Back in Chennai, life returned to its usual rhythm.
The kettle whistled every morning. Her mother called out from the kitchen about the missing coriander. Her brother argued with her over the TV remote. Her father pretended to scold them both while secretly watching old black-and-white Tamil films.
It was home. Noisy, cluttered, familiar.
And it felt different now—not because the house had changed, but because she had.
At work, Akila plopped into the chair beside her with a suspicious grin. “So… you gonna tell me why your face is glowing like a ring light?”
Hema smiled, trying—and failing—to look casual.
“I met him,” she said.
Akila nearly dropped her tea. “You met Siddharth?! In Hyderabad?! Tell me everything right now. And don't give me your poetic, vague stuff. I want timestamps.”
By lunch, Kannan had joined them, and the trio laughed over bhel puri and old memories. She told them about the book café, the metro silence, the library visit.
Akila grinned. “You know what I see?”
“What?”
“Growth. Like, actual healing. You’re not afraid of your own heart anymore.”
Kannan nodded, eyes kind. “And that’s rare, Hema. That’s strength.”
The Long-Distance Thread
The messages didn’t stop. They just found a slower rhythm.
Siddharth: “The chai guy switched from glass tumblers to paper cups. Feels like betrayal.”
Hema: “Paper cuts your nostalgia.”
Siddharth: “Exactly. You get me.”
—
Siddharth: “Tried cooking again. Pasta turned to paste. Send help.”
Hema: “You’re one recipe away from a Netflix disaster doc.”
Siddharth: “Title: ‘Boiled Hope: A Tragedy’”
Hema: “Starring: An overconfident Tamil man and his enemy, cheese.”
—
But it wasn’t the texts. Not really.
It was the way she waited for them now—not anxiously, but with a smile. The way his name on her screen didn’t startle her, only softened her shoulders.
She didn’t count hours. Or replies. Or intentions.
Until one night, after a long meeting and a quiet ride home, she stood at her window, watching the streetlight blink.
And just like that—
Her heart whispered it.
This is love.THATS IT A SIMPLE QUIET MOMENT
Not the kind that rushes in, demanding to be named.
But the kind that stays. Quietly. Steadily.
She didn’t say it aloud. Not yet.
So she did what she always did when feelings overflowed—
She reached for a notebook.
She wrote everything.
From the laugh that started it all,
to the slow rebuild
Page after page, she poured it all.
Not to explain. Not to convince. Just to share.
When it was done, she closed the book. Smoothed the cover.
Their story.
Because this was her way of saying it.
A story not to end things,
but to begin again—
in the quietest, truest, most Hema way possible.
She wanted to wait for the right moment
March – His Birthday
The plan was simple. He was coming to Chennai for his birthday
. She would meet him at a quiet café they both used to like. No fuss. No pressure.and give it to him
She held the notebook in her hand the entire auto ride there.
Wore that soft green kurta—the one he once said made her look like jasmine in bloom.
At the café, He spotted her by the window and smiled — that easy, familiar smile that still made her heart skip.
“Happy Birthday,” she said, handing him the notebook.
He looked puzzled.
“What’s this?”
“My gift,” she said. “But read it at home.”
She didn’t say more. Just pressed it gently into his hands.
He tried to peek at the cover, but she stopped him. “No spoilers. Tea first.”
That Night – Siddharth’s Room
He waited until the flat was quiet. Made tea. Sat by the window where the wind from Besant Nagar always carried the scent of the sea and old conversations.
He opened the notebook like someone unlocking a door they once closed with trembling hands.
He read slowly at first.
Then faster.
By the third page, he stopped hearing the rain outside.
By the tenth, he forgot to sip his tea.
But it was on page sixteen—tucked between a list of old bookstores and a poem about monsoon metros—that he found the line.
It wasn’t underlined. Wasn’t meant to stand out.
Just seven words, scribbled in her handwriting:
“I wasn’t late. I was afraid.”
He stopped.
Read it again.
And again.
His breath caught—not because it was beautiful, but because it was true.
Because it was the sentence she had never said aloud.
The one that explained everything.
Every pause. Every silence. Every moment she’d smiled but didn’t step closer.
A silence opened inside him—not empty, but filled with understanding.
She hadn’t simply fallen in love — she had fought her own doubts, her own walls, to stand in it fully.
He leaned back, hand resting over his chest as if to steady it.
She had written everything.
The laugh that started it all.
The shared benches. The missed metros.
The poems that never made it out of drafts.
The goodbye that nearly became permanent.
The slow reweaving. No labels. No promises. Just presence.
Not to explain. Not to prove.
Just to share.
At the top of the first page, she had scribbled three words:
Metro Magic
When he finished, he sat still.
Then picked up the phone and called her.
“Excellent story,” he said, his voice warm, teasing.
There was a pause.
“With an awesome ending.”
Another pause.
Then—
“When are you going to publish it—no, wait—when are we going to publish it?”
There was a smile on both ends.
One that stretched through the line. Through time.
And somewhere between her laughter and his soft sigh—
They knew.
It wasn’t about going back.
It wasn’t about rushing forward.
It was about this.
The stillness.
The knowing.
The gentle bloom of something that didn’t need a name just yet.
Siddharth grinned. “Wait wait—“Wait, wait… I forgot something..”
“What?” she asked, laughing.
““I saw this post on Instagram — there's a lantern festival happening this Sunday. By the lake. Floating lights, music, everything.””
“Want to go?”
Hema smiled before she even answered.
“Yeah. I love lights. I'm in.”
Siddharth grinned, relieved.
Then he looked away for a moment, like he was thinking — and added, softer this time:
“Okay then. I’ll see the sun in between stars this Sunday night.”
Hema paused.
Something about the way he said it — without trying to sound romantic, but failing anyway — made her heart shift.
She didn’t reply right away.
But her smile lingered longer than it should have.
LANTERN NIGHT ,
The night sky above Chennai was no longer dark — it shimmered, alive with flickers of gold.
Hundreds of lanterns swayed upward like wishes trying to find the stars.
The air smelled faintly of melted wax and rose incense, of sugar and smoke. Around them, people cheered, couples leaned into each other, children clapped with sticky fingers.
But for Hema, the world narrowed.
It was just her and Siddharth.
They stood in the middle of the crowd, but wrapped in their own stillness — holding one lantern between them. The thin paper walls pulsed with warmth, as if the flame inside had its own heartbeat. Their fingers overlapped on the wooden frame. Not tightly. Just enough to know this moment was real.
Siddharth turned to her, eyes reflecting the sky above them.
“I love you,” he said.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
And somehow, hearing it here — under this sky, in this chaos of light — made it feel different. It wasn’t just a confession. It was a vow.
“I’ll love you every day,” he continued.
“Even on the days I hate you. Even when you drive me mad, or shut me out, or say things just to push me away... I’ll still try to love you.”
His voice shook, but not from doubt.
“I’ll hold you even when it’s slippery. When things get messy. When nothing makes sense.
I’ll stay — under the sun, the moon, the snow, the rain…”
He paused. His thumb grazed hers.
“Even under the storm.”
He gave a half-smile — small, vulnerable.
“Especially under the storm.”
The wind caught the bottom of the lantern. It fluttered, impatient, ready to rise.
And then, his voice softened.
“So let’s let go of this one together.
And hold on to each other instead.”
Their fingers released. The lantern lifted — slow, golden, alive — rising to join the hundreds already floating in the sky like glowing secrets. Hema’s eyes followed it up until it was just another dot among a thousand others.
She looked back at him. Her heart beat so loud she wondered if he could hear it.
“I’ve been waiting to hear that,” she whispered.
since the day i heared your laugh in that metro
He smiled — wide now, unguarded, boyish. She moved closer, and when their lips met, it felt less like a kiss and more like a vow whispered into skin.
Around them, the crowd erupted into cheers as the last round of lanterns took flight. Firecrackers painted the sky in red and silver. Someone released a string of glowing balloons. Music played in the distance — fast, loud, joyful.
Siddharth pulled her closer, forehead resting against hers.
“Feels like the world decided to throw us a party,” he whispered, eyes still on her
Hema laughed, and it sounded like relief. Like hope. Like home.
Somewhere in the chaos, her phone buzzed — maybe Akila, maybe nobody — but for once, she didn’t care.
Right here, in the glow and noise and wonder, she wasn’t waiting anymore.
Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, she had found what her soul had been whispering for all along. a love that stayed, even under the storm.
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