Niharika Sen
1
The sky over Delhi had been sulking since morning, draped in heavy grey clouds that threatened to spill at any moment. Connaught Place bustled beneath it, the circular heart of the capital moving in its usual rhythm—cars honking in chorus, office-goers pacing down colonnades, street vendors shouting their evening rates, and college students lazing on the central park’s damp benches. It was somewhere between four and five in the afternoon when the skies gave in. First, a misty drizzle, then sheets of warm rain fell, catching the crowd mid-stride. People ducked under awnings, ducked into cafés, and tugged their dupattas and bags over their heads. Vivaan Khurana, stepping out of Khadi India with a rolled-up drawing tube under his arm, paused just in time. He darted under the nearest awning—a crumbling shade outside an old handicrafts shop—half dry, half soaked. As he adjusted his bag and cursed the rain mentally, he noticed her standing there already. She had no umbrella, no raincoat, and seemed to be making absolutely no effort to shield herself. Her kurti stuck slightly to her arm, her hair was damp and falling messily over her eyes, and her eyes—dark, alert—were watching the street as though she were watching a live performance. She didn’t flinch when he joined her under the awning. Just turned, smiled briefly, and said, “Delhi rains don’t warn, do they?”
Vivaan chuckled softly, not sure whether to make conversation or wait silently. But she didn’t wait for him to respond. “It’s my fault really,” she added. “I never carry an umbrella. I tell myself it’s because I love rain, but mostly I think it’s just bad planning.” Her voice had that comfortable ring that people develop when they talk to strangers without pressure—carefree but just shy of flirtatious. He smiled politely, nodding. “Or maybe optimism,” he offered, shifting slightly to make room though the shade barely fit two. “Or denial,” she quipped, brushing water from her sleeve. “I’m Tanya.” Her arm extended halfway, mock-formally. He shook her hand, surprised by the warmth in it despite the chill of the air. “Vivaan,” he replied. “Architect. Currently regretting not taking the Metro.” She laughed, and it was a laugh that didn’t try to be modest—it escaped her like rain slipping off rooftops. A few seconds of silence passed. Rain tapped rhythmically against the awning’s plastic sheet, and CP shimmered—its white colonial facades dulled into a gentle grey glow. A chaiwala trotted by with a rusting kettle. Tanya’s eyes followed him. “Chai?” she asked Vivaan, already calling out to the vendor. Moments later, they stood with two tiny kulhad cups, steam rising from both.
They sipped slowly, both warming to the moment, letting conversation stretch itself between them like a bridge forming over water. Tanya spoke of vlogging in Ladakh, of losing a slipper in the Brahmaputra, of why she thought Delhi was a city that always felt like it was rushing to meet you and running from you at the same time. Vivaan talked about his project in Hauz Khas, his fascination with colonial architecture, how he found beauty in decay. The street kept changing around them—people rushed past, rickshaws glided like insects through puddles, the faint smell of roasted bhutta mixed with wet cement—and yet time between them slowed. They stood close, not quite touching, shoulders brushing as passersby squeezed under the same shade. Tanya looked up, droplets clinging to her lashes. “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “We spend years trying to find something real, then stumble into it on a Tuesday rain under a leaking awning in CP.” Vivaan smiled, not entirely sure if she was speaking about the chai, the weather, or something much larger. He wanted to sketch the moment—the texture of her voice, the outlines of her smile, the blur of the rain behind her. Instead, he just said, “I think this might be the most honest cup of tea I’ve had in a while.” She tilted her head, amused, and replied, “Good. Then let’s not waste it on silence.”
2
The rain softened into a steady drizzle as the last drops rolled off the awning, forming crooked trails down its brittle plastic surface. Tanya stepped out first, her sandals splashing lightly into the puddles, and Vivaan followed—still clutching the empty kulhad like it was a relic of the connection just sparked. She didn’t ask, but he fell in step beside her as they began circling the inner circle of Connaught Place. The city had quieted under the weight of the monsoon, but not stilled—vendors wiped their carts, lovers huddled on benches under shared scarves, and neon signboards blinked against a muted sky. Tanya turned to Vivaan, her eyes glinting with something between mischief and meaning, and asked, “Have you ever walked CP like a tourist?” Vivaan shrugged, “I design buildings here. I know every corner.” “But do you know the yellow wall behind Wenger’s that looks like it’s always listening?” she asked, tugging his wrist and pulling him through a narrow lane between Regal and Janpath. “Do you know the man who sells postcards he’s painted himself, but never signs them?” They moved past graffiti walls and shuttered bookstores, Tanya pointing out things he’d never noticed—cracks shaped like constellations, balconies with vines like veins, dogs curled up in odd-numbered shopfronts.
Vivaan found himself disarmed by her joy—her ability to treat every alley like a poem, every rusting signboard like a chapter in a book only she had read. He asked her if she’d always been this… attuned. She told him about her childhood growing up in Lajpat, her first travel article on the local street food, her desire to never get stuck in a life that didn’t excite her. “I’ve run from a lot of things,” she said quietly, “but I always run toward something brighter. I think the rain just helps me see it better.” They reached the outer circle where a group of boys were playing cricket on wet stone. Tanya paused, watching the game as if it mattered. “Look at them,” she said, “just like monsoon—wild, clumsy, but full of heart.” Vivaan watched her instead. In the orange glow of a streetlamp, her face had the stillness of someone who carried chaos like art. She noticed him staring and smirked, “You think too much, don’t you?” He laughed. “Occupational hazard.” They passed the old Statesman building, the watch shop with vintage Rolex ads, and a tiny bookstore where Tanya ducked in without asking. When she returned, she handed him a slim book of Urdu couplets and said, “For your silence. It deserves subtitles.”
They reached Central Park just as the lights blinked on, making the wet grass glisten like a carpet studded with city memories. The drizzle had stopped, and the air was now thick with petrichor and voices. Vivaan, feeling oddly bare without his usual defenses, turned to her and said, “You make the city feel unfamiliar. And I like it.” Tanya didn’t respond right away. She just looked at him, that smile softening. “Unfamiliar is good. That’s where stories live.” A silence settled between them—not awkward, but ripe. It was the kind of quiet that let the heart breathe freely. Then Tanya suddenly pointed to the towering Indian flag in the park center. “Race you to it,” she grinned and broke into a sprint, water splashing under her feet, laughter trailing behind like music. Vivaan didn’t think—he ran. They reached breathless, laughing, soaked again as another playful burst of rain came down. Under that mammoth flag, breathing hard, their eyes met—and something passed between them that neither could name, but both felt: a beginning carved out by chance, chasing footprints through a rain-washed Delhi evening.
3
By the time they entered United Coffee House, the rain had turned into a soft curtain against the windows, veiling the city outside in a dreamy blur. The place smelled of roasted beans, wood polish, and old conversations—its vintage charm untouched by the changing aesthetics of Delhi cafés. They found a table tucked near a corner, beneath a chandelier whose golden light bathed everything in sepia. Vivaan leaned back, glancing around with mild nostalgia. “I used to come here with my college friends. We’d share one plate of butter chicken between four of us. Pretended it was fine dining,” he said with a quiet chuckle. Tanya grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “I like places that pretend with confidence. Like they know they’re stuck in time and are proud of it.” The waiter came, and they both ordered filter coffee without hesitation—another quiet sync that neither acknowledged aloud. For a few minutes, they sat without talking, watching raindrops trickle down the fogged-up glass, people outside rushing under umbrellas like half-forgotten thoughts. The silence didn’t feel heavy—just full. Then Tanya spoke, her voice lower, steadier. “You ever think about the people you almost loved?” Vivaan turned his gaze toward her, surprised by the sudden shift in tone, but not put off. “Sometimes. Usually when it rains.”
She smiled faintly. “There was someone. We were together for a year. He loved the idea of me, not me. I was his adventure, his rebellion, his proof that he wasn’t boring. The moment I became real—flawed, complicated—he panicked.” She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes fixed on the tabletop. “After that, I kept things light. Safe. Ran before it could hurt.” Vivaan nodded, not filling the silence, letting her speak on her terms. “What about you?” she asked after a pause, genuinely curious. He hesitated for a moment, then answered, “I was engaged. Her name was Priya. She was… everything on paper. Smart, kind, elegant. We even looked good in photos. But somewhere between designing our wedding card and arguing over the cutlery theme, I realized we were building something neither of us really wanted to live in.” He exhaled, as though the memory still carried weight. “She said I was too distant. I said she was too perfect. It ended, quietly. Mutually. But it took a while before silence didn’t feel like a void.” Tanya looked at him, studying his face like a sketch in motion. “Is that why you draw?” He gave a small smile. “I draw what I can’t say. It helps me understand what I’m feeling before I say it out loud.”
A pause, long and soft, settled over the table. The coffee had gone cold, but neither noticed. Outside, Connaught Place continued to hum in the rain—cars slipping past, lights glowing amber in the wet. Tanya leaned back, her tone playful again but with a trace of sincerity beneath it. “You know, this feels like a therapy session disguised as a date.” Vivaan laughed—an open, unguarded sound that surprised even him. “Maybe that’s what first meetings should be,” he replied. “Two people unpacking their baggage before they decide to walk further.” She nodded, then glanced at the time. “It’s almost eight. Do you need to head somewhere?” “Not really,” he said. “You?” “Nowhere urgent,” she replied. Then she stood and stretched slightly, eyes meeting his with a teasing tilt. “Come on. I’ll show you the bookstore that smells like mothballs and poetry.” Vivaan followed, their shadows blending under the yellow light, their stories now stitched with small seams of trust. Outside, the rain had slowed again, like the city was listening in.
4
The entrance to Rajiv Chowk Metro Station buzzed with soaked commuters, their umbrellas folding like wet wings, the air thick with monsoon-drenched humidity and the hum of transit. Tanya hesitated at the top of the steps, looking at the swarm below like it was an ocean of movement she wasn’t ready to swim in. Vivaan stood beside her, adjusting his shoulder bag, reluctant for the evening to dissolve into routine. She looked at him, a soft question in her gaze. “Yellow Line?” she asked. He hesitated for a beat, then said, “Why not?” with a half-smile that felt like more than agreement. As they descended the stairs together, Vivaan’s fingers brushed hers once, unintentionally, but the electricity it sparked made them both pause imperceptibly. Inside the station, the world changed—blinking lights, echoing announcements, footsteps overlapping in rhythm. They passed the token counter and security, stepping into that peculiar underground intimacy the Delhi Metro creates—strangers pressed into shared silence, a thousand stories stacked side by side, never quite meeting. As the train arrived, wind burst through the tunnel like a roar, lifting strands of Tanya’s damp hair. They stepped in together, standing near the doors, barely a foot apart.
The train pulled away, and with each station—Patel Chowk, Central Secretariat, Udyog Bhawan—the world outside became a blur. Inside, Tanya leaned against the cold steel bar, her gaze not on her phone but on the people around them—an old couple arguing gently over directions, a college student with cracked headphones, a boy sleeping on his mother’s lap. “I love metros,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Everyone’s going somewhere, but no one talks. It’s like a moving confessional.” Vivaan smiled. “I usually sketch here. But today, words feel easier.” She turned toward him. “Then say something you wouldn’t usually say aloud.” He met her gaze, surprisingly steady. “I think I’m more afraid of being misunderstood than being alone.” Tanya blinked, the confession landing with the weight of its honesty. She replied, her voice low, “I think I’m more afraid of being known too well.” They smiled at the contradiction between them, at the strange balance it created. The train suddenly halted midway between two stations, lights dimming for a brief second, and everything paused. The passengers murmured, a few groaned. Tanya’s hand instinctively reached for the overhead rail, but instead brushed Vivaan’s shoulder. They didn’t move apart.
In that suspended moment—train still, tunnel dark, breath held—time folded inward. The sounds quieted, leaving only the thud of their hearts and the low hum of electricity. She didn’t pull her hand back. He didn’t shift away. “Do you think if we met any other day, any other way,” she whispered, “we’d have talked?” Vivaan thought for a moment, then said, “No. I’d have noticed you. But probably just let the moment pass.” “Why?” “Because moments like this usually don’t ask for attention. Until they demand it.” The lights flickered back on and the train jerked forward, resuming its rhythm. They didn’t speak for a while. At Hauz Khas, Tanya nudged him gently. “My stop,” she said, her voice reluctant. Vivaan nodded. “I’ll get off too.” “This isn’t your stop,” she replied, surprised. “Doesn’t have to be,” he said. As they stepped onto the platform, the city above still soaked in rain, she looked at him and laughed quietly. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Architect.” “Only in the right weather,” he replied. And with that, they climbed the escalator—not away from something, but toward the city again, now walking side by side with something fragile and unnamed growing silently between them.
5
The sky over Delhi had cleared for the first time in days, its monsoon-soaked clouds giving way to patches of reluctant blue. The sun, hesitant but warm, stretched over Humayun’s Tomb, casting long shadows across the red sandstone and white marble. Tanya stood just outside the arched gateway, her camera slung casually around her neck, waiting. She looked different in daylight—no less vibrant, but more composed, as if the sun filtered some of her stormy restlessness. Vivaan spotted her from a distance, leaning against a weather-worn pillar, fingers tapping against her thigh like a silent rhythm she hadn’t noticed. He approached, a small sketchbook in one hand, the other buried in his pocket. “You’re late,” she said, without irritation. “You’re early,” he replied, matching her smirk. They entered together, walking beneath the vast Mughal arches, their footsteps echoing softly. Tanya lifted her camera to capture the symmetry of the tomb’s dome. Vivaan, without speaking, began sketching it in the margins of his book. She noticed, glanced at him sideways, and said, “You always sketch what you love?” “No,” he said. “Sometimes I sketch what I want to understand.”
They wandered the complex slowly, stopping now and then—not for grandeur, but for shadows, carved details, patches of moss on forgotten corners. Tanya sat on a low stone ledge, looking at the old lattice windows, while Vivaan joined her with a soft exhale. “You ever think monuments are just memory made solid?” she asked. “Like someone wanted to trap time in brick.” He nodded. “Sometimes I think they’re proof that people needed permanence, even when everything else felt fragile.” They were quiet for a while, the wind picking up gently, rustling the peepal leaves nearby. Tanya opened up again, this time more carefully. “I used to come here with my father. He loved history. He’d tell me not just facts, but how people probably felt. He’d say, ‘Every tomb has more love stories than death in it.’” Vivaan looked at her, unsure if she meant to reveal something deeper or simply reflect. “He passed away when I was nineteen,” she added, not dramatically. Just fact. “That’s when I started traveling. Like if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to stand still long enough to feel it.” He reached into his bag, pulled out a small charcoal pencil, and began shading a corner of his drawing. “Maybe stillness is a form of honesty,” he said, “and you’re just not ready to look it in the eye.”
Tanya didn’t reply right away. Instead, she snapped a candid photo of him mid-sketch. “You’re hard to photograph,” she muttered. “You always look like you’re listening to something no one else hears.” He smiled, not looking up. “Maybe I am.” She stood, brushing the dust off her jeans, and walked toward the central tomb. He followed a moment later, and they stood beneath the massive dome, surrounded by quiet and stone. It felt like stepping into a memory neither of them owned, but both belonged to. “Do you believe in past lives?” she asked suddenly. “Sometimes,” he said. “Why?” “Because there’s something about you that feels familiar. Like I’ve been here before—with you—even though I know I haven’t.” The words hung in the thick, warm air. Vivaan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead, he reached into his sketchbook and tore out the page he had drawn—a view of the tomb’s archway, but with a tiny figure standing at its center, camera in hand. He handed it to her silently. Tanya took it, folded it gently, and slipped it into her bag like a secret. Outside, the city moved again. But inside that old monument, beneath centuries of layered silence, two people sat in the echo of the present—closer now, and no longer needing the rain to justify it.
6
The café was quiet, tucked away on the second floor of an old building in Shahpur Jat, its windows misted with the evening’s humidity. Outside, the sun was slipping down the spine of the skyline, painting the broken terraces and water tanks in shades of fading gold. Tanya sat across from Vivaan at a corner table cluttered with mugs, napkins, and crumbs of almond cake. Her bag rested open on the bench, camera dangling lazily at its edge, and her fingers fidgeted with a paper straw. Vivaan had pulled out his sketchbook, absentmindedly flipping through pages—arches from Safdarjung, lamp posts from Chandni Chowk, lines of CP’s inner circle—and Tanya, curious, leaned forward. “May I?” she asked, not really waiting for permission. He hesitated, not out of shyness but out of instinct. Still, he slid the book across. Tanya opened it, running her fingers over the pencil lines like they held texture. The sketches were detailed yet raw—capturing not just architecture but atmosphere, memory, emotion. She smiled at his talent, nodded in quiet admiration, until she flipped to a page that stilled her breath: it was her—drawn in sharp strokes and soft eyes, standing under the awning in CP, a kulhad of chai in her hand, her hair wet and wild. “You sketched me?” she asked softly, not with shock, but with something deeper—like being seen.
Vivaan looked at her then, not avoiding the moment. “You looked like someone who might disappear if I blinked,” he said. “So I drew you. To remember the stillness.” Tanya didn’t speak. She closed the book gently and set it aside. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached into her bag and pulled out her old Polaroid camera—scratched, paint-chipped, but loaded. “Smile,” she said, raising it. Vivaan blinked, half-confused, half-flattered. Before he could react, she clicked. The photo ejected with a slow whirr, the colors beginning to bleed through. “For your silence,” she said, mirroring his earlier words at the tomb. “It deserves a face.” He laughed—short, surprised, a little shy. She placed the photo on the table between them. It wasn’t perfectly framed—his hair was tousled, his smile crooked, his eyes somewhere between curiosity and calm. But it was real. “You look like someone who listens before he speaks,” she said, “and that’s rare.” The café’s lights flickered for a second, as the city’s electricity hiccuped with the rising breeze. Outside, the first drops of another evening rain began tapping against the glass, soft and tentative, like footsteps approaching.
Neither of them moved immediately. There was no rush to leave. No rush to define. Tanya reached across and traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. “You know, if I were writing this as a story,” she said, “this is the moment I’d underline.” Vivaan tilted his head. “Because of the sketch?” “No,” she said. “Because of what we’re not saying.” The space between them seemed to shrink without either leaning in. There was a tension—not dramatic, not cinematic—but honest. The kind that doesn’t need music to feel important. Vivaan looked out the window, the rain reflecting like slow tears on the glass. “You’re the only person I’ve met who treats silence like it’s sacred,” he murmured. Tanya stood, camera in one hand, the sketchbook page tucked into her other. “Maybe because words have never quite fit me,” she said. “But with you, they feel less heavy.” They stepped out into the drizzle without umbrellas, their shoulders brushing again like muscle memory. And as they walked, no plans, no map, no labels—just footsteps and shared rain—Tanya looked up and whispered, “Let’s not name this. Let’s just live it.” And Vivaan, for the first time in years, didn’t feel the need to draw the moment to make it real. He was already in it.
7
The sky that evening was heavy with anticipation—not just of rain, but of something lingering in the air, unsaid yet almost tangible. Connaught Place shimmered beneath the dimming light, shop windows glowing like quiet invitations and puddles mirroring streetlights like liquid stars. Tanya stood beneath the same shop awning where it had all begun, her dupatta damp against her shoulders, her fingers curled around a paper bag of roasted peanuts. She was earlier than she said she’d be. Maybe intentionally. Maybe to retrace the curve of that first moment. She hadn’t seen Vivaan all week. Texts had flowed—slow and thoughtful, never hurried, like letters from a different time—but they hadn’t met. She told herself she didn’t need to see him to feel something, but her pulse betrayed her now as she waited. A few minutes later, she heard his voice behind her—not calling her name, just saying hello like he always did, quietly, like he was asking for permission to be near her. She turned around, her face unreadable for a second, then softening. “You made it,” she said. “Would’ve been strange not to,” he replied. They stood there, again under that narrow shade, the world moving around them in an urban blur, just like before—but different. Their eyes held too much now to feel like strangers.
Neither reached for the other. Neither rushed to speak. The silence this time wasn’t new—it was charged, humming with tension, with memory, with all the unspoken things they’d collected in the corners of shared cafés, metro platforms, monuments, and monsoon evenings. Tanya looked out at the rain, which had started again—soft at first, then heavier, like a reminder. “Funny,” she murmured. “It always rains when we’re together.” Vivaan nodded. “Maybe that’s the city trying to slow us down.” She turned toward him then, slowly. “Do you ever wonder what this is?” she asked—not accusingly, not demanding clarity. Just wondering aloud, like a traveler holding a map upside down, knowing the direction but unsure of the names. Vivaan hesitated, then said, “I think… it’s something neither of us wants to label because the moment we do, we might lose how real it feels.” Tanya stepped closer, just slightly. Their shoulders brushed, and this time neither moved away. “What if I told you I want to kiss you?” she whispered. Her voice didn’t shake, but her breath hitched at the end. Vivaan looked at her—not just at her lips, but her eyes, her waiting, her courage. He took a breath, opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t.
And in that flicker of hesitation—between desire and doubt—the world pressed in. A child ran past them laughing, a car horn broke the stillness, the chaiwala nearby shouted “ek cutting!” like it was a mantra. Tanya blinked, stepped back half a step, and let out a soft laugh—bittersweet, slightly embarrassed, but not wounded. “I shouldn’t have said that, huh?” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “No,” Vivaan replied quickly. “You should have. I just…” he stopped himself, then added, “I was afraid I’d ruin something by rushing it.” She looked at him, almost smiling. “And I was afraid I’d ruin it by waiting.” They stood there a moment longer, the rain now falling harder, coating the streets in a silver shimmer. Tanya dropped the peanut bag, now soggy, into a bin and said, “Come on. Walk me to the metro?” Vivaan nodded, falling into step beside her once again. As they crossed the slick stone pavement, not holding hands, not touching, but moving with a shared rhythm, a new understanding settled in—the kind that didn’t need answers tonight. Just the promise that something beautiful had paused—but not ended. And sometimes, the almost is just as unforgettable as the kiss itself.
8
The hills of Mussoorie wore a pale blue mist that curled like smoke over its ridges, making the world feel quieter, smaller. Tanya sat on the rusted balcony of a colonial homestay, knees tucked to her chest, a steaming mug of cinnamon chai warming her fingers. The rain was different here—not chaotic, not soaked in horns and neon, but slow and thoughtful, like a letter being written by the sky. She stared at the forest line across the valley, but her thoughts weren’t in the hills. They were three hundred kilometers away, under the grey arches of Connaught Place. She hadn’t texted Vivaan that morning. Nor the day before. Something inside her had shifted after that night—the almost kiss, the hesitation, the way his eyes met hers and didn’t lean in. It wasn’t about rejection. It was about fear. Her own. His. Both. And fear had always been her cue to leave, to escape before closeness turned into confusion. Tanya told herself the trip was necessary—an article deadline, fresh content, change of air. But the truth folded beneath the excuses: she was running, again. And this time, she wasn’t sure if Vivaan would—or should—follow.
In Delhi, the sky hadn’t cleared. Vivaan sat in his room, the sketch of Tanya under the CP awning now pinned to his corkboard. He hadn’t drawn anything new since she left. Every evening he walked through the city without aim—past Mandi House, past Daryaganj, past those familiar cafés—but nothing called to him. Not the buildings, not the bustle. His fingers itched to draw, but his thoughts circled the same memory: her voice asking, “What if I told you I want to kiss you?” and his silence in response. Not because he didn’t want to. But because in that instant, it had felt too real, too sudden—like love arriving without knocking. He hadn’t heard from her in two days. A short message on the first morning: “Made it safely. Hills are quiet. You’d hate the tea.” He had smiled at that. But since then—nothing. He didn’t want to be the one to intrude. He didn’t want to chase. Yet, he couldn’t focus on anything else. So he wrote. Not a message, but a letter. On paper. Like his grandfather used to. Just words tumbling without precision, admitting that he didn’t know what this was, but he missed it. Missed her. Missed the version of himself he met when he was with her. He folded it. Didn’t send it. Carried it in his sketchbook.
Back in Mussoorie, Tanya sat in a local café, trying to write her travel piece about monsoon moods in the hills, but the words felt borrowed, distant. Her fingers hovered over her laptop keys, her mind wandering back to the way Vivaan looked at her after she pulled away. He hadn’t blamed her. He hadn’t even flinched. He had just stayed still—like he was waiting for her to come back on her own terms. And that scared her more than anything else. Because she wasn’t used to being waited for. Or wanted without demand. She reached into her satchel, pulled out the sketch he’d given her—her silhouette under the archway at Humayun’s Tomb—and traced its edges with her fingertip. She had hundreds of photos, hundreds of edited clips from her travels. But this… this was the only version of her that felt quietly honest. That night, as the hills wrapped themselves in silence, Tanya opened her email. She typed, paused, deleted. Then finally wrote: “Some moments are louder when I’m away from them. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I do know I keep thinking of you. Not just the kiss. All of it. The tea. The awnings. The way you listened. I’ll be back in two days. If you still want to talk—meet me where it began.” She hit send. And then, for the first time in three days, she exhaled without holding back.
9
The rain returned to Delhi like a secret slipping back through a familiar door. It wasn’t wild this time—just steady, rhythmic, almost polite. Connaught Place glistened under its touch, puddles quietly forming along the pavements, headlights casting golden ripples across the wet roads. Vivaan stood under the familiar awning outside the handicrafts store, his shoulders damp, sketchbook pressed tightly under his arm. He had been there for almost an hour, checking his phone only once—to read the email she’d sent the previous night. He had read it slowly, twice, then once again just to hear her voice in the words. There was no declaration in the message. No certainty. But there was vulnerability—and for him, that was more honest than any confession of love. He hadn’t replied. He didn’t need to. She knew where to find him. He waited now, not out of desperation, but out of hope. He had never been the kind of man who waited for anyone. But Tanya wasn’t just anyone. She was a storm and a pause. A moment and a memory. And he wanted to be found by her again—just like the first time, beneath a sky full of rain.
Tanya arrived twenty minutes late, breathless, her duffel slung over her shoulder, her camera bag bouncing against her hip. She spotted him immediately, standing like a still frame in the chaos of motion. For a second, she didn’t approach. Just watched him—the way he watched the city, like he was reading a story it hadn’t told yet. Then she walked forward, slowly, deliberately, until their eyes met. Neither spoke. The rain tapped a steady beat against the awning above them, forming a pocket of stillness between their bodies. Tanya reached into her bag, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to him. “This is for what I couldn’t say in person,” she said softly. Vivaan unfolded it, the ink slightly smudged from travel. Her handwriting curled across the page, uneven, rushed—alive. “I don’t know what this is, or what it could be. I only know I didn’t feel like a stranger when I stood next to you. That hasn’t happened in years. If you still feel the same way, maybe we don’t need to name it yet. Maybe we just need to keep showing up, in the rain, in the quiet, in the middle of nowhere.” Vivaan read it in silence, then folded it slowly, like it was something sacred.
He didn’t say much. Just looked at her, his eyes searching hers not for answers but for courage. Then, with the softest voice, he said, “You came back.” Tanya gave a half-smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” “I wasn’t sure if I should be,” he replied. “But I wanted to be. And that felt like enough.” She looked away for a second, rainwater streaking down her cheek like a misplaced tear. “I’m not easy,” she said. “I overthink, I run, I hide behind jokes and chai and camera lenses.” Vivaan stepped closer, their umbrellas still unopened, their distance shrinking with each breath. “I know,” he said. “But I don’t need easy. I need real.” The air between them changed—no longer thick with doubt, but electric with quiet understanding. He reached out—not dramatically, not urgently—just slowly, offering his hand. She took it, their fingers wet, cold, but steady. And under the same awning where two strangers had once hidden from the rain, something unfolded—not love in its fullest form, not yet, but the beginning of something that didn’t need definitions to feel true. Just two people, standing still, while the city around them hurried past.
10
The city had begun to breathe differently that evening—as if sensing a quiet culmination. Connaught Place, bathed in the golden-blue hue of post-rain twilight, shimmered under flickering lamplight and the rustle of wet leaves. Tanya and Vivaan walked side by side through the inner circle, slowly, as though each step mattered. They weren’t speaking, but nothing felt unsaid. Her fingers were still wrapped in his, their touch calm, not urgent—like they had finally caught up with the moment they’d both been circling around. At Central Park, music floated in faintly from a street guitarist playing under a Metro exit—the tune something familiar but unnamed, like their story. They walked toward the center, past benches with drenched lovers, past vendors lighting evening incense to keep away mosquitoes. The Indian flag, towering above them, waved silently in the breeze. Tanya paused near the railing, her eyes scanning the skyline with a softness that had returned to her only recently. “You know,” she said, her voice low, “the first time I saw you, I thought—he doesn’t belong in this chaos. He looks like someone who builds quiet.” Vivaan turned to her, smiling. “And you looked like someone who carries storms in her pockets.” They both laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was true.
The laughter faded, replaced by silence again—but this one was different. It was heavy with anticipation, the kind that lives in pauses before things that change everything. Tanya looked at him, her expression no longer playful, but wide open. “Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked, not coyly, not challengingly—just honestly, as if naming it was its own act of intimacy. Vivaan took a slow breath, stepped a little closer. His hand came up, hesitating for a moment before brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “I’ve wanted to,” he said, “but I didn’t want to do it because the rain or the setting made it feel right. I wanted to do it when it felt like we made it right.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes locked on his, heart in her throat. “And?” she whispered. “And now it feels like we’re not pretending to be in the same moment anymore. We’re actually in it.” That was all. He leaned in—not hurried, not dramatic—and kissed her. It wasn’t a cinematic kiss. It didn’t come with a sweeping camera or thunder overhead. It was slow, careful, grounding. His lips met hers like punctuation—like the period at the end of a sentence that had taken ten chapters to write.
The kiss wasn’t about passion or performance. It was about everything they had built without touching—every chai cup shared, every silence honored, every sketch, every rain, every almost. When they finally parted, they didn’t say anything for a long time. They just stood there, forehead to forehead, smiles unfolding slowly. Around them, Delhi continued as it always did—loud, indifferent, alive. But within the circle of that kiss, the chaos had paused. Tanya rested her head briefly against his shoulder, and he rested his chin in her hair. “So,” she murmured, “what now?” Vivaan looked out at the horizon, where the first star of the evening blinked between clouds. “Now,” he said, “we walk. Tomorrow, we meet again. No labels, just rain if it comes. And if not—chai will do.” She smiled, took his hand again, and together they stepped back into the heartbeat of the city—two souls, no longer lost, no longer waiting. Just kissing in Connaught Place, finally, under the softest sky Delhi had offered in years.
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