Months dragged by, and Mann's silence was a weight she carried everywhere. She'd fiddle with his key, play his tape till the sound wore thin, read his letters till the words blurred. Had he melted into the rain? Was he out there, waiting, testing how long she'd hold on? She didn't know, but she smiled anyway, because even his absence felt like him loving her.
Then the monsoon rolled back in, wild and loud, and her phone buzzed—a blurry photo of his window, rain streaking down, his shadow just there in the glass. No words, just him saying *I'm still yours, Cassette* without saying it. She pressed her hand to her window, rain dripping, and felt him—right there, breathing with her.
Their love wasn't fancy or perfect. It was sunrise pictures when she couldn't sleep, humming when his head pounded, a kite they flew with nothing but air and hope. It was him calling her Cassette, like she was the beat he lived by. It was a scarf he messed up knitting, a key she'd never use, a tape of his breath that held her together.
Years later, if you asked her about love, she'd grin and say, "It's Mann out there, feeling me when I wear blue. It's me knowing when he's quiet too long. It's goodnights that mean everything. Love's not holding hands—it's holding each other without ever needing to touch."
And when the rain comes now, she sits by her window, hearing him in every drop, smiling like a kid because this love—theirs—wraps you up tight, makes you feel seen, and sticks with you, warm and real, for