The Distance That Felt Like Safety
The café had started to feel different.
Not empty.
Not lonely.
Just quieter in a way that made every small sound louder.
The clinking of spoons,
the low hum of conversations,
the faint rain tapping against the glass windows.
Aarushi sat at her usual corner table, fingers wrapped around her untouched coffee. She wasn’t reading today. The book lay closed beside her, as if even the words inside it had decided to give her space.
Mira hadn’t messaged since last night.
Not unusual.
Not alarming.
But something inside Aarushi kept noticing it.
She hated that part of herself—the one that counted silences like they were seconds on a ticking clock.
She told herself she was fine.
She had always been fine alone.
Yet, her eyes kept drifting toward the café door every few minutes.
Outside, the rain grew heavier.
Water traced slow paths down the glass, blurring the world beyond it. Aarushi watched the droplets merge and fall, wondering why everything seemed to mirror how she felt lately—uncertain, hesitant, always on the verge of falling into something deeper.
Her phone buzzed.
Her heart reacted before her mind could stop it.
Mira:
"Did you reach the café?"
Aarushi stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary.
Aarushi:
"Yes."
The typing dots appeared instantly… then disappeared… then appeared again.
Aarushi leaned back in her chair, exhaling softly.
Mira had always been like that—present, but cautious. Like she carried words in her hands, weighing each one before letting them go.
Another message appeared.
Mira:
"Is it raining there too?"
Aarushi glanced at the storm outside.
Aarushi:
"Yes. Pretty heavily."
There was a pause.
Then—
Mira:
"I like rain. It makes people honest."
Aarushi blinked, reading the sentence twice.
Across the city, Mira stood under a half-broken bus stop shelter, watching the rain blur the streets into watercolor streaks. Her hair was slightly damp, strands sticking to her cheek, but she didn’t move.
Her fingers tightened around her phone.
She wanted to say something else.
Something heavier.
Something closer to the truth.
But Mira had spent years learning how to hold back before feelings turned into expectations.
Back at the café, Aarushi typed slowly.
Aarushi:
"Honest how?"
Mira read the message and smiled faintly.
Mira:
"Rain doesn’t let people hide. They either run… or stay still and accept it."
Aarushi looked outside again.
For a moment, she wondered which one she was.
Running.
Or staying.
The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and the smell of wet pavement. Aarushi instinctively looked up.
Not Mira.
Just strangers escaping the rain.
She told herself she wasn’t waiting.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mira:
"Are you okay today?"
The question was simple.
Too simple.
Aarushi stared at it longer than she should have. Most people asked that question casually, expecting automatic answers.
Mira didn’t.
Mira asked it like she was ready to listen to whatever came next.
Aarushi typed… erased… typed again.
Aarushi:
"Yes."
She pressed send quickly, before she could change her mind.
Mira knew that answer wasn’t the truth.
But she also knew some truths needed time before they learned how to exist outside someone’s chest.
She leaned against the shelter pillar, letting a few raindrops touch her hand.
Mira:
"You don’t have to answer honestly if it hurts."
Aarushi felt something tighten inside her ribs.
The café felt smaller suddenly.
She picked up her coffee and took a sip, even though it had gone cold. The bitter taste grounded her for a second.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then, slowly—
Aarushi:
"What if honesty scares people away?"
The message sat between them like a fragile glass object.
Mira read it carefully, her expression softening.
Mira:
"Then they were already standing too far."
Aarushi closed her eyes.
She didn’t know why that sentence felt like someone had gently pressed a hand against her chest and said, You don’t have to hold everything alone.
The rain slowed into a steady drizzle.
Inside the café, someone laughed loudly at a distant table. A song changed, the new melody softer, almost nostalgic.
Aarushi traced the rim of her cup with her finger.
Aarushi:
"Do you ever feel like you're safe with someone… but still scared of needing them?"
Mira didn’t reply immediately.
Because she felt that question in her bones.
She had lived inside that contradiction for years.
Finally—
Mira:
"Yes."
"Safety sometimes feels temporary. Like a place we’re afraid to decorate because we think we’ll have to leave."
Aarushi inhaled sharply.
Outside, Mira stepped slightly into the rain, letting it soak her sleeve.
She didn’t step back.
Aarushi looked at the message again and again.
Her chest felt lighter.
And heavier.
Both at once.
Aarushi:
"I think I’m tired of leaving before anyone can."
Mira’s fingers trembled slightly as she typed.
Mira:
"Then maybe… you can try staying. Just a little longer each time."
The café lights flickered softly as the clouds outside thickened again. Aarushi leaned her head against the glass window, watching the blurred reflections of passing cars.
For the first time in a long time, silence didn’t feel like abandonment.
It felt like a space where two people were learning how to exist without rushing.
Minutes passed.
Neither of them messaged.
Yet neither of them left.
Mira looked up at the grey sky, letting the rain wash over the noise in her head. She wondered when conversations had started feeling like shelter instead of risk.
She wondered when Aarushi had become someone she looked for in ordinary moments.
Inside the café, Aarushi finally opened her book.
She didn’t read a single word.
But she liked how it felt to pretend normalcy had returned.
Her phone buzzed once more.
Mira:
"Did you eat anything today?"
Aarushi smiled softly.
Aarushi:
"No."
Three dots appeared instantly.
Mira:
"You should."
Aarushi:
"You sound like someone who cares too much."
There was a longer pause this time.
Then—
Mira:
"Maybe I just don’t know how to care halfway."
The words settled into Aarushi’s heart like quiet snowfall.
Outside, the rain finally stopped.
But neither of them noticed.
Because somewhere between typed sentences and shared silences, they had built something fragile.
Something unnamed.
Something that didn’t demand promises—
yet slowly asked for presence.
Aarushi packed her bag and stood near the café door. She hesitated for a moment before stepping outside.
The air smelled fresh, washed clean by the storm.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mira:
"Are you leaving?"
Aarushi looked at the wet street ahead.
Aarushi:
"Yes."
Another pause.
Then—
Mira:
"Walk slowly. The roads are slippery after rain."
Aarushi smiled to herself.
As she started walking, she realized something quietly important.
She wasn’t afraid of the distance anymore.
Because sometimes, distance didn’t mean separation.
Sometimes, it meant two people choosing not to rush…
and still choosing not to leave.
The sky remained cloudy, but the storm had passed.
And for the first time, Aarushi felt like she didn’t need the sun to believe the day could still be warm.
To Be Continued…
