The rain had returned, soft and steady, like a lullaby for the restless. Aanya sat in Vihaan's apartment for the first time—walls lined with books, sketches pinned to corkboards, and a window that framed the city like a painting in motion.
Vihaan was in the kitchen, making tea the way he always did—slow, deliberate, like each step mattered more than the result.
Aanya wandered to his writing desk. It wasn't snooping, not really. Just curiosity. A stack of notebooks sat beside a wooden box, its lid slightly ajar.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to Meera.
She hesitated, then picked one up.
> Meera,
> Today the rain reminded me of your laugh—how it always arrived before your words. I saw a girl with your eyes at the bookstore. I almost called out. I didn't. I'm tired of almosts.
Aanya's throat tightened. She read another.
> I met someone. Her name is Aanya. She reads Neruda and walks like she's trying not to disturb the world. I don't know what this is, but it's the first time I've felt anything that wasn't you.
She froze.
Vihaan entered, two mugs in hand. He saw the letter in hers.
"I didn't mean for you to find those," he said quietly.
"You wrote about me. To her."
"I didn't know how else to process it. You were becoming real, and I didn't know how to let go of someone who wasn't."
Aanya placed the letter down. "You're still living in the past, Vihaan. And I'm not sure there's room for me there."
He sat beside her. "I never sent them. I think part of me knew Meera wasn't coming back. But writing to her was how I survived."
"And now?"
"I want to write to you. Not about you. To you."
Aanya looked out the window. The rain had blurred the skyline, but the lights still shimmered. She didn't speak for a long time.
Finally, she said, "Then stop writing to ghosts. And start showing up for the living."
Vihaan nodded. "I will. If you'll let me."
She didn't answer. But she didn't leave either.
And sometimes, silence is the first step toward forgiveness.