It was the kind of rain that made everything feel slower — a soft, rhythmic drizzle over the sleepy town of Elmsbrook. But for Ayaan, the world had never spun faster. He stood outside the old post office, drenched, clutching a letter addressed to a name he hadn’t said out loud in two years — Meera.
She was the kind of girl you didn’t just fall in love with — you belonged to her. Their story had begun beneath the cherry blossoms at university, where poetry met physics, and his silence met her songs. Meera believed love was a kind of madness, a beautiful one. Ayaan believed in logic, in keeping emotions in check. But with her, his rules blurred.
They had their world — lazy Sunday mornings, handwritten notes tucked into textbooks, midnight walks with stolen ice creams. But life, as it does, demanded more than love.
Meera got a scholarship abroad — New York. Ayaan had to stay back in Mumbai for family. She said long distance would kill them slowly. He said he’d wait, even if it meant years. She didn’t believe in holding back dreams for love. He didn’t believe love was separate from dreams.
So, she left. And he wrote.
Every month, for two years, he wrote her letters. Never emailed. Never texted. Just ink and paper — like they used to. But he never posted them. He kept them, bundled and sealed, in a shoebox labeled "Us".
Until today.
A friend told him Meera had returned. Quietly. No social media announcements. No calls. Just a return to her grandmother’s old cottage on Hillview Road. So he ran — no umbrella, no plan, just the shoebox under his arm.
The cottage door was old but familiar. He hesitated, then knocked. Once. Twice.
Footsteps. And then she appeared.
Meera looked the same, yet different. Her hair was shorter, her eyes quieter. But the smile that flickered at the corners of her lips — that was still his.
"Ayaan?" she asked, like saying his name felt foreign now.
He held out the box. "These… are for you. Two years of unsent feelings."
She took it silently, eyes scanning the worn cardboard. Then, without a word, stepped aside. Inviting him in.
Inside, nothing had changed. The wind chimes still sang by the window. Her paintings still leaned against the wall. And the couch — the same one where they once sat for hours — still had his favorite coffee stain.
She opened the box. Letter by letter. She didn’t read them aloud, but her expressions told stories — surprise, laughter, tears. Especially at one letter where he had drawn a stick-figure proposal beside a list of “Reasons I’d Still Choose You.”
After the last letter, there was silence. Only the rain tapping on the glass.
"You waited," she whispered.
"I always said I would."
Her eyes welled up. "I read every word as if you had sent them. Because somehow… I always felt them."
Ayaan stepped closer. "I didn’t want to stop loving you just because you were far. I just hoped one day, you'd return. Not for me. But to find yourself. And maybe… find us again."
She smiled, holding his hand. "I think I just did."
The rain outside turned gentle, almost like it was listening too. And in that small room, filled with old memories and new hopes, they rewrote the ending of their story — not as a goodbye, but as a beginning.
