Coorg welcomed Aanya with mist and silence. The hills were green, the air thick with cardamom and memory. She had booked a small homestay on the edge of a coffee estate, hoping the distance would help her breathe again.
Each morning, she walked through the plantation trails, dew clinging to her sleeves, thoughts trailing behind her like shadows. She didn't think of Vihaan. She tried not to. But the rain kept reminding her.
One evening, she sat on the veranda, watching the clouds gather. The host, an elderly woman named Lakshmi, brought her tea and sat beside her.
"You look like someone waiting for something," Lakshmi said.
"Or someone trying not to," Aanya replied.
Lakshmi smiled. "The rain doesn't ask permission. It just arrives. Sometimes, love is like that."
Aanya sipped her tea. "And sometimes, it leaves without saying goodbye."
Meanwhile, in Bengaluru, Vihaan had stopped writing. He boxed up the letters to Meera, sealed them, and placed them in the back of his closet. Not to forget—but to stop living inside them.
He visited Blossom Book House alone, bought a fresh notebook, and wrote his first poem in weeks.
> "She left like the rain—quiet, necessary.
> But I stayed.
> And maybe that's enough."
He didn't send it. He didn't need to.
Back in Coorg, Aanya received a letter. Not from Vihaan. From herself.
She had written it months ago, during a writing workshop, addressed to her future self.
> "If you ever feel lost, remember:
> You are not someone's second choice.
> You are the storm and the shelter.
> Choose the love that chooses you."
She folded the letter, placed it in her journal, and looked out at the rain.
And for the first time in days, she didn't feel alone.