Tania Mattu
Part 1: The DM That Didn’t Send
Aarav Kapoor stared at the blinking cursor on his screen, his thumb hovering above the send button. The message read: “Hey, you seemed really cool at the open mic. Want to grab coffee sometime?” But he didn’t press send. Instead, he backspaced all the way to blank and tossed his phone onto the bed. He exhaled loudly. “What am I doing?”
He had met Zoya exactly three nights ago at a chaotic open mic night in Bandra. She wasn’t performing; she was in the corner, sketching people with a black ink pen and a journal that looked like it had seen the insides of a thousand cafes. Her oversized jacket had pins all over it: K-pop, cats, climate change slogans. Aarav, who was there reading poetry about heartbreak in the digital age, had caught her eye once. She had smiled. He had frozen.
He remembered walking up to her after his performance, sweat still on his palms. “That was intense,” she had said, looking up from her sketchbook. “You write like you’re trying to save yourself.”
He hadn’t known what to say, so he had just nodded and said, “And you draw like you’re listening to ghosts.”
That had made her laugh. Then someone had called her name—Zoya—and she had vanished into the crowd. He had managed to find her on Instagram the next morning through the event’s tagged photos. Her bio was a chaotic mix of emojis, Urdu couplets, and “offline > online” in bold.
Now he sat on the edge of his bed, wondering how you asked out someone who seemed to already live in a parallel universe of analog beauty. He was all about Google Calendar invites and scheduled voice notes. She was torn-paper love letters and midnight walks without destination.
He picked up his phone again, opened the app, and scrolled through her feed. Every picture was film-like: a chai glass steaming against rain-fogged windows, a candid of her feeding dogs on Carter Road, a Polaroid of her own hands with henna ink spelling something cryptic. No selfies. No filters. No reels.
His finger hovered again. This time, he typed something new: “I don’t know how to be as cool as you are, but I’d love to try. Can I take you out for a walk and chai?”
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
Then he threw the phone face-down and turned off his lights.
It buzzed five minutes later.
Zoya: “Chai is always a good idea. Saturday? 5pm. Bandstand. Don’t bring an umbrella.”
Aarav sat up. What did that mean? Why no umbrella? Was she testing his spontaneity? Was she into rainy dates?
Saturday was three days away.
He opened Spotify, searched for her favorite artist (she had tagged one in a story once), and lay back in the dark, wondering how to impress someone who already seemed to live like poetry.
He had no idea this would be the beginning of the most analog, unfiltered, offline love story of his generation.
Part 2: No Umbrellas Allowed
Saturday came wrapped in grey clouds and restless wind, like the city itself was unsure how to behave. Aarav stood at Bandstand five minutes early, trying not to look like someone who had spent an hour choosing between three different denim jackets. He’d finally gone with the one that had a faint ink stain on the sleeve—he figured Zoya would approve.
The waves were wild today, slapping the rocks like they were angry with the city. Couples were already lining the promenade, sharing a single earbud between them, sipping juice from plastic cups. He spotted her before she saw him—Zoya, walking like she was following a rhythm only she could hear, a cloth sling bag swinging by her side, strands of hair sticking to her cheek.
She was wearing yellow socks with sandals. He didn’t know why that made his heart skip, but it did.
“Hey,” he said, as casually as possible, hands in his pockets.
Zoya blinked once at him, then grinned. “You came.”
“You told me not to bring an umbrella. I obeyed.”
“Good. Umbrellas are traitors. They pretend to protect you, but they never do.” She looked up at the sky, then at him. “Come. I know a secret chaiwala.”
They walked past the main stalls, down a side lane that led into a quiet residential patch where old bungalows survived like forgotten bookmarks. Zoya talked the whole way, about how the rains washed colors sharper, about a parrot she once saw mimic a ringtone, about how Bandra was changing and not in a good way.
“You always talk like you’re narrating a podcast episode,” Aarav said, smiling.
“Only in monsoon,” she replied. “Rain activates my eccentricity.”
The chaiwala turned out to be an old man with a big moustache who used glass tumblers and refused to serve chai in paper cups, calling them “soulless.” Zoya ordered for both of them.
When she handed Aarav his glass, she looked at him seriously. “Sip carefully. This chai is too hot for capitalism.”
He laughed. “What does that even mean?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her sketchbook and showed him a page. It was a drawing of someone reciting poetry on stage, a lone figure in spotlight, words falling like petals around him. “This is you.”
Aarav’s mouth went dry. “You drew me?”
“I sketch people who are trying to say something real,” she said. “And that night, you were all heart. Also, you blink too much when nervous. It was fun to draw.”
He had no idea what to say. He stared at the chai instead.
“So,” Zoya leaned in, eyes twinkling, “are you always this socially anxious or am I special?”
Aarav chuckled. “You’re terrifying.”
“Good. Keeps the fake people away.” She sipped her chai, the steam curling into her hair. “So, why poetry? You don’t look like the tortured kind.”
“I’m not tortured. Just… confused. Writing is the only place I feel clear.” Aarav paused. “My last breakup was messy. I think I started writing just to hear my own voice again.”
Zoya nodded slowly. “That’s fair. I write notes to myself on receipts. I throw them away immediately. But in the moment, they’re life-saving.”
They finished their chai in silence. The sky above had started to drizzle.
“You okay walking in rain?” she asked, already pulling her hood up.
He shrugged. “Apparently umbrellas are traitors.”
She grinned and they walked back toward the sea. There was something about walking beside Zoya that made time dissolve. She didn’t check her phone even once. Aarav realized he had kept his phone on silent for the first time in weeks.
“I have a rule,” she said suddenly, as they reached the promenade. “First rainwalk with a person, you ask one honest question. No filters.”
Aarav raised his eyebrow. “Okay. Go ahead.”
Zoya stopped walking, faced him. “What are you most afraid of right now?”
He hesitated. “Of liking you too much. And messing it up.”
Her eyes didn’t flinch. “Good answer.”
Then she kept walking.
His turn. He caught up and said, “My turn. What are you hiding from?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then: “From becoming just another scrollable person. You know? I want to matter, not perform.”
That sat heavy between them.
They reached the edge of the rocks, where the sea spray hit them every few seconds. Zoya sat down on a wet boulder like it was the throne of a queen who didn’t mind being soaked.
Aarav sat next to her. “Do you ever go online?”
“I have to. I post some of my art. But I delete apps after three days. Detox cycles.”
“What if someone important texts you on the fourth day?”
“If they’re important, they’ll find a way.”
He liked that. He wanted to be someone who would find a way.
They talked till the light faded and the city turned into a postcard of twinkling orange. Zoya pulled out a small film camera and snapped a photo of him mid-laugh.
“No retakes?” he asked.
“No filters. No retakes. That’s the point.”
He shivered a little. She offered him half of her scarf.
It was the most romantic thing he had ever experienced.
Later, as they walked back toward the station, she asked, “So what now?”
“Another walk?” he offered. “Another chai?”
“I don’t repeat experiences. But I make exceptions if someone brings me a surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“You’ll have to figure it out. Clue: it’s not a Spotify playlist.”
He grinned, watching her disappear into the crowd again.
That night, Aarav didn’t scroll Instagram. He pulled out a notebook, something he hadn’t touched in years, and began writing.
Page one: She drinks chai like it’s a philosophy. She walks like the world might end tonight and she wants to make friends with every shadow. I think she might be the poem I’ve been trying to write.
He didn’t know what this was.
But he knew it wasn’t just a DM anymore.
It was beginning to feel like a story.
An offline one.
Part 3: Surprise Me, Offline
Monday morning brought the usual chaos. Deadlines, Zoom calls, Slack pings, and that unrelenting pressure to “engage” in group chats. Aarav moved through it like a half-plugged phone—functional, but not fully charged. His mind kept circling back to Zoya. Her yellow socks. Her strange chai metaphors. The way she looked into the sea like it held better answers than Google.
He had barely known her for a week, but it felt like the algorithm of his life had glitched in the best way.
His flatmate Rehan noticed the change. “Dude, you’ve been humming. You never hum.”
“I hum,” Aarav replied, defensively.
“You hum like a man in love,” Rehan teased. “What’s her @handle?”
“No handle. She’s anti-handle.”
“Ah,” Rehan nodded. “You’ve met one of those. Vintage souls. Beware. They smell like wet books and cause emotional damage.”
Aarav ignored him.
Instead, he pulled out his now-dusty notebook and wrote down a list.
Zoya’s Surprise Wishlist: (Things She Didn’t Ask For, But Would Totally Approve Of)
1. A chai blend I make myself
2. A poem hidden inside a library book
3. Street dog treats in her bag
4. A song written but never posted
5. A disposable camera trail date
6. A letter on handmade paper
Number six. That’s where his eyes rested.
That evening, he walked to an old paper store near Fort, the kind that still sold thick textured sheets and ink pens. He bought two cream-coloured A4 sheets that smelled like eucalyptus and an envelope that looked like it had time-travelled from 1965.
When he got home, he stared at the page for twenty minutes before writing:
“Dear Zoya,
I don’t know if this counts as a surprise, but I do know I haven’t written anyone a letter since 2013. That was to my tuition teacher asking for an extension. This is, hopefully, more romantic.
You’re a little confusing. Like a poem that changes its meaning depending on who reads it. I like that.
The way you look at the world makes me feel like I’ve been walking around half-blind.
If I brought you a thermos of my homemade chai, would you give me a review? Stars optional.
I want to see more of the city through your eyes. I want to know what your favorite corner in a bookstore is. I want to learn the soundtrack of your walks.
Let’s make a deal. I give you surprises. You give me time.
Offline, always.
Aarav.”
He folded the letter three times and sealed it with a sticker he found on his old laptop—“Poetry is not dead.” He knew where she hung out. She had posted a sketch once with a café sign faintly visible: Café Shunya, tucked into a lane near Mount Mary.
On Tuesday afternoon, he visited the café. The server, a nose-ringed girl with blue hair, nodded when he asked, “Does Zoya come here often?”
“Every other day,” she said. “Back table. Always sketching.”
He slid the envelope into a worn poetry book from the café’s shelf—Milk and Honey, page 87. A sticky note on top read: “For the girl who draws ghosts.”
He walked out before he could change his mind.
Two days passed. No message. No response. Nothing.
Aarav was beginning to think maybe he had overstepped, been too intense, too soon. He didn’t even know her last name.
But on Friday morning, when he stepped into his co-working space, there was a brown envelope taped to his locker. No name. Just a line in bold handwriting:
“This is not a reply. This is a sequel.”
Inside was a drawing. A sketch of a boy sitting on a rooftop, writing into the sky with an invisible pen. Behind him, a thermos labeled “Hope.” On the back of the paper, she’d written:
“Surprise level: 8/10.
Subtle nostalgia. Good use of stationery.
Meet me Sunday. 4:30pm.
Don’t ask where. If you’re meant to find me, you will.”
Aarav stared at the sketch, heart thudding. She was playing a game, and he was already addicted.
Sunday, 4:25 pm. Bandra station.
He stood at the ticket counter like a lost tourist, scanning every corner for a sign. Then he remembered something she had said—“the city leaves clues if you listen right.”
He closed his eyes and tried to think like Zoya.
Analog. Handwritten. Hidden in plain sight.
He walked past the platforms and onto the footbridge. Something fluttered near a rusted railing. A small paper plane.
He picked it up.
Inside:
“Follow the man with the yellow umbrella.”
There he was—an old uncle, possibly retired, walking slowly out the back exit toward Chapel Road. Aarav followed, keeping distance. The man turned left into a side street and disappeared.
Another paper plane near a shuttered bookstore.
“You’re close. Smell the sea.”
He ran toward the coast, heart racing.
There, on the stairs near Mount Mary, she sat—Zoya, scribbling on a canvas tote bag, headphones in. When she saw him, she didn’t smile immediately.
“You found me,” she said. “You passed the test.”
“I like tests where the reward is you.”
“Smooth,” she said, sipping something from a steel cup. “Chai?”
He nodded. “Chai.”
They sat side by side, the kind of quiet that only happened between people already writing stories in their heads. She handed him the tote bag. His name was painted across it—in brush-lettered ink, surrounded by stars and cassette tapes and open books.
“I made you something too,” she said. “To carry your words.”
Aarav wanted to say something poetic. Instead, he just held the bag and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Zoya said. “Next Sunday, we’re going on a walk. No phones. No clocks. Just intuition and street chai.”
“Deal,” he said. “But one condition.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I want to draw you someday. In my own way. With words.”
She looked away, cheeks just slightly pink. “Then make it worth sketching.”
They walked together, no map, no destination.
Somewhere between vintage bookstores and rain puddles, a Gen Z love story was being written—one surprise at a time.
Offline.
Always.
Part 4: Walks Without Wi-Fi
Zoya showed up in combat boots and a sweatshirt that said “Exist Loudly.” Aarav arrived with a flask of adrak chai he had brewed himself at dawn. No phones. No watches. No backup plans. Just one loosely agreed rule: walk until you both feel like stopping.
“So where are we going?” Aarav asked as they started along the graffiti-covered walls of Ranwar Village.
“Wherever the city leads,” she said, tugging her hoodie strings. “Think of it as a trust fall into Bombay’s chaos.”
It was an odd feeling—disconnected from the grid, no blue dots on a map, no Google to rescue you with cafe ratings or restroom directions. Just the sound of slippers, street dogs barking, the rustle of leaves, and the slow, sacred rhythm of footsteps syncing.
They passed by a small church where choir practice was underway. Zoya stopped. “Let’s listen.”
Aarav raised a brow. “You’re not Christian.”
“Neither are birds, but they still sing.”
They sat on the outer steps. A group of kids were singing hymns slightly off-key, giggling between verses. One kid kept clapping at the wrong beat. Zoya watched with rapt attention.
“You ever think,” she whispered, “how weirdly beautiful imperfect things are?”
“All the time,” Aarav said.
“You write about that?”
“I try. But writing about imperfect things perfectly kind of kills the point, doesn’t it?”
Zoya smiled. “That’s why I draw with ink. No erasing.”
When the choir ended, they kept walking. They found a small second-hand store tucked beside a fruit vendor. The sign read: “We Sell What You Forgot.”
Zoya lit up. “Oh my god, I love places like this.”
Inside, the shelves were cluttered with vinyls, rusted keys, orphaned mugs, old postcards from cities no one visits anymore. Zoya picked up a coaster with the words “Nothing Happens Unless You Let It.”
Aarav picked up a children’s book with the corner torn off. “This place smells like expired nostalgia.”
The owner, a woman in her sixties with thick glasses, said, “Buy something. Or leave a secret.”
“What kind of secret?” Zoya asked.
“There’s a box,” the woman said, pointing. “Drop your truth. Pick one in return.”
The box was wooden, covered in stickers and thumbtacks. Inside were dozens of tiny folded slips.
Zoya pulled a crumpled one:
“I kissed my best friend’s brother the night before their wedding.”
Aarav pulled one too:
“I still listen to the last voicemail she left, just to hear her laugh.”
He stared at it a moment longer.
Zoya looked at him. “You okay?”
He nodded, quietly slipping it back.
Then he wrote on a fresh paper:
“I’m scared I’ll never be as brave on paper as I am in my heart.”
Zoya dropped one in too. Aarav didn’t ask what it said. That’s not how secrets work.
They walked out holding matching keychains that said “Not All Who Wander Are Lost.”
Later, they sat near a pavement chai stall. Two old men beside them were having a heated debate about whether Kishore Kumar was better than Mohammed Rafi. Zoya sipped the last of Aarav’s chai and whispered, “This is the kind of day I want to live inside forever.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Why me?”
She blinked. “Why what-you?”
“Why are you letting me into this… analog world of yours?”
Zoya seemed to think for a long time. Then she said, “Because you’re quiet in the right ways. And loud in the right places.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t talk too much when the city is speaking. But when your heart speaks, you don’t censor it.”
He flushed. “That’s the nicest—and vaguest—compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
She laughed. “I aim for poetic confusion.”
They wandered down to the jetty, where ferry boats bobbed like lazy thoughts. A man with a flute sat cross-legged, playing a haunting melody that echoed between the buildings. Zoya closed her eyes, swaying slightly. Aarav wanted to memorize the way her hair moved in the breeze, the way her eyebrows furrowed when she was listening deeply.
He leaned in. “Zoya?”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m falling for you.”
She opened her eyes but didn’t turn. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I’m scared. In a good way.”
Now she turned to look at him. “I don’t do fast feelings, Aarav. Or declarations. I’m… slow. Messy. Difficult.”
“I like slow. I’m not here for fireworks. I’m here for a candle that doesn’t go out in the wind.”
Zoya smiled so softly it barely existed. “You say things like that and expect me to not fall back?”
They sat in silence, listening to the sea.
It started raining—slow and almost apologetic. No umbrellas, of course. Just them. Zoya opened her sling bag and pulled out two paper boats.
“I always carry them,” she said. “One for me. One for whoever deserves it.”
Aarav took his, smiling. “What if I ruin it?”
“Then we fold another one together. That’s how it works.”
They placed the boats on the water and watched them float, side by side, until the ripples pulled them apart.
“That’s love, you know,” Zoya said. “Two people trying to sail together before the current wins.”
Aarav looked at her and whispered, “Then let’s keep folding boats.”
The rain grew heavier.
Still no umbrellas.
Still no regrets.
Part 5: Glitches in the System
By Tuesday, the city had dried its hair in the sun, but Aarav’s world felt wetter than ever. Something had shifted after that rainwalk. He could feel it. It wasn’t the nervous flutter of early flirtation anymore. It was something thicker, slower—like warm honey. He found himself doing absurd things: reading poetry under streetlamps, buying extra samosas just to share with stray dogs, and smiling at bus conductors who didn’t smile back. Zoya’s world was seeping into his. And he liked it.
But even the most analog love stories live in a digital world. And sometimes, the glitches begin there.
It started with a text.
Rehan: Bro. Check Insta. Now.
Aarav, who hadn’t opened Instagram in a week, sighed. He tapped the app reluctantly. Notifications exploded. Tags. Mentions. DMs.
And then he saw it.
Zoya. At an art exhibit in Lower Parel. Standing next to a guy with silver rings and a man-bun, their arms around each other. Someone had posted a reel: “Power duo back at it again #ZoAndNeil #OGArtists”
His chest tightened.
Comments were filled with fire emojis and heart eyes.
“The two icons. Missed you guys together!”
“When is the next collab?”
“Back like they never left!”
He stared at the reel on loop. Zoya laughing, Neil whispering something in her ear, her swatting his arm like an old inside joke had come alive. Aarav watched it five times before locking his phone and hurling it onto the bed.
He didn’t want to be jealous. He didn’t even know the context. But jealousy is stupid like that. It doesn’t ask for permission.
By evening, he had spiraled into a rabbit hole of Neil’s Instagram. A thousand curated posts—gallery launches, backpacking trips, a New York residency. And of course, Zoya. In several of them. Smiling like someone who belonged there.
Aarav felt like a footnote.
He met Zoya the next afternoon at a cemetery.
Yes, a literal cemetery.
“I like walking here,” she explained, hopping over a wet patch of moss. “No one pretends here. Not even the silence.”
Aarav tried to match her calm, but the reel was still playing in his head.
“So…” he began carefully. “Neil.”
Zoya stopped. “You saw the reel?”
He nodded.
She chewed her lip. “We dated. Three years. Broke up last winter.”
“Still close?”
“I thought we weren’t. But the art scene’s small. He curated the exhibit. I couldn’t say no.”
Aarav nodded, unsure what expression his face was making.
Zoya looked at him. “You think I lied?”
“No,” he said too quickly. “It’s just… I didn’t expect to be surprised like this.”
“I didn’t know it would go viral. People love projecting love onto past versions of people.”
“But do you still love him?”
She laughed, short and bitter. “Love’s not a switch. You don’t flick it off. But no, I’m not in it anymore. Not with him.”
The quiet between them was thicker than the monsoon air.
“I’m not mad,” Aarav said. “I’m just… a little scared.”
“Of what?”
“That you belong in a world I don’t even understand. Galleries. Artists. Old lovers who still orbit you.”
Zoya took a step closer. “You think I orbit that world? I’m always leaving it. That’s why I walk in cemeteries.”
He let out a weak laugh.
Zoya touched his wrist. “You don’t have to compete with ghosts.”
“I’m not. I’m just wondering if I’m enough for you.”
Now her voice was soft. “I chose to drink your chai instead of sipping champagne with curators. Doesn’t that count?”
He looked at her for a long second, then exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
She nudged him playfully. “Come on. You owe me a surprise, remember?”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. Right now. Or you’ll lose your analog boyfriend status.”
He smiled, the cloud lifting slightly. “Okay. But you have to trust me.”
They took a rickshaw to Worli village, where the city feels older than its skyline. Aarav led her to a rooftop he used to sneak onto during college—flat, open, with a perfect view of the sea.
He pulled out a folded sheet from his pocket and handed it to her. “Read it.”
Zoya opened it. Her eyebrows arched.
It was a poem.
You, with ink-smudged fingers and weather in your hair,
walk like a metaphor no one’s finished writing.
You make chai taste like cinema,
and cemeteries feel like living rooms.
I’m still learning how to hold silence without breaking it,
but with you, it almost feels like music.
Zoya was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, “You wrote this?”
“I wrote you,” Aarav said. “In the only language I know.”
She folded the paper with almost ceremonial care. “You’re dangerous.”
“I thought I was quiet in the right ways?”
“You are. And that’s why you’re dangerous.”
They stood there, the wind pushing against their clothes, the sea hurling itself toward the shore below.
Then she leaned in and kissed him.
No music. No witnesses. Just the click of a rooftop door closing somewhere far behind them.
A kiss like punctuation—soft, certain, necessary.
When they pulled away, Zoya whispered, “No reels. No captions. Just us.”
Aarav smiled. “Offline, always.”
Part 6: Seen, Not Replied
The week that followed was a quiet revolution. No confessions, no updates, no relationship statuses. But something in the air between Aarav and Zoya had changed. They started existing in each other’s worlds like annotations in the margins—visible only if you paid attention.
They didn’t text often. Zoya didn’t believe in “checking in” unless it was urgent. Aarav, slowly detoxing from the tyranny of instant replies, was beginning to understand why.
They’d meet by coincidence that wasn’t really coincidence—both showing up at the same book launch at Kitab Khana, or spotting each other at a protest in Azad Maidan, or running into one another in the line outside an old-school dosa place in Matunga. Each meeting felt like a page added to a zine they were co-authoring with ink-stained fingertips and shared glances.
But then, it happened.
On a Thursday morning, Aarav texted her.
Aarav (10:12am): Thought of you when it started raining. Hope you’re somewhere warm, with strong chai and good ghosts.
The message stayed seen. No reply.
Hour after hour passed. Then day turned to evening. Then evening turned to Friday.
Zoya didn’t reply.
Aarav tried not to spiral. She wasn’t the type to reply just for the sake of it. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was off-grid. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed.
But he’d seen the blue tick. He knew she’d read it.
His flatmate Rehan didn’t help.
“Bro. You’ve been staring at your phone like it’s going to apologize.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re typing poetry in your cereal. That’s not fine.”
“It’s just… Zoya didn’t reply.”
“Damn. Ghosted?”
“No. Just… quiet.”
“You sure you’re not being romantic about being ignored?”
Aarav didn’t answer. But the question stuck.
Saturday, 6pm. He decided to visit Café Shunya.
She wasn’t there.
The barista with the blue hair gave him a small envelope. “She left this. Said if anyone came looking for her, especially a boy with lost-puppy eyes, give him this.”
He opened the envelope right there, standing in the doorway as an old jazz song played inside.
“Aarav,
Sorry for the silence. I didn’t mean to vanish. I’ve been doing this thing lately—deleting everything. Socials. Messages. Notifications.
The rain sometimes triggers me. I start thinking in loops.
Neil reached out again. Nothing dramatic, don’t worry. Just a painting of mine he wants to show at a gallery.
And I froze. Not because of him. But because I hate that I still get rattled by my past.
I saw your message. It was beautiful. It made me smile. It made me scared.
You’re writing yourself into my life like you already know how the story ends. But I don’t. I’m not used to people staying.
Give me time. I promise I’ll meet you when the noise calms down.
Zoya.”
He read the letter three times before sitting down at their usual table.
She hadn’t ghosted him. She had glitched. Like real people do.
That night, Aarav did something impulsive. He printed out one of his poems, rolled it into a glass bottle, and placed it at their old rooftop spot in Worli with a note:
“When you’re ready, come find this. If it’s still here, it means I still am too.”
Then he walked away.
Days passed. Then a week.
Nothing.
Aarav started going back to his old life—sort of. He posted a new poem on Instagram. He met Rehan’s friends at a loud bar he hated. He even started considering that maybe this had been one of those beautiful, short-lived things that leaves you changed but not attached.
But deep down, he hadn’t let go.
Then one Friday evening, he got a message.
Unknown number: “Bring thermos. Rooftop. Midnight. If the bottle’s still there, you get a hug. If not, you get a poem back.”
His heart dropped into his stomach.
He didn’t reply.
He just packed the chai.
—
Worli, 12:04 am. The skyline was a glittering lie in the background. On the rooftop, the bottle was still there—untouched.
And so was Zoya.
Sitting cross-legged, sketchbook in her lap, a paper boat folded beside her.
She didn’t say anything.
Neither did he.
He poured her chai, steam curling in the night air between them.
“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed us.”
“There is no ‘us’ without both showing up.”
“I know. I’m here now.”
They sipped silently. Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed, then stopped.
“I read the poem,” she said.
“Which one?”
“The one in the bottle.”
“You never replied.”
“I’m replying now. In person. The only way that matters.”
He smiled.
“I’m learning,” she continued. “That love doesn’t have to arrive perfectly timed. It can stumble in, forget its lines, and still be the best act in the play.”
“I wasn’t asking for perfect.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s what makes this terrifying.”
She reached into her sling bag and pulled out a cassette tape with a small note:
> Side A: For when you miss me.
Side B: For when you’re mad at me.
He turned it over, grinning. “How am I supposed to play this? It’s not 1992.”
“You figure it out,” she said. “Analog love, remember?”
They laughed.
And that night, there were no ghosts.
Only two people trying to stay.
Offline. Still.
Always.
Part 7: Side B Blues
Aarav spent the next day rummaging through his father’s attic. It took two hours, a bruised knee, and three sneezes, but he finally found it: a dusty black cassette player, half-covered in old Diwali decorations. The batteries had leaked, so he had to hunt down a power adapter from an ancient drawer labeled “random tech junk.”
That night, under a lamp that flickered with dramatic timing, he clicked PLAY.
Side A: For when you miss me.
The tape crackled. Then her voice.
“Hi. You’ve reached Zoya. Not really. This isn’t voicemail. It’s just… proof that I exist when I’m not around.
Track one: Remember the church choir? That off-key kid is still in my head. I want us to go back and clap out of sync again.
Track two: I hope this chai you’re drinking tastes like the one you made with too much ginger that day, because you said ‘bold love needs bold chai.’ You absolute romantic fool.
Track three: You once said you weren’t sure if you were enough. But I think you’re the quiet breath between storms. And I miss that breath more than I thought I would.”
Aarav sat frozen. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear her voice uninterrupted by the world. There was no typing bubble. No read receipts. Just her, speaking like she had carved this message from the moon.
He flipped to Side B.
Side B: For when you’re mad at me.
Zoya’s tone changed.
“Okay, first of all, if you’re listening to this, it means I messed up. Again. Or you think I did.
Second—yes, I get moody. I vanish. I turn into a ghost with Wi-Fi issues. I overthink everything. Including whether I’m worthy of being loved by someone who still writes in cursive.
I’m not perfect, Aarav. I don’t always know how to be in love without running.
But I want to try. With you.
So please—when I disappear, don’t chase me. Just… wait by the rooftop. I promise I’ll find my way back.”
The tape ended with a faint hum of music—her humming, off-key and vulnerable.
Aarav didn’t move for a long time.
Then he pulled out his journal and began to write.
A week passed.
This time, they didn’t meet accidentally. They met on purpose.
Aarav called her from a payphone near the museum, just to be dramatic. She answered, laughing: “Okay, you’ve officially gone analog-core.”
They met at a forgotten garden near Walkeshwar. It had no name, just a rusty gate and uneven steps. But the trees were old and generous. Birds nested without fear. And the air felt like it hadn’t been touched by Wi-Fi.
Zoya arrived with a small picnic basket. “No tech. No shoes. Just snacks and secrets.”
They kicked off their shoes, sat cross-legged on a mat, and shared homemade idlis and a thermos of lemon tea. Aarav brought grapes. Zoya claimed she hated grapes but ate all the red ones anyway.
“I listened to the tape,” he said eventually.
She looked up. “Side B?”
“Both sides.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Did it make you mad?”
“No. It made me stay.”
She nodded, looking relieved.
“I want to do this differently,” he said. “I don’t want us to be ‘almosts’ or ‘what-ifs.’ I don’t want to wait for perfect timing.”
“Same,” she said, softly.
“Let’s make this a rule,” he continued. “When things get messy, we don’t text. We meet. In person. Even if it’s just to fight.”
Zoya extended her pinky. “Analog promise.”
He linked his. “Analog forever.”
They stayed in that garden until the light faded, drawing constellations in the dust and naming imaginary planets. Zoya made up a whole backstory for a star that blinked twice.
“He’s named Rui,” she said. “Rui the Lonely Planet. He doesn’t orbit anyone. Just wanders and writes songs about moons he’ll never kiss.”
“You should publish that.”
“I just did. You heard it.”
Over the next few weeks, things became warmer, softer. They started building routines—Zoya would sketch near the fountain at St. Xavier’s every Wednesday, and Aarav would meet her there with a thermos of whatever chai experiment he was trying. On Sundays, they would pick a random spot on the train map and go there, phones off, with no expectations.
They had a notebook they passed between each other—a shared journal titled Things We’ll Forget If We Don’t Write Down. It had poems, sketches, song lyrics, arguments, inside jokes, and pressed flowers.
One entry from Zoya read:
Aarav made chai with cardamom today. Said it reminded him of my voice. I think he’s insane. But I wrote a haiku anyway:
cardamom kisses
taste like rains on rooftop lips
memory lingers*
One entry from Aarav said:
Zoya got mad at me for talking during her sketching session. She didn’t speak for twenty minutes. I thought I ruined the date. Turns out she was drawing me the whole time. I looked like a Greek god with anxiety. I’m honored.
But analog love, like any kind of love, wasn’t free from friction.
One evening, while painting her tote bag near Carter Road, Zoya got a call from Neil. Aarav saw the name flash on her phone screen. She declined it, but her expression shifted.
He didn’t say anything.
Later, as they walked home, she asked, “You’re quiet.”
“I saw the name.”
“Yeah.”
“Still has space in your life?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Not the way you think. But history is a weird kind of clutter.”
“You can tell me anything,” he said. “Even the messy stuff.”
“I know. That’s why it’s harder.”
They didn’t fight. But they didn’t kiss goodbye either.
That night, Aarav didn’t write in the journal. He just stared at the cassette tape still on his desk.
Love, even when unplugged, had static.
But he wasn’t scared of static anymore.
Part 8: Paper Cuts and Peace Offerings
The silence between them lasted three days.
Not dramatic silence. Not stormy silence. Just the kind where both parties are waiting for the other to blink first.
Aarav wrote four poems and deleted all of them. Zoya sketched three new pieces, but none of them felt right. Their shared notebook sat untouched on his shelf, the spine slightly bent, like even it was exhausted from holding their story.
On the fourth day, Aarav finally gave in to the weight of missing her. He didn’t text. He didn’t call.
Instead, he did what Zoya would have done.
He made something.
He walked to the small paper shop in Fort and bought ten sheets of thick handmade paper, all uneven and slightly scented. He spent two hours crafting origami cranes—ten in total, each folded with care and the memory of a specific moment they’d shared. On the wings of each crane, he wrote one sentence.
> This is for the first time you laughed at my nervous joke.
This is for the way you hold a sketchbook like it’s a weapon.
This is for the time you said cardamom reminded you of safety.
This is for Side B.
This is for Rui, the lonely planet.
This is for the time we walked through rain without pretending to be dry.
This is for the rooftop kiss that felt like punctuation.
This is for the Wednesday chai sessions you never missed.
This is for the things we’ll forget if we don’t write down.
This is for the silence, which I now understand is part of your song.
He packed the cranes into a small cloth pouch and biked to Café Shunya just before closing. He handed the pouch to the barista.
“If she comes,” he said, “just… give her this.”
The barista gave him a slow smile. “Trouble in analog paradise?”
“More like a system reboot.”
—
The next morning, he found a small envelope under his door.
No name. Just a single line on the back:
“To the boy who folds words into birds.”
Inside was a hand-drawn map of the city.
But it wasn’t any map he recognized.
This one had no roads, no station names, no landmarks.
Instead, it was filled with things like:
> “Where we watched birds fight for breadcrumbs”
“Where you said the world smells better in monsoon”
“Where we argued over chai temperature”
“Where I almost told you I was falling in love”
“Where I actually did”
Each location was marked with a tiny red heart.
At the bottom of the map was a message.
> “You said I could tell you the messy stuff.
So here’s the mess:
Neil is a memory. You are a possibility.
And I choose possibility.
Meet me at the bookstore. 6pm.
Let’s annotate each other again.”
—
6:00 PM. Kitab Khana.
Zoya stood in the poetry aisle, hair tied up with a pencil, wearing that ridiculous tote bag he had once called a fashion rebellion.
She looked up when she saw him.
He didn’t say anything.
He just pulled a book from the shelf—Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet—opened to a random page, and slid their shared notebook inside it, like a love note between strangers.
Zoya stepped closer, slipped her hand into his, and whispered, “Don’t ever stop folding birds.”
He whispered back, “Only if you keep drawing maps no one else understands.”
They bought the book. The cashier looked slightly confused, but they didn’t explain.
On the sidewalk outside, she kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry I take time.”
“I’m sorry I sometimes rush.”
“Together we’re medium pace,” she said, smirking.
He laughed. “Medium pace is perfect.”
—
That Sunday, they hosted a tiny rooftop gathering.
Just them. Two cups. A thermos of jasmine chai. A few blank pages.
They took turns writing each other small notes, folding them into more birds.
At the end of the evening, they tied strings to each one and released them over the city.
Not for wishes.
Just as reminders.
That even in a world spinning with noise and reels and DMs and ghosted blue ticks…
There was still space for love that walked slowly, answered letters late, and kissed softly in places with no signal.
Offline. Always.
Part 9: The World in a Typewriter
Zoya had always wanted to visit the vintage typewriter shop tucked behind Crawford Market—the one with no nameboard, just a dusty Remington in the window and a bell that jingled when you entered. She said she liked places where things still made noise without needing electricity.
So one Friday afternoon, they went.
The shop smelled like rust, ink ribbons, and forgotten correspondence. Rows of black-and-grey machines lined the walls, each with tiny quirks—missing keys, faded letters, the occasional cigarette burn on the frame. A man in suspenders, with the patient eyes of someone who fixed things slowly, greeted them without asking what they wanted.
“I want to type something,” Zoya declared, her fingers twitching with anticipation.
The man gestured toward a blue Olivetti with a ribbon already in place. “She still works. Treat her gently.”
Zoya sat, cracked her knuckles, and began typing. The sound filled the shop—clack, clack, ding. It was the opposite of a phone keyboard. Heavy. Honest. Immediate.
She pulled the page out and handed it to Aarav.
Dear Aarav,
This is not a poem. This is not a letter. This is an experiment.
I want to see what it feels like to say things without a backspace button.
So here it is—unedited.
I think you are rare. Not in a diamond way. More like in a ‘you don’t rush the rain’ way.
I love how you notice the small things.
How you never interrupt me when I’m looking at trees.
How you always pour the last cup of chai like it’s a ritual.
You’ve made the city feel like a story again.
And sometimes, when I look at you, I feel like a page being read for the first time.
Aarav didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at her like someone trying to memorize a moment.
Then he took the seat beside her and typed his reply.
Zoya,
If this is an experiment, I hope it never ends.
You make silence feel like something I want to hold with both hands.
You draw the world like it’s still worth saving.
And you’ve made me believe in the kind of love that doesn’t need a post to exist.*
They left the shop with those two pages folded into their shared journal. The man at the counter winked and said, “Come back when you’ve got a wedding invite to type.”
Zoya laughed, but didn’t deny the idea.
Later that evening, they found a bench in Horniman Circle. Zoya sat with her sketchpad; Aarav watched the crows negotiate with the streetlights. It was a gentle dusk—the kind that made everything look like it belonged in a photograph.
“I have a question,” Zoya said.
“Dangerous.”
She smiled. “If this ends—us, I mean—what do you think we’ll become in each other’s memories?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “A song that always makes you pause. Even if you never play it again.”
She nodded slowly. “And you?”
“A poem I never published. But read every night anyway.”
They sat in that stillness, aware of the ticking world around them. Cars honked. Vendors shouted. A child cried somewhere behind the trees. But none of it reached their bench.
Zoya pulled something from her bag. A matchbox. Inside were tiny scrolls—rolled up slips of paper tied with thread.
“Fortune poems,” she explained. “I made them. One-word prompts.”
She offered the box to him. “Pick one.”
He chose one that said:
“Almost.”
Zoya blinked. “That’s… heavy.”
“Yeah.”
She sighed. “Almost love. Almost honest. Almost forever.”
He shook his head. “Or almost gave up. Almost walked away. But didn’t.”
She smiled. “You’re good at this.”
“Only with you.”
They ended the night with a slow walk along Marine Drive, sharing an orange Popsicle and counting how many waves hit the shore in a minute.
Aarav said, “Next week, let’s disappear for a day.”
Zoya raised an eyebrow. “Disappear how?”
“No phones. No plans. No city. Just us. Somewhere we don’t belong.”
Zoya’s eyes sparkled. “Deal. I’ll pack the analog essentials.”
“And I’ll bring extra chai.”
That night, he found a new page in their journal. Zoya had slipped it in.
Things I Love About You (Unfinished List)
1. You say “thank you” to waiters like you mean it.
2. You reread your poems aloud like they’re prayers.
3. You smell like sandalwood and storm warnings.
4. You make me want to believe in soft endings.
5. You once fixed my pen without asking.
6. You never make fun of my weird earrings.
7. You carry tissues. Always.
8. You fold birds when you’re nervous.
9. You’ve never asked me to be anything other than exactly who I am.
10. You’re my favorite glitch in the system.
He didn’t sleep that night.
He just kept rereading the list until the sun rose, spilling yellow across his window like it had been waiting all night for a reason to shine.
Part 10: The Disappearing Act
It was 6:43 a.m. on a Sunday when Zoya and Aarav boarded the early morning train from Dadar. No destination. Just a window seat and a mutual agreement to vanish for a day.
She wore a kurta with mismatched buttons and carried a cloth backpack stuffed with mystery items. He wore a plain white tee, camera slung around his shoulder, and held their shared journal like it was a passport to somewhere sacred.
They picked a train headed toward Karjat—long enough to feel like an escape, short enough to make it back by midnight if the world came calling.
Zoya brought out a page she had torn from a magazine: “Write your own ending. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”
They wrote in turns:
Zoya: “Today we disappear from Wi-Fi, responsibility, and expectations. We will eat whatever smells best at the station and wave at kids on platforms.”
Aarav: “We will name trees and talk to cows and lie to strangers about how we met. I will say we were childhood rivals. She will say we met at a chess match.”
Zoya: “If it rains, we’ll walk slower. If it doesn’t, we’ll pretend it is.”
Aarav: “We’ll remember this day without needing to post it.”
The train clattered into distance.
At Neral, they got off on impulse.
A tea stall called Shakti Tea & Vadapav Centre lured them in with the smell of fried masala. They sat on upturned crates and shared a vadapav so spicy it made Zoya cry and laugh at the same time.
“Pain is temporary,” Aarav said between coughs.
“Instagram would never capture this,” she gasped.
“Exactly why it matters.”
They walked down side lanes until the city became village, the village became field, and the field became sky. Zoya picked wildflowers and tucked them into Aarav’s notebook. Aarav clicked pictures on an old point-and-shoot camera she had gifted him for this trip.
“This is my favorite version of us,” she said. “Unreachable.”
“Same,” he replied. “Like a secret no one else gets.”
They reached a quiet hillock by noon and sat under a neem tree. A shepherd passed by with a hundred goats. One goat tried to chew Zoya’s bag. Aarav laughed like he hadn’t in weeks.
Then came the silence—the kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that felt like healing.
Zoya lay on the grass, arms spread wide. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“When I was ten, I used to write letters to my future self and bury them under my pillow. Once, I wrote—‘You’re going to fall in love with someone who listens like it’s their favorite sound.’ I think… maybe I wrote that for you.”
She turned her face toward him, eyes soft. “When I was eleven, I tried to erase myself from every photo. I thought being invisible was easier than being misunderstood. But now… now I want to be remembered. Even if it’s only by you.”
They didn’t kiss then.
They just held hands, letting the wind write the rest.
By evening, they walked to the small train station, dusty and glowing in the golden light. They sat on a bench and made up stories about every passerby.
“That man,” Zoya said, pointing to a guy in a red shirt. “He’s secretly a Bollywood lyricist who only writes sad songs about mangoes.”
“That aunty?” Aarav said. “She’s a retired magician. She makes time disappear for grandchildren.”
Then the platform quieted, and their train arrived.
They didn’t speak much on the ride back. Just leaned on each other, sharing headphones—only one song on loop: Chandni Raat Mein Jo Bhi Hua Tha… Neither said the title out loud. It didn’t matter.
At Dadar, they stood by the exit, hesitant to let the night end.
Zoya looked at him. “What if this—us—isn’t something that fits into real life?”
He touched her face gently. “Then let’s build a life that fits around us.”
She smiled. “That’s the most analog answer I’ve ever heard.”
The next morning, Aarav woke up to a new entry in the notebook.
Things We Did on the Day We Disappeared:
1. Got lost on purpose.
2. Ate vadapav with full commitment.
3. Watched clouds pretend to be whales.
4. Shared silence like it was language.
5. Found the version of us that doesn’t need Wi-Fi, filters, or followers.
Let’s return to them often.
Even when we’re online.
Months passed.
Seasons shifted.
Zoya started hosting analog art pop-ups—no phones allowed, only notebooks, typewriters, and cameras that required film. Aarav’s poetry found its way into chapbooks that strangers read on park benches. They co-wrote a zine titled “Seen But Not Replied” that sold out in five hours.
They still fought sometimes. About chai temperature, about lateness, about Zoya’s tendency to disappear when overwhelmed.
But they never fought over silence again.
They understood it now.
Silence was not absence. It was space. And space, when held gently, could grow into something sacred.
One evening, exactly one year after that first chai invitation, Aarav gave her a wrapped box.
She opened it to find a restored Remington typewriter—the same model from the Crawford shop.
Taped to the side was a folded note.
Let’s keep writing. Even when it gets hard.
Even when the world turns loud again.
Even when Wi-Fi tempts us back into the feed.
Let’s stay analog.
Let’s stay found.*
She looked up at him, tears forming, the way light pools at the bottom of old film reels.
He didn’t ask her to say anything.
He just sat beside her, watching the city blink back to life below their rooftop.
And together, under stars that didn’t need captions, they began to type the next chapter.
Still unwritten.
Still offline.
END
