The first time I saw her, the sky was orange.
Not the dramatic kind of orange you see in postcards, but the soft, tired orange that appears when the sun is about to leave after a long day. The kind of sunset that looks like it has its own emotions.
I was sitting near the window seat of a small café beside the railway station. It wasn't a fancy café. It was the kind where the tables were slightly uneven and the cups always smelled like old coffee, no matter how clean they were.
But I loved that place.
Because in that café, nobody asked you why you looked sad.
People came there to wait.
For trains.
For people.
For life to happen.
I was twenty that year.
Too young to understand love, but old enough to feel lonely.
And then she walked in like she belonged there.
Her hair was tied loosely, and a few strands kept falling on her forehead like they were stubborn. She wore a light blue kurti and carried a book in her left hand. The cover of the book was old, and the pages looked yellow, like it had been read too many times.
She didn't look at anyone.
Not even for a second.
She walked to the counter, ordered tea, and sat at the table two seats away from mine.
For a while, I tried not to stare.
But something about her presence was… different.
It wasn't beauty.
Not exactly.
She had that kind of face that didn't scream attention. But once you noticed it, it stayed in your mind like a melody.
The waiter brought her tea.
She didn't drink it immediately.
Instead, she opened her book and started reading like the world around her didn't exist.
Outside, the station was noisy. People were rushing. Announcements were echoing through the loudspeaker. Vendors were shouting. Children were crying.
But she was calm.
Too calm.
And I don't know why, but I suddenly wanted to know what she was reading.
I tried to focus on my phone, scrolling through useless reels, pretending I wasn't interested.
But my eyes kept going back to her.
She turned a page slowly, as if she was afraid to hurt the book.
Then she suddenly looked up.
Straight at me.
I froze.
Not because I was caught staring.
But because her eyes weren't normal.
They were quiet.
The kind of quiet you see in someone who has already been broken once and decided never to show it again.
For a moment, our eyes met.
And I swear the whole café became silent.
She didn't smile.
She didn't look away quickly.
She just looked at me like she was trying to remember something.
Then she looked down again.
And my heart started beating like it had forgotten how to stay calm.
I didn't know her name.
I didn't know her story.
But I knew one thing.
That day, my life had shifted slightly.
Like a train changing tracks without warning.
That evening, the rain started suddenly.
One of those unexpected rains that makes the whole city smell like wet soil and old memories.
I was about to leave when I saw her standing outside the café under the small tin shade, holding her book close to her chest.
She didn't have an umbrella.
I don't know why, but I walked up to her.
I could have ignored her.
I could have gone home like every other day.
But something inside me whispered—
If you don't talk to her now, you'll regret it forever.
So I stepped beside her.
The rain was loud.
The air was cold.
And I said the first stupid thing that came to my mind.
"Looks like the rain doesn't like you."
She didn't respond immediately.
Then she glanced at me, her face expressionless.
"I think the rain doesn't like anyone," she said.
Her voice was soft.
Not weak.
Soft like a song that doesn't want to be heard by everyone.
I smiled awkwardly.
"Still… it's raining harder on you."
She looked at the sky.
Then she said something that made me pause.
"Maybe it's supposed to."
I didn't know what to say.
She spoke like she carried sadness in her pocket like loose change.
I cleared my throat.
"You're waiting for someone?"
She nodded slightly.
"Yes."
"Train?"
"Yes."
Then silence.
Rain.
Station noise.
Distant horns.
I was about to leave, but she suddenly spoke again.
"You come here often?"
I looked at her, surprised.
"Yeah. Almost every evening."
She nodded slowly, like she was storing that information somewhere.
Then she said, "I've seen you before."
My stomach flipped.
"Oh… really?"
She didn't look at me while saying it.
But her words felt heavy.
"Yes. You always sit by the window. Like you're waiting for something too."
I laughed nervously.
"I guess I am."
She turned her face towards me then.
"What are you waiting for?"
That question hit me like a slap.
Because I didn't know the answer.
Maybe love.
Maybe meaning.
Maybe a life that felt less empty.
I stared at the rain and said quietly, "I don't know."
She looked at me for a second longer than necessary.
Then she said, "That's the most honest answer."
And for the first time, her lips curved into a tiny smile.
Not a happy smile.
A sad one.
A smile that said—
I understand you more than you think.
Then the train announcement played loudly.
"Platform number 3…"
She straightened up instantly.
Her eyes moved to the tracks.
I thought she would run.
But she didn't.
She stayed still.
Like she wasn't sure if she wanted the train to arrive.
Then she whispered, almost to herself, "I hope he doesn't come."
I heard it.
And my heart sank.
Because I realized something.
She wasn't waiting for someone she loved.
She was waiting for someone she feared.
Before I could ask, she started walking towards the platform.
And without thinking, I followed her.
Rain was still falling.
People were pushing past us.
The station smelled like smoke, sweat, and wet iron.
She walked quickly, but not too quickly.
Like she wanted someone to stop her.
Like she wanted a reason to turn back.
Finally, I gathered the courage.
"Hey… what's your name?"
She stopped.
Slowly turned.
And for a second, she looked like she was deciding whether to tell me or not.
Then she said, "Ananya."
The name felt beautiful.
Not because of how it sounded.
But because of how she said it.
Like she was saying it after a long time.
I nodded.
"I'm Arjun."
She stared at me.
"Arjun," she repeated softly.
Then she asked, "Why are you following me?"
I didn't have a perfect answer.
So I told the truth.
"I don't want you to stand alone in this rain."
She looked away.
And her smile disappeared.
"People don't do that," she said.
"They do," I replied. "Sometimes."
She shook her head.
"No. Not for someone they barely know."
I looked at her.
"Maybe I want to know you."
She didn't respond.
She just turned back and walked again.
But this time, she didn't walk as fast.
And I knew that meant she didn't mind me being there.
We reached platform 3.
The train was arriving.
Its sound was loud and heavy, like it was dragging a thousand stories behind it.
People rushed forward.
She stood at the edge, gripping her book tightly.
Her knuckles turned white.
I noticed her hands shaking slightly.
I didn't ask questions.
Instead, I stood beside her.
Silently.
The train stopped.
Doors opened.
People came out.
Some hugged their families.
Some carried luggage.
Some looked tired.
And then a man stepped out.
He looked older than us, maybe in his late twenties. Wearing a black jacket, holding a small suitcase.
His eyes scanned the platform.
When his eyes landed on Ananya, his face changed.
He smiled.
But it wasn't a warm smile.
It was the kind of smile that makes your stomach feel uneasy.
Ananya's body stiffened.
Her breathing got heavier.
The man started walking towards her.
And Ananya whispered, "Please… don't leave."
I didn't know if she was saying it to me or to herself.
But I stayed.
The man reached her.
"Ananya," he said casually. "You're late."
She didn't speak.
He noticed me.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And who's this?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to speak.
But Ananya spoke first.
"He's nobody."
That word hurt.
Nobody.
But I understood.
She was protecting me.
Or maybe she was protecting herself.
The man smiled again.
"Good. Because you belong to me."
That sentence made my blood boil.
But before I could react, Ananya turned around and walked away with him.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
No look back.
She disappeared into the crowd.
And I stood there…
Watching the rain wash away the only person who had made me feel something in months.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I kept thinking about her eyes.
About her voice.
About the way she said, "I hope he doesn't come."
And the way she whispered, "Please… don't leave."
I didn't know what her story was.
But I knew she was trapped inside something painful.
And I knew something else too.
If I didn't meet her again…
I would never forgive myself.
Next evening, I went to the café again.
Same table.
Same window seat.
Same smell of coffee.
But she wasn't there.
I waited.
One hour.
Two hours.
The sunset faded.
The rain stopped.
The night became darker.
Still no Ananya.
And just when I was about to leave, I saw her.
She walked in slowly.
Her hair was open today.
Her eyes were red.
Like she had been crying.
She sat at the same table as before.
Ordered tea.
Opened her book.
But she wasn't reading.
She was just staring at the pages.
Like she didn't know what words meant anymore.
I stood up.
Walked to her table.
And said softly, "Ananya."
She looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
And this time she didn't look away.
She didn't pretend.
She didn't act strong.
Instead, she whispered, "Arjun…"
And the way she said my name felt like a confession.
Like she had been waiting to say it.
I sat down slowly.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She laughed.
A dry, broken laugh.
"No," she said. "But I'm alive."
I didn't know what to say.
So I just stayed there.
And she finally spoke again.
"You shouldn't talk to me."
"Why?" I asked.
She looked at me with tired eyes.
"Because everyone who comes close to me… gets hurt."
I leaned forward slightly.
"Then let me decide that."
Her lips trembled.
For the first time, she looked like she was about to cry in front of someone.
And then she said, "He's my fiancé."
That word hit like a bullet.
Fiancé.
I felt my throat tighten.
"Oh…"
She nodded.
"But I don't love him."
I didn't breathe.
And she continued, "I never did."
She looked outside the window.
And whispered, "I think I'm going to die inside before I even get married."