The rains came late that year, as if the skies had been waiting for Amrita to heal. When the first drops hit the windowpanes, she was curled up with Tushar in the studio, sorting through old photographs.
She picked up a faded polaroid. "This one's from the school trip to Manali. Look—your head is half outside the frame."
He laughed. "You took that. You were so obsessed with capturing candid moments."
"And I still am."
She placed the polaroid under a lamp, studying it. "Do you think people remember us the way we were? Or only how we are now?"
Tushar glanced at her. "People remember how we made them feel. The rest fades."
The rain picked up, tapping on the windows like fingers eager to be let in. Amrita stood, pulled open the latch, and leaned out. The cold drops danced on her face, soaking her sleeves.
"Come on," she said, grinning.
"What?"
"Let's go outside."
He stared at her, then at the pouring sky. "You'll catch a cold."
"And you'll stay dry and boring. Come on, Tushar!"
Before he could protest, she had run down the stairs barefoot, laughing into the wind. Groaning, he followed.
The street outside was mostly empty. The rain had washed the dust from the leaves, the asphalt glistened like ink. Amrita stood in the middle of the road, arms raised, spinning like a child.
Tushar slowed his steps as he reached her. "You're insane."
She turned to him, water streaming down her cheeks, and said, "I'm alive."
There was something in her voice that stopped him. A note of freedom, of return. It wasn't just the rain—it was the shedding of months of pain, of locked emotions. She had finally stepped back into herself.
They walked together toward the neighborhood park, the rain slowing into a soft drizzle. The air smelled of earth and wet roses.
Amrita found the old swing set and sat down, feet dragging on the muddy ground. Tushar took the swing next to her. For a long time, neither spoke.
Then she said, "There's something I've been afraid to tell you."
He waited.
"I had a gallery offer from Paris. Before... everything."
He turned to her. "And?"
"I rejected it. My father had just collapsed. I couldn't leave my mother. Then the court battle happened. I didn't even respond."
Tushar was quiet for a while. "Do you regret it?"
She nodded slowly. "Not because I missed Paris. But because I let the world shrink around me. I stopped believing in my dreams."
"And now?"
She looked up at the sky. "Now I think I'm ready to dream again."
He smiled. "Then you should try again."
"You think it's not too late?"
"For art? For flight? It's never too late."
She reached over and held his hand, muddy fingers tangled in his.
"Would you come with me if I go?" she asked, voice barely above the breeze.
Tushar looked at her—really looked. And then said, "If you're flying, I'm not staying on the ground."
She laughed through her tears. "What if I crash?"
"I'll catch you."
They sat in the rain until the clouds cleared and the stars returned—threaded in gold, shining above their heads.
Moral: Life may pause, love may falter, but dreams never truly die—and true friends will always walk beside you when you choose to chase them again.