The rain came uninvited that morning.
Not a downpour—just a soft drizzle, like the sky was remembering something it couldn't forget.
Aarav sat in his car outside an old bookstore café tucked into a quiet alleyway. He hadn't been here in years. Rhea used to bring him here when she wanted to "detox" him from capitalism. No phones. No suits. Just books, tea, and stolen glances.
Today, he wasn't sure why he'd come.
Until he saw her.
Inside.
Alone.
---
Rhea was reading the same poetry book she'd once read aloud to him in the middle of a blackout. The lights had gone out, and she had turned a disaster into an impromptu performance.
"You remember this one?" Aarav asked softly, stepping into the café.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't smile either.
"Page 73. You said it reminded you of your mother."
He sat across from her. No invitation needed.
"I didn't board the train," she said, voice calm but eyes tired.
"I know."
"How?"
"I didn't want to believe you'd leave without saying goodbye again."
A pause.
"So you waited?"
"No. I hoped."
---
The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was intimate—like the space between inhale and exhale. The calm before truth.
"I was going to call," she finally said. "But I didn't know what I'd say."
"You didn't have to say anything."
"But I wanted to."
She looked at him. "You asked me once if I still loved you."
He blinked.
"I never stopped."
The weight of those words dropped like thunder in a quiet valley.
"But love," she continued, "isn't always enough."
He clenched his jaw. "It should be."
"You're engaged, Aarav."
"I didn't choose her."
"Yes, you did," she whispered. "You chose silence. You chose time. You chose not to fight for me."
Tears threatened, but she held them in.
"I needed you when I was nothing," she said. "And you needed me when you were everything. That imbalance… it still hurts."
He couldn't argue.
Because she was right.
---
Outside, the rain thickened. The city blurred behind misted glass.
"Run away with me," he said suddenly.
She laughed—soft, painful, beautiful. "And then what? We play house in a new city while your family disowns you and mine says I'm a homewrecker?"
"I don't care what they think."
"But you care what you lose."
He looked down. "Is that so wrong?"
"No," she said, voice breaking. "It just means we're not the same people anymore."
---
They sat there for what felt like hours.
He took her hand.
Warm.
Familiar.
Final.
"If things had been different…" he began.
She squeezed his hand. "They weren't."
And that was the truth.
The hardest one.
---
When they stepped out into the rain, she opened her umbrella.
He didn't.
He just stood there, getting soaked.
Watching her walk away for the second time in his life.
But this time, she looked back once.
And smiled.
Not a sad smile. Not an apologetic one.
Just… a thank you.
And then she was gone.
---