The café smelled like vanilla and second chances.
It had rained that morning—not the heavy, melancholic kind, but a soft drizzle that made the world look washed clean. Hema reached early, as usual. She liked claiming the corner booth before the lunchtime buzz kicked in.
She sipped her cappuccino, half-lost in her phone, when he walked in. Hoodie damp at the shoulders, curls messier than usual.
“Hey,” Kannan said, breathless. “Bus bailed on me. Had to jog the last stretch.”
“Perfect excuse to make me pay,” she grinned, sliding him a menu.
“Obviously,” he replied, and the mood eased into the casual comfort that had quietly formed between them.
It had been a few weeks since they started talking outside therapy.
It began with a text.
Kannan: “Your umbrella saved me. Want to split a coffee bill sometime?”
Hema: “Only if I get the last cookie.”
Kannan: “Monster.”
From there, it had grown—slowly but surely—like ivy between bricks.
They met every other week. Sometimes at this café. Sometimes at a bookstore. Once, at a terrible stand-up show they both agreed was so bad it was almost spiritual.
One day, Hema casually brought him along to meet Akila.
It was a rooftop evening at Akila’s flat, all fairy lights and cushions, where they ordered too much food and spilled way too much tea.
Akila eyed him and later whispered, “I like this one. He’s weird in your flavor.”
Hema had laughed. “He’s a good egg. Small talk and he have never been on speaking terms.”
Still, something clicked between the three of them. A kind of easy rhythm—like a band that didn’t need rehearsals.
Group texts started.
Kannan: “If I die, tell the metro driver it was his Spotify playlist.”
Akila: “Mood. Also, I found us a ramen place. We go Thursday.”
Hema: “Do they serve emotional support dumplings?”
Thursday turned into every Thursday.
They shared chai on balconies, had long, impromptu walks after therapy, crashed a karaoke night once, and even bailed Akila out of a disastrous Tinder date (“He asked me if I believed in aliens before the appetizers arrived.”).
One evening, after a movie marathon and two full boxes of pizza, Akila leaned over, wine glass in hand, and asked, “Okay, real question. Are you in love with him?”
Hema blinked. The question didn’t sting. It didn’t confuse her. She smiled.
“No,” she said, softly. He’s... solid. And warm. But it’s not that. It’s friendship. For the first time, I feel the difference.”
“The difference?” Akila tilted her head.
“With Siddharth, I was terrified. Always trying to match his rhythm, afraid I’d fumble. With Kannan, I’m just... me. And it’s enough. There’s no weight of expectation. No pressure to become someone shinier.”
Akila nodded. “That’s beautiful. That’s rare.”
Hema stared at the city lights. “It is. And I’m grateful for it. It’s not the fireworks. It’s the fireplace. You know?”
A week later, she sat across from Kannan again at their café.
It was one of those rare, in-between afternoons. No rush. No plans. Just mugs warming their palms.
He looked at her and asked, not out of nowhere but from that place of genuine curiosity only a few ever access:
“Do you ever miss him?”
Hema didn’t need to ask who. She stirred her coffee slowly.
“I do,” she said. “But not in the way people think. I don’t want him back. I don’t replay the good parts hoping they’ll return.”
“Then how?” he asked gently.
“I miss the possibility. What it could’ve been—if I had been braver. If he had been more patient. But also… I don’t regret it anymore.”
He nodded.
She smiled, blinking back sudden tears. “You helped. You and Akila. You both became the place I could land without falling apart.”
Kannan leaned back, expression unreadable. “You ever wonder why we met?”
“Therapy?” she smirked.
He shook his head. “No. I mean, why really. Why two people, broken in their own weird ways, end up sitting across each other on rainy days drinking overpriced coffee?”
She paused. Then, softly, “So we could remind each other that broken doesn’t mean unlovable.”
He stared at her. The silence stretched—not empty, but full of quiet knowing.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.
“I’m glad I did too,” she replied.
Later that night, Hema journaled again.
"I’ve learned that love and friendship aren’t competing forms of affection. They’re just different languages. Siddharth taught me what my heart could feel. Kannan showed me it didn’t have to hurt to be real. And Akila… she’s proof that women save each other too. I think I’m finally learning the language of safe."
She closed the journal, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
All okey , but where is our hero ? , where is siddhartha nd what he is doing ……lets see !
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