The morning after the door incident felt… suspiciously normal.
Sunlight pooled through the curtains again, but this time Tara eyed it like it might be hiding something. The kettle worked (miracle), the fridge buzzed back to life (hallelujah), and Rhea had managed to make toast that looked almost edible.
"You trust it?" Tara asked, poking her bread.
"I decided to live dangerously," Rhea said. "Also, I put jam on it. Jam fixes trauma."
They sat on the floor with their mugs of tea, now 17 days into their so-called break from the world.
Yes—Day 17. Not that anyone was counting. Except Tara, who absolutely was. She had a calendar scribbled with sarcastic notes.
But Day 17 brought something neither of them could've predicted.
A knock.
---
At first, they didn't register it.
"Wind?" Rhea said.
"Polite wind?" Tara replied.
Another knock. Firmer.
They looked at each other. The cottage was tucked so deep into the hillside that a visitor was either completely lost or an omen.
Tara peeked through the window.
There stood a man in an olive-green raincoat, holding a giant paper bag and smiling like someone who believed in organic produce and reiki. Behind him, a short, sharply dressed woman balanced a laptop and a small potted cactus.
"I think… we've been double-booked," Tara whispered.
---
Turns out, they had not.
Apparently, the cottage owner had a very ambitious assistant who'd mistakenly offered the same "remote creative residency" to two different groups. At the same time. No cancellations. No refunds.
"So you're… writers?" the woman asked, setting the cactus on the porch like a passive-aggressive housewarming gift.
"We're on a break," Rhea replied. "From everything. Including writing."
"Ah," said the man, handing over the paper bag, "sourdough?"
---
They were harmless, really. The woman—Ananya—worked in branding and had a voice like a TED Talk in slow motion. The man—Vikram—spoke in haikus without meaning to. They came with kombucha, stories about book launches, and a Spotify playlist called 'Soft Rain, Loud Thoughts'.
"We were hoping to finish our manuscript," Ananya explained. "But we can coexist peacefully. The cottage has two bedrooms, after all."
Tara and Rhea exchanged a glance that said: This is either a disaster or a plot twist. Let's see where it goes.
---
Within hours, their peaceful hideaway became a curious mashup of two duos. Tara found herself debating over fonts with Ananya, while Rhea shared late-night conspiracy theories with Vikram about birds being government spies.
At first, it was jarring. But then it was oddly… energizing.
They cooked together. Fought over who got the porch at sunset. Played charades by candlelight when the power flickered again.
One night, in the haze of too much lemon tea and unfinished sentences, Ananya said, "You two have the kind of chemistry that makes novels jealous."
Tara blinked.
Rhea smiled, slow and sideways. "We're working on a draft."
---
It wasn't all perfect, of course. One morning, Tara snapped at Vikram for using her notebook. Rhea got into a weirdly philosophical debate with Ananya about whether love should be 'earned' or 'offered.' But even their clashes felt oddly healing, like bruises from stretching muscles that hadn't moved in a while.
By the end of Day 17, Tara found herself writing again—not for deadlines, not for approval—just because something in her chest felt less locked.
She didn't show it to anyone. Not yet.
But Rhea noticed the ink-stained fingers and didn't say a word, just smiled and poured her another cup of tea.
---
That night, just before bed, Tara whispered, "What if this break wasn't about escaping? What if it's about… remembering who we are, when no one's watching?"
Rhea grinned, eyes already heavy with sleep. "Took you long enough."