anything but itself.
Then, a curveball one rainy night, a letter slipped under her door, his handwriting all wobbly: Yeh barsaat rukegi toh hum badal jaayenge, Cassette. (When this rain stops, we'll change, Cassette.) No explanation, just that. The rain quit that night, sharp and sudden, and he went quiet no texts, no calls. She sat there, clutching the note, her heart thumping, wondering if he'd left her a riddle or a goodbye.