The rain hadn't stopped by the time they reached Mira's street. It drummed softly against the awnings, trickled down the uneven pavement, pooled in shallow dips on the road. The air smelled of wet earth and old stories, the kind that lingered in the quiet corners of a city that never truly slept.
Aarav walked beside Mira, hands shoved into his pockets, his mind still tangled in the moment they had shared on the bridge. He could still hear her laughter, light and untamed, threading through the rain like a melody only she could hum. Something about it had made him feel weightless, as if for once, he wasn't carrying the world on his shoulders.
Mira slowed her steps as they neared her building, a modest structure with blue shutters and a balcony lined with plants that spilled over the railing. She turned to face him, eyes searching his as if she was trying to read something he hadn't yet put into words.
"You're still thinking," she said, crossing her arms. "You always do that."
Aarav huffed out a small laugh. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Not bad," she admitted, tilting her head. "But sometimes I wonder if you think so much that you forget to feel."
He had no response to that. Because she wasn't wrong.
Mira leaned against the wall beside the entrance, the dim glow of the streetlight casting soft shadows along her face. "Tell me what's on your mind."
He hesitated. The old Aarav—the one built on blueprints and logic, on structure and certainty—would have evaded the question. But tonight, under the weight of the rain and the pull of something unspoken, he found himself answering honestly.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "Any of this. You... us. Whatever this is."
Mira smiled, but it was softer this time, tinged with something he couldn't quite name. "Then don't try to know. Just let it be."
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's easier for you."
She studied him for a moment before stepping closer, her presence warm despite the chill in the air. "You think I have it all figured out?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "I don't, Aarav. I never have. I just learned to stop waiting for things to make sense before I let myself live."
Her words settled deep in his chest, stirring something restless inside him. He wanted to understand how she did it—how she embraced uncertainty like an old friend, how she made life feel less like a script and more like a song.
The rain was falling in gentle sheets now, slipping between them like a veil. For a brief second, neither of them moved. The world around them had shrunk to the space between heartbeats, between words left unsaid.
Then Mira reached up, her fingers grazing his wrist, a touch so fleeting it might have been imagined. "Come upstairs," she said. "For tea. Nothing more, nothing less."
Aarav hesitated, but only for a moment.
Then he nodded.
Mira led him inside, up the narrow staircase that smelled of old wood and rain-dampened plaster. Her apartment was small but full of life—warm-toned fairy lights strung haphazardly along the walls, stacks of books scattered across the floor, paintings in half-finished states leaning against the furniture. It was a space that felt like her—unruly, untamed, but undeniably alive.
"Sit," she instructed, disappearing into the tiny kitchen. Aarav obeyed, sinking into a chair by the window. The glass was speckled with rain, the city beyond blurred and shimmering in the night.
Mira returned with two cups of tea, placing one in front of him before curling into the chair opposite his. She watched him over the rim of her mug, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Still thinking?"
Aarav smirked, shaking his head. "Less than usual."
"Good," she said. "That's a start."
Silence settled between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that existed between people who didn't need to fill the spaces with empty words.
Aarav took a sip of his tea, feeling its warmth spread through him. Outside, the rain continued to fall, steady and unhurried, a quiet storm moving through the city.
And for the first time in a long time, Aarav didn't feel the need to fight it.