The rain returned to Bengaluru like a memory—soft, persistent, familiar. Church Street shimmered beneath puddles, and Blossom Book House stood unchanged, its awning still sheltering strangers and stories.
Aanya had just returned from Mumbai for a short break. The city felt different now—less like a place she'd left, more like a place she'd once belonged to.
She wandered into Blossom, fingers trailing along spines, heart unsure of what it was looking for.
Then she saw him.
Vihaan stood in the poetry aisle, holding a copy of Neruda. His hair was longer, his eyes quieter, but the crooked smile was the same.
"I was hoping you'd come here," he said.
"I wasn't planning to," Aanya replied.
"Some things don't need planning."
They stepped outside together, beneath the awning where it all began. The rain tapped above them like a heartbeat.
"I read every letter you sent," Aanya said. "Even the ones that weren't poetic."
"I wrote them for you. Not for the rain. Not for ghosts."
She smiled. "I didn't reply to all of them."
"You didn't have to. I just needed to know you were still reading."
They stood in silence, the city moving around them, the rain wrapping them in memory.
"I'm not here to ask for forever," Vihaan said. "Just for now. And maybe tomorrow."
Aanya reached for his hand. "Then let's start with coffee."
They walked toward Matteo's, umbrella tilted, shoulders touching.
And sometimes, love doesn't arrive with thunder or lightning. Sometimes, it returns with a whisper between raindrops.