The morning after the rain, Mumbai felt like it had been washed clean—briefly, beautifully, and deceitfully. The sky wore a faded blue, like old denim, and the streets shimmered with the reflections of buildings not yet fully awake.
Inside Amrita's flat, Tushar woke up to the faint clink of steel tumblers in the kitchen. The smell of toasted bread and ginger chai made him sit up, blinking against the sunlight that sliced through the white curtains. He was still wearing his jeans from yesterday, his back stiff from sleeping on the couch, and his heart... oddly lighter.
He found Amrita in the kitchen, hair tied up messily, muttering curses at the toaster.
"I told you that thing's a liar," Tushar said, leaning against the doorframe.
She didn't turn. "I told you not to leave crumbs in it."
He smiled. "You always have to win, don't you?"
"Only when you start the fight."
They sat at the small round dining table—two mismatched mugs, two buttered toasts, and one long silence that didn't feel awkward anymore.
"I might stay a while," he said.
She raised her eyebrows. "A while?"
He nodded. "I don't want to go back to the empty flat just yet. Ma's Ganpati idol feels more at home here anyway."
Amrita didn't argue. She just pushed the butter dish toward him. It was all the permission he needed.
That week, time softened around them. Days were structured loosely: he worked from her study, and she took calls from the balcony. They cooked together, walked to the grocery store like a couple that never was, and watched reruns of quiz shows late into the night, shouting out answers and keeping imaginary scores.
But peace, like monsoon puddles, often hides sharp stones underneath.
It began one Friday evening, when they ran into Aditya.
They were at a bookstore near Bandra, Amrita searching for a new release and Tushar wandering aimlessly through poetry aisles.
"Amrita?"
She turned to see a familiar face—sharp-jawed, clean-shaven, dressed in business-casual like a magazine model.
"Adi!" she smiled, surprised.
Tushar, who had joined her at the end of the aisle, watched her face change—smile widening, posture straightening, voice softening. Something tightened in his chest.
They talked for five minutes—about old college friends, jobs, books, and a reunion Aditya was trying to organize.
Then came the question.
"You still with...?"
Amrita's smile paused. "No. Nothing like that."
Tushar looked away. Pretended to read a book titled How to Be Your Own Best Friend.
"Come to the reunion," Aditya said. "We'll laugh at how mature we've become."
"I might," she said.
He left with a smile that lingered too long.
On the auto ride back, Tushar didn't speak.
Amrita noticed.
"You know, Aditya and I were never serious," she said.
"I didn't ask."
"You didn't have to. Your face asked."
"Wow. Thanks for the analysis, Freud."
She looked out of the window, arms crossed.
"You're sulking."
"No. I just don't like that guy."
"Because he's tall?"
"Because he looks at you like he knows you. And he doesn't."
She stayed quiet.
"You think I don't see it?" he said. "People always look at you like they want something. But they never stay. They never listen. They never..."
"Never what?" she asked.
He stopped. Words crowded his mouth, then slipped away.
"That's what I thought," she said, bitterly.
They didn't talk for the rest of the night.
The next morning, he found his toothbrush missing from the holder.
She didn't make tea.
He left for a walk. She didn't ask where.
The storm had returned—not in the sky, but in the tiny silences between them.
Three days passed.
On the fourth, Amrita came home to find the Ganpati idol missing.
A note lay on the study table:
"I think I need to go home for a bit. Maybe we blurred the line too much. Don't worry. I'll return when I know how to stay." —T.
She crumpled the note and threw it, then picked it up again and flattened it.
The house was quieter than before. The TV stayed off. The mugs remained in the sink. The walls, once filled with echoes of laughter and shared complaints, now felt too wide.
She called him once. He didn't pick up.
A week passed.
Then, one morning, she got a parcel.
Inside was the notebook his mother had left behind, now neatly covered in brown paper. Taped to the front was a smaller note.
"Don't let grief make you cruel. I'm trying not to let confusion make me a coward."
No name. But she knew.
That evening, Amrita decided to go to the reunion.
The venue was a rooftop café in Andheri, filled with fairy lights and forced nostalgia. She laughed politely, hugged old classmates, and drank too-sweet mocktails.
Aditya hovered near her, charming as ever.
"You look different," he said.
"I am," she replied.
They danced, briefly. But when he leaned in closer, she pulled away.
"Sorry," she said. "My heart's at home. Waiting for someone who forgot how to knock."
She left early.
Back home, the house still smelled faintly of him.
She picked up the Ganpati photo that she had taken after he left—the idol now sitting on the shelf between her books. She whispered a prayer, unsure for whom it was.
That night, around 3:00 a.m., the doorbell rang.
She opened it.
Tushar stood there, hair messy, eyes tired, holding two cups of tea in a paper tray.
"I got your kind this time," he said. "Extra ginger."
She didn't ask why he came back.
She just stepped aside.
As he entered, he looked around and said, "I missed this ceiling."
"You always say the weirdest things when you're emotional."
"I'm not emotional. I'm... recalibrating."
She rolled her eyes. "You and your metaphors."
They sat on the couch, sipping tea.
"I thought about what you said," he admitted. "About people not staying. I don't want to be one of them."
"You already are."
He looked up, hurt.
"But," she added, "you're also the only one who ever returns. That counts."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a frame.
Inside was a photo of them, taken years ago on a rainy day—Amrita holding an umbrella, Tushar sneezing beside her.
"I want to frame new memories," he said. "If you'll let me."
She nodded. "On one condition."
"What?"
"No more disappearing. We fight, we sulk, we scream. But we don't vanish."
"Deal," he said.
They clinked their paper cups.
The rain outside began again.
But this time, it sounded like applause.
---
Moral: Real friendship isn't about never hurting each other. It's about never choosing distance over understanding.
Even when the road bends, real friends find their way back.