Morning unfolded with the soft gray of post-rain light, the kind that made everything look freshly washed and a little uncertain. Meera sat on the couch, mug of coffee gone cold, staring at the folded napkin Aarav had left.The two words were ordinary ink, already bleeding at the edges: Thank you.They shouldn't have meant anything. Yet her throat tightened when she read them.
She spent the day pretending to work. Emails, editing, errands—each motion mechanical. The apartment still carried his scent, faint but stubborn: soap, wet cotton, a trace of the night's damp air.She opened the window to let it out, but the breeze brought it back in.
In the evening, she walked to the small studio near campus where she'd started teaching part-time. Her students—bright, loud first-years—filled the room with chatter about lenses and lighting angles. She guided them through focus and depth, talking easily, moving among them, but a part of her mind kept circling the same image: Aarav asleep on her couch, peaceful in a way she'd never seen.
When class ended, one of the students lingered. A shy boy who asked too many technical questions. "Miss Meera," he said, holding out a cracked lens, "this one's damaged. Should I throw it?"
She turned it over in her hand. The crack ran diagonally, distorting everything it saw. "No," she said softly. "Sometimes broken glass teaches you to frame things differently. Keep it. Experiment."
He smiled, relieved, and she realized she'd spoken the advice she needed herself.
Later, she stopped by the café. The same one from before. Empty again. She ordered tea instead of coffee and sat by the window, watching the city soften into dusk. She half expected him to appear, wet hair, too-calm eyes—but the chair opposite stayed empty.
And yet, something small had changed inside her. She didn't check the door every time it opened. She didn't rehearse what she'd say if he walked in. She simply… sat. For the first time in months, stillness didn't feel like waiting.
When she returned home, a small package rested by her door. No name, just a familiar scrawl of handwriting.
Inside: a roll of film, neatly labeled "For you — if you want to remember differently."
She hesitated. The rational part of her said don't. Don't give him that space again. But curiosity—gentler now, not desperate—won. She loaded the film into her camera, hands steady.
The negatives revealed moments she didn't know he'd captured: her teaching a class, laughing with Priya, walking alone by the river with a camera strap slung across her chest.Not stolen moments. Observed ones. Honest, respectful distance in every frame.Each photograph said the same thing without words: I see you, but I'm not taking from you anymore.
She leaned back, a strange warmth blooming under her ribs. Not love, not yet. Something quieter. A beginning built out of careful restraint.
The next morning, she texted him.
Meera: The photos were good.Aarav: They were yours to approve before I ever showed anyone.Meera: You didn't have to send them.Aarav: I did. They were never mine to keep.Meera: So what now?Aarav: Now I stop assuming what you need. You'll tell me if you want anything else. Or nothing.
She read the words twice before replying.
Meera: Then start by having breakfast like a normal human. I'll meet you at the café. Bring dry clothes this time.
A pause. Then:
Aarav: Yes, ma'am.
A small laugh escaped her, the first one that didn't sound like armor.
When she arrived, he was already there. Dry this time. Two mugs on the table—one coffee, one tea.No flowers, no speeches, no apologies.
They sat, talked about light and work and weather. When she reached for sugar, his hand moved automatically to help, then stopped midway. He smiled and let her pour it herself.
That single hesitation—the act of not intervening—felt more honest than all his past grand gestures combined.
Outside, the rain started again, gentle, rhythmic, harmless.Inside, they stayed seated longer than they needed to, learning what quiet sounded like when it wasn't laced with fear.