The rain came softly that night.
Aarav sat on the floor of his one-room apartment, legs folded beneath him, a paper plate of rice half-eaten beside his foot. The bulb overhead flickered once, then stilled, like it understood there was no drama left to offer this moment. His fingers were stained slightly blue from the cheap pen he'd used earlier — the kind that skipped every third word unless you angled it just right.
He wasn't writing tonight. He was just sitting. Letting the silence fill in what conversation couldn't.
Across from him, Meher sat with a cup of weak tea. They weren't exactly friends — not yet. She was a junior editor for an indie magazine that had published one of his short stories. It was she who'd emailed him the acceptance with a soft, surprising message: "There's something aching and honest in your words."
They'd met twice since then, once at a literary event where she laughed too loudly at the wrong time, and once at a roadside stall where she offered to split the bill even though he had only ordered a chai.
Tonight was the third. Rain had cornered her near his lane after a reading. He'd awkwardly offered shelter, assuming she'd say no. She hadn't.
Now, they sat.
She looked around the room. It didn't take long.
No photos. No family frames. Just stacks of stapled stories, notebooks piled unevenly, a mattress, and a mug with a chipped rim.
"Do your parents know you live like this?" she asked suddenly.
Aarav didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached for the rice again. Took a bite. Chewed slowly.
"They know I exist," he said finally, "just not like this."
She blinked, uncertain. Then asked — not out of pity, but curiosity that bordered on quiet anger —
"But how could they leave you?"
He didn't look up.
"They didn't 'leave' me. Not in the dramatic way."
"But you said you don't live with them. You said they haven't called in months."
"They haven't."
"Then?"
He sighed. "It's not a simple thing. It's just... their version of love looked different."
She tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
He leaned back against the wall. Let his eyes close for a moment. The kind of silence that follows an unsent text settled in the room.
"It means they thought love was pressure. Discipline. Becoming who they couldn't. They gave me food and school and a bed. But never really asked what I wanted to become."
"They wanted you to succeed," Meher offered gently.
"They wanted me to disappear into something respectable," he replied. "Doctor. Engineer. Anything with a salary and a government seal."
"And when you didn't?"
"They panicked. And then they let go."
Meher nodded slowly. "Still doesn't seem fair."
"Life isn't a fair story," Aarav said, almost smiling. "It's just one that keeps getting written. Whether or not the characters get what they deserve."
The rain grew louder outside. A dog barked somewhere far away.
Meher traced a drop of tea down her cup. "You never wanted to call them?"
"Every week," he admitted. "I rehearse what I'd say. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes while cooking. It always ends in silence."
"Because you're angry?"
"Because I'm still hoping they'll call first."
That last line cracked something open — not between them, but within him.
She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a folded printout — his story. The one about a boy who gives up everything to write about a girl who never looked back.
"You write pain like it's a second language," she said.
He chuckled. "I think it's my first."
"You know," Meher continued, "some people live in silence their whole lives and never learn to say what you do in five pages."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached for the chipped mug. Poured the last of the lukewarm tea into his mouth. Swallowed like it was truth.
Then:
"I used to think I was broken," he said. "That something in me made people turn away."
Meher met his eyes. "What do you think now?"
"I think... some people just can't carry what they don't understand. And maybe I stopped asking them to."
The clock ticked louder for a moment, like it had something to say.
Meher stood up. "I should go."
He nodded. Walked her to the door.
She paused before stepping out into the wet street.
"Keep writing," she said. "Even if no one reads. Especially then."
And then she was gone.
Aarav closed the door.
Turned off the light.
And sat down with that same stubborn pen.
It skipped the first few strokes.
But then it listened.
And he wrote:
"Their love was never absent. Just conditional. But I have decided that my stories won't be."
He underlined that sentence twice.
Then smiled. Not because it was perfect.
But because it was his.