Chapter 7 – Coffee & Confessions
Late evening coffee leads to first real conversation.
The library clock struck five.
Meera closed her notebook slowly, pretending she hadn't been checking the time every five minutes.
He was late.
Not very late.
Just enough for her thoughts to wander.
Maybe he forgot.
Maybe something came up.
Maybe—
"Waiting long?"
Her heart reacted before she turned.
Aarav stood behind her, slightly out of breath, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Five minutes," she replied, trying to sound casual.
"That's long."
"It's not."
"For someone impatient, it is."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'm not impatient."
He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down.
"You check the door every thirty seconds."
Heat rose to her cheeks.
"You notice too much."
"I pay attention."
Silence fell between them, but it felt softer today.
Less guarded.
They worked for nearly an hour—organizing notes, finalizing their topic, dividing responsibilities.
The sky outside gradually shifted from pale blue to muted orange.
Shadows stretched across the library floor.
A librarian approached quietly. "Closing in ten minutes."
Meera blinked.
"Already?"
Aarav glanced at the window. "Time moves fast when you're not pretending."
She looked at him.
"What are you not pretending right now?"
He met her gaze.
"To be unaffected."
The honesty startled her.
She didn't know how to respond to that.
They packed their things in silence.
Outside, evening air wrapped around them—cool and gentle. Streetlights flickered on one by one.
"Coffee?" he asked suddenly.
She hesitated.
It was getting late.
But something about the quiet invitation felt important.
"Okay."
They walked to a small café just outside campus—nothing fancy. Warm yellow lights. Soft music playing in the background. A few students scattered at tables.
They chose a corner seat.
Not too visible.
Not too hidden.
Two coffees were placed in front of them, steam rising lazily.
For the first time since they met—
There was no notebook between them.
No project outline.
No excuse.
Just conversation.
He wrapped his fingers around the cup but didn't drink immediately.
"You're quieter than usual," she said softly.
"You're more relaxed than usual."
She tilted her head slightly. "Am I?"
"Yes."
"Maybe it's the lighting."
He gave a faint smile.
The café felt warm. Safe.
But something heavier lingered beneath the surface.
She took a sip of her coffee.
"Why do you always look like you're thinking about something else?" she asked gently.
He didn't deflect.
Didn't tease.
He considered the question.
"Because I usually am."
"About what?"
A pause.
"Things I can't change."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
"Like?"
He looked down at the table for a moment.
Then back at her.
"My parents."
The word settled heavily between them.
She hadn't expected him to answer that easily.
"They separated two years ago," he continued calmly. "Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… distant. Like two people who stopped choosing each other."
She listened carefully.
No interruption.
No pity.
Just presence.
"I used to think storms were loud," he added quietly. "But silence can be worse."
Her chest tightened.
"That's why you stand in the rain," she realized.
He gave a small nod.
"It's easier to hear your own thoughts when everything outside is loud."
The vulnerability in his voice made her heart ache.
"You never told anyone this?" she asked.
"Not really."
"Why me?"
The question slipped out softly.
His gaze held hers.
"You ask without judging."
Her breath faltered slightly.
"You make it easy."
No one had ever said that to her before.
Easy.
She swallowed.
"My father left when I was thirteen," she said quietly.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't look shocked.
Just listened.
"He didn't say goodbye. Just stopped coming home. My mother pretended it was temporary for months."
The café noise faded into background blur.
"I think that's why I panic," she admitted. "When things feel uncertain."
"When they feel like they might leave?" he finished gently.
She nodded.
"That's why yesterday bothered you," he realized.
"It wasn't about your cousin," she said honestly. "It was about not knowing if I mattered."
The confession hung in the warm air.
He didn't respond immediately.
He leaned back slightly, studying her expression carefully.
"You matter," he said again.
But this time—
It sounded different.
Not casual.
Not soft.
Certain.
Her pulse quickened painfully.
"Then why do you hold back?" she whispered.
He exhaled slowly.
"Because when you've seen something break… you don't rush to build it again."
The words hit her gently.
Painfully.
"I'm not trying to rush," she said. "I just don't like guessing."
He nodded.
"Fair."
Silence.
But not empty.
Full.
He finally took a sip of his coffee.
"It scares me," he admitted quietly.
"What does?"
"How easy it is to talk to you."
Her heart skipped.
"That's not scary."
"It is," he said simply.
"Why?"
"Because I don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Open up."
She looked at him carefully.
"You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
The words landed like a soft explosion in her chest.
Outside, a faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.
Neither of them looked away this time.
"You're not as unaffected as you pretend," she said gently.
"And you're not as fragile as you think," he replied.
They both smiled faintly.
For the first time—
It didn't feel like tension.
It felt like understanding.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"If I hadn't been in the wrong classroom that first day… would we still be here?"
The question caught her off guard.
She thought about it honestly.
"I don't know," she said.
"Me neither."
A pause.
"But I'm glad you were," she added softly.
His eyes softened.
"So am I."
The café lights dimmed slightly as closing time approached.
Neither moved immediately.
Neither wanted to break the moment.
"You know," she said quietly, "this doesn't feel forced anymore."
"The project?"
"No."
He understood.
"No," he agreed.
A small, fragile warmth settled between them.
Not a confession of love.
Not a dramatic declaration.
But something quieter.
More real.
The kind of connection built on shared truths instead of grand gestures.
The waiter approached politely. "We're closing."
They stood.
Outside, light rain had begun falling.
Of course.
She looked up at the sky.
He watched her.
"You're not closing your eyes," he observed.
She smiled.
"Maybe I don't need to anymore."
Thunder rolled softly.
He stepped slightly closer—not touching.
Just near.
"If storms scare you," he said quietly, "I won't let you face them alone."
Her breath caught.
"And if silence scares you," she replied, "I'll sit with you in it."
Their eyes locked.
No one looked away.
Rain fell gently around them.
Not heavy.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
For the first time since they met—
They weren't circling the feeling.
They were standing inside it.
Not naming it.
Not defining it.
But accepting it.
Coffee had cooled.
Rain had begun.
And somewhere between honesty and hesitation—
Two guarded hearts had opened just enough.
Not fully.
Not recklessly.
But enough to know—
This was no longer just proximity.
This was choice.