The café was quieter than usual. Rain still whispered against the windows, but inside Matteo's, the world felt paused—like a comma in a sentence waiting to be finished.
Aanya stirred her coffee absently, watching Vihaan scribble something in his notebook. He wrote like he was chasing something—each word urgent, each pause heavy.
"You never let me read your poems," she said, trying to sound casual.
Vihaan looked up, startled. "They're not ready."
"Or they're not meant for me?"
He blinked, then smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Some things are written to be forgotten."
Later that evening, Aanya returned to Blossom Book House. She wandered through the poetry section, fingers trailing along spines like old friends. A familiar cover caught her eye—Neruda's Twenty Love Poems. She pulled it out, and something fluttered to the floor.
A folded page. Handwritten. Ink smudged by time or tears.
> "She was the monsoon I couldn't outrun.
> Meera, if the rain ever brings you back,
> I'll trade every verse I've written
> for one more moment beneath your silence."
Aanya's breath caught. Meera.
She read it again. The lines were raw, aching. And unmistakably Vihaan's.
The next day, she confronted him.
"I found your poem," she said, placing it on the table between them.
Vihaan stared at it, then closed his eyes. "I didn't mean for you to see that."
"Who is Meera?"
He hesitated. "She was… everything. My fiancée. We were in Coorg when the flood came. She went out to get chai. She never came back."
Aanya felt the air shift. The rain outside grew louder, like it was listening.
"I kept writing to her. Hoping the rain would carry my words. Hoping she'd answer."
"And me?" Aanya whispered. "Was I just a distraction?"
Vihaan looked at her, eyes full of storm. "No. You were the first silence that didn't hurt."