The monsoon had arrived early in the coastal town of Varuna. The skies were heavy with clouds, and the scent of wet earth clung to every corner of the sleepy streets. In a small café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, sat Ayaan, staring at a blank notebook page. He had come here every day for the past three months, hoping to write the letter he never sent.
Across town, Meera was packing her suitcase. She had accepted a job in Prague—a dream she had nurtured since college. But something felt unfinished. She glanced at the stack of letters tied with a ribbon in her drawer. All from Ayaan. All unread.
They had met five years ago, in the same café where Ayaan now sat. Meera had spilled coffee on his sketchbook, and instead of getting angry, he had smiled and said, “Looks better now. More abstract.” That moment had sparked something rare—an intimacy born not of grand gestures, but of quiet understanding.
They spent years building memories: sketching by the sea, reading poetry under streetlamps, dancing in the rain without music. But when Meera got the Prague offer, she hesitated. Ayaan had always encouraged her to chase her dreams, even if it meant letting go. So she left, and he stayed behind, writing letters he never sent.
Now, with the monsoon back, Ayaan felt the weight of silence. He opened the notebook and began to write:
“Dear Meera,
I never stopped writing to you. I just stopped sending the letters. I thought if I let you go, you’d fly. And you did. But I never told you that every raindrop reminds me of you. That every sketch I draw has your laughter hidden in the lines. That I’m proud of you, but I miss you more than I thought possible.”
He folded the letter and walked to the flower shop. He bought a single white lily—her favorite—and tucked the note inside. Then he walked to her old apartment, now empty, and slid the flower under the door.
Meera, meanwhile, stood at the airport gate, boarding pass in hand. But something tugged at her. She turned around and walked out. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to go back.
When she reached her apartment, she saw the lily. She picked it up, read the note, and smiled through tears. She didn’t need to knock on the café door. She knew where he’d be.
And when she walked in, Ayaan looked up, stunned. She sat across from him, pulled out the ribboned stack of letters, and said, “I think it’s time I read these.”
They didn’t speak for a while. The rain did the talking. And in that silence, love returned—not with fireworks, but with the quiet certainty of two hearts that had never truly parted.
—End—