The Day We Pretended Not to Care
Rain had a strange way of making memories heavier.
Aarav stood under the broken shed outside the old café, his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching the street blur into moving shadows. The city always looked softer when it rained—less judgmental, more forgiving. He hated that about it.
Because forgiveness had never been easy for him.
"Late again," a familiar voice said.
He didn't turn immediately. He already knew who it was. Some voices didn't need eyes to be recognized.
"I wasn't late," Aarav replied calmly. "You were early."
Aanya scoffed. "That's your excuse every time."
When he finally faced her, she stood there with her arms crossed, raindrops clinging to her hair like tiny secrets. She hadn't changed much. Or maybe she had changed too much, and that was what scared him.
"You called," she said. "After three years. And you still argue like nothing happened."
"Because nothing happened," he said too quickly.
Aanya laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Right. People usually stop talking for three years because nothing happened."
The silence between them grew uncomfortable. Not awkward—just heavy. Like both of them were holding words that could change everything if spoken aloud.
The café door creaked open behind them, and the smell of coffee drifted into the rain-soaked air.
"Let's go inside," Aarav said. "Before you catch a cold and blame me for that too."
She hesitated, then nodded.
Inside, the café was almost empty. Soft music played in the background, the kind meant to make people fall in love or forget that they were alone. Aarav chose a table near the window. Old habit.
Aanya noticed.
"You still like corners," she said.
"They make it easier to leave," he replied.
She looked at him sharply but said nothing.
They ordered coffee. Black for him. Hazelnut for her. Another habit that hadn't changed.
"So," Aanya began, stirring her cup slowly. "Why did you call me?"
Aarav watched the coffee ripple. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, yet now his mind was blank.
"I'm leaving the city," he finally said.
Her hand froze.
"When?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"Tomorrow."
That was when she looked up.
"Tomorrow?" she repeated. "And you thought calling me one day before leaving was… considerate?"
"I didn't know if you'd come," he admitted.
"But you still asked."
"Yes."
Aanya leaned back, studying him as if he were a puzzle she had once solved and then forgotten how.
"You always do this," she said quietly. "You appear, disrupt everything, and disappear before anyone can ask you to stay."
Aarav clenched his jaw. "You think I wanted to leave before?"
"You never wanted to stay either."
The words hit harder than he expected.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, tapping against the glass like impatient fingers.
"I came to say goodbye," he said.
"That's all?"
"That should be enough."
"For you, maybe."
Her eyes softened for just a second before she looked away. Aarav remembered that look. The one she wore when she was trying not to care.
"Do you remember," Aanya said slowly, "the last thing you said to me?"
He nodded. He remembered everything.
Don't wait for me.
"I didn't wait," she continued. "I moved on. I built a life. I learned how to be okay without you."
"I know," he said.
"And yet," she smiled faintly, "here we are. Sitting across from each other like the past didn't hurt."
Aarav met her gaze. "Did it hurt?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," she said finally. "But not in the way you think."
The café lights flickered. For a moment, the world felt suspended between what was said and what wasn't.
"Why did you really call me, Aarav?" Aanya asked again.
He exhaled slowly.
"Because I realized something," he said. "No matter where I go, some part of me is still standing in this city. And that part… has your name on it."
Her breath caught. Just slightly. But he noticed.
"That's unfair," she whispered. "You can't say things like that and then leave."
"I'm not asking you to stop me," he said. "I just didn't want to leave without being honest for once."
Aanya stared at him, her eyes glistening—not with tears, but with choices.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, "when you leave… will you think of me?"
Aarav didn't hesitate.
"I already do."
The rain outside finally slowed, but neither of them moved.
Because some goodbyes didn't need an ending.
They needed a beginning.