After reaching home, Hema unlocked her phone—six unread messages from Akila. All about the rain.
She immediately called her.
Akila picked up on the first ring.
“Hey! Did you reach home safely?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m home now,” Hema said, breathless.
Then ,
“What daa?”
“I saw him.”
“Himmm who?”
“The metro laugh guy.”
“Oh. My. God. Why is this sooo cinematic?! What happened next? Full story now!”
Hema told her everything. The rain, the auto, the conversation, the almost-touch.
Akila was stunned. And thrilled.
“Wear that brown-shade lipstick tomorrow, d! And that green chudithar with mirror work. Wear that one. Please, daa. Should I come with you? I’ll stay far away and just watch you both. Promise!”
Hema laughed. “No, d! We might go somewhere, and you’ll be left behind. I’ll meet him, then come to office. Evening, we’ll go to our fav café and I’ll tell you everything, okay?”
“Deal,” Akila said.
They hung up after a dozen more excited giggles and plans. Akila slept peacefully that night.
But Hema couldn’t.
The excitement buzzed under her skin, refusing to let her rest.
Hema — 7:30 a.m.
It wasn’t even 9:00 yet. But Hema was already up.
Sunlight crept in through the curtains, and she stood in front of the mirror like it was an important exam.
Soft blue chudithar with mirror work. Neatly braided hair. A touch of lipstick—rare for her. Every detail was chosen and re-checked. She even changed her earrings twice.
“Interview ah?” her mother asked, watching her fuss with her bag.
“Metro,” Hema said casually, clipping on her watch.
Her voice was too calm to be casual.
Her father raised an eyebrow. “You’re leaving early.”
“I have a meeting,” she smiled, zipping her bag. She left the house at 8:10 a.m.
Siddharth — 6:55 a.m.
For once, he wasn’t late for his morning tea.
He wore a shirt that didn’t look like an afterthought. Fixed his hair. Chose a perfume he rarely used.
Today felt like something was about to begin.
Then his phone buzzed.
K.S. Murugan (Senthamizh Archives):
“Found something in the palm-leaf scans from Thanjavur. Cross-reference to your Velvikudi hypothesis. Can we meet today?”
Siddharth froze.
The Velvikudi Grant—a 9th-century copperplate charter he’d been researching for a year. A lost lineage of Tamil temple poets. Possibly women. Possibly forgotten.
This could be it.
His pulse quickened. He stared at the clock.
The Metro.
Green chudithar?
Hema — 8:30 a.m.
By 8:30, she was already on the platform, eyes flitting from the digital clock to the incoming train.
She imagined every possibility.
Maybe he’ll smile first.
Maybe we’ll sit next to each other.
Maybe I’ll ask his name.
Maybe we’ll get off two stops early and go for coffee…
A buzz—Akila: “Have you reached the station?”
Yes yes, Hema replied.
The train arrived.
She stepped in. Same compartment. Same side.
Her eyes searched the crowd.
She saw his friends.
But not him.
Maybe he’s just late… next station, maybe...
Her heart stayed hopeful through every stop. She peeked out at every platform, willing him to appear.
But he never did.
By the time she reached her station, her braid felt too tight. Her lipstick, unnecessary.
Not anger. Something worse.
Disappointment. Confusion. That feeling of being stood up by someone who never even made a promise.
She walked into her office. Didn’t register the watchman’s greeting. Or the elevator music. Just a numb silence echoing through her chest.
As she neared her seat, Akila rushed over.
“What happened? How was the meeting?”
And just like that—tears welled up in Hema’s eyes.
She told Akila everything. The wait. The hope. The emptiness.
Akila held her hand. That was all she could do.
Siddharth — 9:05 a.m.
The streets near Egmore were alive with horns and street vendors, but Siddharth’s mind was far away.
He walked toward the Senthamizh Archives, Murugan Anna’s words repeating in his head.
A marginal note in Manipravalam. Feminine form used. Possibly an undocumented poet.
A real connection between Sangam-era voices and 9th-century temple records.
His theory was finally taking shape.
But as he stared at the palm-leaf manuscript that afternoon, his mind wandered.
To a rainy day. A quiet smile. A girl in green.
He leaned back in his chair.
It wasn’t guilt.
It was something worse.
He hadn’t made a promise. Not in words.
But some promises aren’t made with words.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I’ll explain. Maybe flowers. A sorry note?
But he hadn’t expected to miss her.
Not like this.
Hema — 10:15 a.m.
Silence had never felt so loud.
The click of keyboards. The buzz of the AC. Even someone stirring sugar in the pantry—it all felt sharp and strange.
She had cried in the metro washroom. Not dramatically. Just the kind of tears you blink back and wipe away like dust.
No one noticed.
His friends had been there.
He hadn’t.
No explanation. No glance. No reason.
And yet, she felt... discarded.
She had woken up early. Gotten ready. Hoped.
That hope hurt more than she expected.
By lunch, her throat ached. Her eyes burned.
“Hema... are you okay?” Akila asked.
“Headache,” she mumbled. “Might be a fever.”
“Go home. Rest.”
Hema gave a weak smile.
Hema — 7:10 p.m.
The sky outside had lost its colour.
Streetlights flickered as she climbed the stairs home.
“You’re home early,” her father said, lowering his newspaper.
“Work got over early. Also, headache,” she murmured.
Her mother gently placed a hand on her forehead, checking for any trace of fever, before returning with a steaming cup of kashayam—the familiar, herbal bitterness already hanging in the air like comfort disguised as medicine.. She drank silently.
“Little tired, Ma. I’ll lie down,” she said.
She didn’t sleep.
She lay flat on her back, the ceiling fan casting slow-moving shadows on the wall, while her mind kept drifting back to the morning—again and again
The braid. The lipstick. The missed connection.
She didn’t even know his name.
So what was she crying for?
She turned into her pillow.
No answer. Just silence. And something heavy she couldn’t shake off.
Akila called. Texted. Hema didn’t respond.
So Akila let her be.
Siddharth — 11:00 p.m.
The work at the archives had gone late.
The note was promising. His theory was real. But his mind wasn’t on manuscripts tonight.
It was on her.
He set an early alarm.
Tomorrow. The Metro.
The Next Day — Siddharth — 9:10 a.m.
After all bexch writing roituals , he wrote only one thing today , metro girl , he went back home , got ready and He was back.
Same station. Same compartment.
He looked around. Her seat was empty.
Next stop. Still no sign.
He walked the aisle. Searched every reflection. Nothing.
His friends were already seated.
“Dai, what are you doing?” Bala asked.
Siddharth finally sat down and told them everything.
The laugh in the rain. The silent glances. The temple. The hospital. The missed morning.
They stared, stunned.
“Dude, what kind of slow-burn indie film are you living in?” Bala asked.
“I don’t know,” Siddharth said. “But this scene sucks.”
“Did you at least get her name?” Arvind asked.
“No.”
They stared harder.
Hema — 9:00 a.m.
She skipped the metro.
Just the thought of that platform made her stomach turn. That compartment. Those steel bars. Even the flickering lights near Alandur—they felt like ghosts.
She took the bus.
It was noisy. Sticky. The FM radio blared ads and old songs.
But it didn’t remind her of him.
It had been a week. Still, she was stuck.
Akila noticed.
“Hema... how are you really feeling?”
“Fine,” Hema said.
But the crack in her voice betrayed her.
“Coffee. Today. No excuses.”
Their favorite café was half-empty. A corner table waited.
Once Hema took her first sip, Akila asked gently, “Now tell me.”
Hema did.
Akila sighed.
“Hema, that’s a red flag.”
“I know.”
“You romanticized him. Maybe he didn’t feel the same.”
“I know.”
“He could be chilling somewhere, totally fine.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still sad?”
“I don’t know.”
Akila held her hand.
“Maybe this is the universe saving you from something. A divine detour. But now—help yourself.”
Hema nodded slowly.
“Distract yourself. Write again. You’re good at it. Remember your dream—to write a book?”
“Maybe that might work.”
“Not maybe. It will. And you’ll be okay.”
Hema looked out the window.
Between the café’s warmth and her best friend’s hand in hers, something softened.
She wasn’t okay.
But maybe... she could be.
Siddharth — The Past Week
Every day, he returned to the metro.
Different compartments. Different timings.
Still, nothing.
He looked longer at every girl in a green chudithar. Every braid. But it was never her.
He tried Facebook. Instagram. College fest hashtags. Random reels.
But he didn’t even know her name.
They had nothing in common.
Not even a name.
The metro had been the only thread.
Now, that too was broken.
But what they didn’t know…
There was one more thread.
A quiet, mutual thing.
Still unseen.
But it’s going to find its way back.
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