Umakanth Kodi’s- Aaromale
December Mornings
Compared to the last five years, December arrived with an unusual cruelty.
The cold was sharper, more persistent, as though it had decided to linger out of spite. Even the simple act of getting out of bed felt like a small act of bravery—one Advay failed at repeatedly. Waking up early and heading to the office was unbearable on most days, but today felt especially cruel. Losing two precious hours of sleep to a late-night coding deployment hadn’t helped.
By eight in the morning, the sun had already turned hostile.
It pressed against the windows of the company bus as it rolled out of Uppal, its glare relentless and unapologetic. Advay sat slumped in his usual seat—third row from the back, window side—the one he always took after being picked up from BSL East County, the gated apartment complex he called home.
His head leaned against the faintly vibrating glass, eyes half-closed, drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
Deep sleep, actually. That was his usual state during morning commutes.
The bus slowed as Rangayya, the driver, eased it to a stop to pick up another employee.
That was when she came running toward the bus.
The Bus Seat Beside Him
She moved quickly, hair bouncing slightly with each step. A sharp bob framed her face. She wore a full-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, an office bag slung over one shoulder. Clearly late, she shouted Rangayya’s name, her voice slicing through the cold morning air.
The driver didn’t notice her at first.
Advay did.
Through the driver’s side mirror, he caught her reflection. Without thinking, he leaned forward and signaled Rangayya to stop. The bus hissed and came to a halt just in time.
She reached the door, slightly out of breath, and immediately scolded the driver for not waiting a few seconds longer before stepping inside.
Advay pretended to be asleep—eyes barely open—but he watched her.
He had been watching her like this for nearly two years.
Quietly. From a distance.
She wasn’t just his colleague. Their families were close friends, and they lived in the same apartment complex, opposite flats. Close enough that coincidence had slowly turned into routine.
Her name was Saanvi.
And every December morning, no matter how cold or exhausting, felt a little less unbearable when she boarded the bus.
Too Awake for December
“Good morning.”
The voice was far too bright for 8:20 a.m.
Neon-yellow bright.
Through half-closed eyes, Advay registered a familiar blur beside him—short hair, restless energy. He hugged his laptop bag tighter to his chest like a shield.
“Good night,” he muttered.
He closed his eyes again, hoping the message would land.
It didn’t.
A sharp punch connected with his bicep.
“Wake up, dumbo!”
Saanvi laughed as she dropped into the seat beside him, the bus dipping slightly under her weight. She smelled faintly of soap and cold air.
“I didn’t sit next to you just to listen to you snore,” she said. “I can get that soundtrack from my grandfather’s pug.”
Advay groaned and forced his eyes open. “It’s December,” he said. “People are supposed to hibernate. Why are you so awake?”
She grinned.
Saanvi always looked like she was ready to sprint—tall, straight-backed, restless. Her hair was pulled into a practical ponytail. No jewelry, except a sports watch strapped tightly to her wrist. Energy radiated off her like static. Dangerous, uncontainable.
News That Won’t Sit Still
Advay rubbed his arm, studying her. “You know, for someone so compact, you hit like a middleweight contender.”
She winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Her eyes sparkled. The unmistakable look of someone carrying news too good to sit still.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out, “guess what happened yesterday.”
Advay leaned back, the last traces of sleep draining away. “Let me guess. Underground wrestling? Or Anurag finally gathered the courage to call you.”
She froze.
Her eyes widened. “How do you possibly know that?”
“He cornered me in the cafeteria,” Advay said calmly. “Spent twenty minutes debating whether you’re a lily person or a rose person.”
A beat.
“And you just gave him my number?” she asked.
“I had to,” he said. “He looked one conversation away from emotional collapse.”
She groaned, dropping her head back against the seat.
Classic Saanvi.
She could loudly admire someone all day, but the moment things turned real, she became an emotional fortress. The undisputed queen of the Platonic Zone.
“You really enjoy watching me suffer, don’t you?” she asked.
“Live for it,” Advay grinned.
Her fist connected with his shoulder again.
December glared through the window.
Advay smiled anyway.
The Wrong Words
The office lobby smelled like sanitizer and overworked air-conditioning.
Advay tapped his badge at the gate and followed the familiar procession of half-awake engineers into the building. Screens glowed everywhere—charts, dashboards, things already broken before 9:30 a.m.
At his desk, he dropped his bag, powered on his system, and stared at the loading screen like it had personally wronged him.
“Come on,” he muttered. “We’ve both had a long night.”
The system finally complied.
Slack exploded. Emails multiplied. Somewhere, someone had already pushed bad code.
Across the aisle, Saanvi slid into her chair, logged in, and stretched like she was warming up for battle.
“You alive?” she asked.
“Barely,” Advay replied. “If I stop moving, I might fossilize.”
“Noted,” she said. “I’ll inform HR.”
By ten-thirty, survival instincts kicked in.
The cafeteria.
The coffee machine stood in the corner like a sacred artifact, surrounded by people pretending not to be desperate. Advay and Saanvi joined the line, staring at the blinking lights like pilgrims awaiting blessings.
That was when Anurag appeared.
Too neatly dressed. Too alert. Holding his cup like it contained emotional support.
Saanvi noticed immediately.
Advay didn’t miss it.
“Well,” Advay said casually, pressing the espresso button, “look who’s hydrated, caffeinated, and emotionally prepared.”
Anurag cleared his throat. “Morning.”
Saanvi smiled. “Morning.”
The machine whirred. Took its time. Built suspense.
“So,” Advay said without looking up, “heard you were very brave yesterday.”
Anurag nearly dropped his cup.
“Brave?” he echoed.
“Cafeteria bravery,” Advay continued. “Advanced-level courage. HR should really issue badges.”
Saanvi shot Advay a warning look.
He ignored it.
“I was just asking for a number,” Anurag said.
“A historic moment,” Advay nodded. “The legends will be told.”
The machine beeped. Coffee poured. Relief.
“Ignore him,” Saanvi told Anurag. “He hasn’t had enough caffeine to be kind.”
Advay took a sip. “False. I’m always kind. Just deeply committed to chaos.”
Anurag smiled—nervous, hopeful.
The three of them stood there, steam rising from their cups, pretending this was just another coffee break.
Advay noticed the shift anyway.
The way Anurag stood a little straighter.
The way Saanvi lingered half a second longer.
Some mornings changed nothing.
Others began quietly, beside a coffee machine that never worked properly.
Espresso and Silence
They drifted back to their desks with coffee in hand.
Conversations resumed. Keyboards clicked. The office slipped back into its usual rhythm.
Advay stared at his screen, scrolling through code without really reading it.
Across the aisle, Saanvi watched him over the rim of her cup.
Not directly. Never directly.
Advay had a tell.
Whenever something unsettled him—something he refused to name—his fingers paused mid-air above the keyboard. Just for a second. Long enough to notice. Short enough to deny.
It happened now.
Anurag laughed at something someone said nearby. Nothing important. Nothing worth attention.
Advay still looked up.
Just once.
Too quick to be casual.
Saanvi followed his gaze. Anurag stood a few desks away, talking animatedly, coffee in hand. Comfortable. Confident in a way he hadn’t been yesterday.
She looked back at Advay.
He pretended to be busy.
Saanvi leaned back in her chair, studying him like a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving. For two years, Advay had been easy to read—sarcasm, exhaustion, loyalty worn plainly on his sleeve.
This was different.
This was quiet.
Interesting.
She took another sip of coffee, hiding her smile. Not amused. Curious.
Advay glanced sideways and caught her looking.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said easily. “Just checking if you were still alive.”
He snorted and returned to his screen.
But the thought lingered.
Advay had always noticed things—bugs in code, people in rooms, details others skipped.
This time, he hadn’t realized he was one of them.
And for the first time, Saanvi wondered—not about Anurag—but about Advay.
A Slap and Old Friends
The day dragged itself forward.
Meetings blurred. Code compiled. Coffee cooled and was forgotten. By evening, the office lights softened, and conversations thinned into murmurs.
Advay shut down his system and stood, stretching. Across the aisle, Saanvi did the same.
They walked toward the exit together, as they always did.
At the elevator, Anurag waved from a distance. “See you tomorrow,” he said—too casual, too deliberate
Saanvi lifted a hand. “Tomorrow.”
The doors slid shut.
Silence filled the elevator.
Advay stared at the glowing floor numbers, jaw tight. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want to know.
“You’re quiet,” Saanvi said.
“Tired.”
“You always get tired,” she said. Then, softer, “But this is different.”
The elevator slowed.
Advay finally looked at her.
Something passed between them—brief, electric, unnameable.
“Is it?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
Outside, the evening air was cool. The city hummed around them.
“Don’t overthink,” she said.
“I won’t.”
She walked ahead—just a step faster than usual.
And for the first time in two years, Advay realized something had already changed.
He just didn’t know which of them had noticed first.
Coffee Instead of Routine
Morning arrived without ceremony.
No dramatic cold. No cruel sun. Just the unsettling normalcy of a day pretending nothing had changed.
Advay woke before the alarm.
That alone felt wrong.
At 7:48 a.m., his phone buzzed.
A message.
Not Slack. Not email.
Saanvi.
You awake?
He stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Yeah.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Good.
Don’t take the bus today.
He sat up.
Why?
A pause.
Coffee.
Outside office.
Before work.
Another pause.
Just us.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t routine.
This wasn’t safe.
Okay.
8:30.
Don’t be late.
The chat went quiet.
Advay set the phone down, heart doing something unfamiliar—fast and uncertain.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t reach for his laptop.
He reached for his jacket.
And somewhere between habit and hesitation, the story shifted—quietly, deliberately—toward something neither of them could pretend was accidental.
Banjara Hills
Banjara Hills felt unusually calm that morning.
Saanvi told herself it was just another coffee before work, but her thoughts refused to agree. Advay hadn’t called her personally in a long time—not like this. No bus. No office. Just coffee.
That alone made it feel important.
She arrived early.
The café smelled of fresh beans and warm milk, the kind of place where conversations felt softer by default. Saanvi chose a table near the window and waited, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bag, excitement bubbling quietly beneath her calm expression.
When the door opened, she looked up immediately.
Advay walked in.
Something about him seemed different—more alert, less guarded. She straightened without realizing it, her smile forming before he even noticed her. He gave a small nod in her direction and headed to the counter.
By the time she joined him, he was already ordering coffee. She stood beside him, listening to the familiar cadence of his voice, wondering what he had brought her here to say.
That was when the door opened again.
She felt it before she saw it.
Her father walked in mid-conversation with a friend, laughing easily. The sound hit her like a warning bell. She stiffened, heart racing, shrinking instinctively into her seat.
Not now.
But it was too late.
Her father spotted her immediately. Then his gaze shifted to Advay.
Recognition followed.
“Saanvi?” he called, already walking toward them.
Advay turned, startled. “Uncle—actually—”
Her father waved him off, smiling. “You’re here?” He glanced between them, unbothered. Almost amused. “Alright. Carry on.”
And just like that, he walked away.
Saanvi exhaled slowly, laughing more from nerves than humor.
Advay sat down across from her, staring into his coffee.
He opened his mouth.
Paused.
Then frowned.
“What were you going to say?” she asked.
He looked up, embarrassed. “I… completely forgot.”
She smiled gently. “That’s okay. We’re here now.”
But both of them knew the moment had already shifted.
The Words That Slipped Away
Advay cleared his throat, fingers tightening around his cup.
“So,” he began carefully, “there’s a family get-together planned for Christmas. Long weekend. Both our families.”
Saanvi blinked.
That was it.
Her excitement collapsed into disbelief.
“You brought me all the way to Banjara Hills,” she said slowly, “asked me to skip the bus—for this?”
Advay sensed the shift too late. “No, listen—”
“You could’ve told me this in the lift. Or on the bus. Or at the office,” she snapped. “I thought you wanted to say something important.”
“I did,” he said, flustered. “I was going to—”
The words tangled.
The moment slipped.
Saanvi stood abruptly, picked up her coffee and threw it straight at his face.
Time froze.
Hot coffee splashed across his cheek, glasses, and shirt. Gasps rippled through the café.
“Unbelievable,” she said, voice tight. Then she walked out.
Advay sat there, stunned. Dripping. Smelling strongly of espresso.
He wiped his face slowly.
He had planned to tell her properly.
Now she was gone.
History Witnessed
A soft laugh broke the silence.
Advay turned.
A guy at the next table was trying—and failing—to control his laughter.
“Rough morning?” the stranger asked.
Advay frowned. “How do I know you?”
The guy grinned. “You forget faces faster than words now?”
Recognition hit.
“Arjun?”
“Since kindergarten,” he laughed. “And I’ve officially peaked. Watching a girl throw coffee on you before nine.”
Advay groaned. “You saw all that?”
“Saw it?” Arjun wiped his eyes. “I witnessed history.”
Despite himself, Advay laughed weakly.
Outside, Saanvi was already gone.
Inside, coffee cooled and laughter lingered.
Sometimes, the things you forget to say matter far more than the things you actually do.
Running in Place
Advay pushed his chair back. “Saanvi—wait.”
He hurried outside, heart pounding louder than traffic. He spotted her ahead, walking fast.
“Saanvi—”
“ADVAY!”
He stopped mid-step.
Across the pavement, Arjun waved wildly.
“Still running the same way!” he laughed.
“…Tinku?” Advay said slowly.
Arjun burst out laughing. “Tinku died after tenth class, idiot.”
They laughed—years collapsing into minutes.
Behind them, Saanvi stopped.
She turned back.
Saw Advay laughing.
Relaxed.
With someone else.
Her anger snapped.
She marched toward them.
“ADVAY.”
He turned.
SLAP.
The sound cracked across the street.
“You hurt me in the coffee shop,” she said, voice shaking. “And now you’re laughing?”
People stared..
She walked away without looking back.
Advay stood there, cheek burning, words useless again.
“…Who was that?” Arjun asked.
“Long story.”
Arjun nodded slowly. “Feels familiar.”
Advay groaned.
The Liquid Kind of Therapy
Club 8 was quieter in the afternoon.
No pounding music. No crowded dance floor. Just dim lights, slow playlists, and the low hum of conversations that carried more honesty than noise. The kind of place people came to sit with things they didn’t know how to say out loud.
Advay sank into the couch, exhaustion finally catching up with him. His cheek still burned. His shirt still smelled faintly of coffee.
Arjun ordered two drinks and slid one across the table.
“Drink,” he said. “You look like you survived a natural disaster.”
Advay took a sip, winced, then exhaled.
“She didn’t even let me explain,” he said quietly.
Arjun leaned back. “You were going to explain?”
“Yes. That’s the worst part.”
Advay stared into his glass. “I called her for coffee because I wanted to say something. Something that’s been stuck in my head for a long time.”
“But instead,” Arjun said, “you talked about a family Christmas get-together.”
Advay laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Genius move.”
“Classic you,” Arjun said gently. “Safe topic. No emotional risk.”
Advay nodded. “Her father walked in. Everything scrambled. I thought I’d say it later.”
“And now?”
“Now she thinks I played with her expectations.”
Arjun took a slow sip. “Did you?”
“No,” Advay said immediately. Then softer, “I just don’t know how to say the important things at the right time.”
Silence settled between them.
“You like her,” Arjun said. Not a question.
Advay nodded once. “I’ve liked her for years. So long it became normal.”
“And now?”
“And now I watched her walk away thinking I didn’t care enough.”
Arjun leaned forward. “You’ve been slapped twice in your life by women you liked.”
Advay groaned.
“And both times,” Arjun continued, “it wasn’t because you hurt them intentionally. It was because you didn’t show up when it mattered.”
“That doesn’t make me a villain,” Advay said.
“No,” Arjun agreed. “Just late.”
Late Isn’t the Same as Never
Evening crept in slowly.
Saanvi worked on muscle memory—meetings, emails, nods, smiles that came too easily. No one noticed the way her jaw stayed tight or how she avoided the coffee machine entirely.
When she finally stepped out of the office, the sky had softened into dusk. The city lights flickered on, indifferent.
She walked instead of taking a cab.
Each step replayed the morning.
The cafe.
His pause.
The way he laughed while she stood there feeling foolish for expecting more.
You hurt me.
She meant it.
Not because of the coffee. Not even because of the words he didn’t say.
But because she had hoped he would.
At home, she dropped her bag and leaned against the door longer than necessary. The apartment was too quiet.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Advay.
She didn’t open it.
She turned the phone face down, heart racing as if it had already betrayed her.
If she didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt this much.
And that scared her more than anger ever could.
Anger Is Not the Opposite of Love
Avani noticed immediately.
Saanvi never dropped her bag by the door. Never skipped tea. Never sat in silence staring at nothing.
Tonight, she did all three.
Avani set two cups down and sat beside her. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“That’s a lie.”
A beat.
“I slapped your brother today.”
Avani sighed. “I was wondering when this chapter would start.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected,” Avani said. “You don’t get this angry over people you don’t care about.”
Saanvi rubbed her temples. “I don’t even know why I’m angry.”
“He called you for coffee,” Avani said gently.
“Just me. I thought… I thought he finally had something real to say.”
“And he didn’t.”
“I wasn’t angry because of what he said,” Saanvi admitted. “I was angry because of what he didn’t.”
Avani nodded. “He forgets to say things out loud.”
“So why didn’t he?”
“Because he’s scared,” Avani said. “And because you matter enough to scare him.”
Saanvi swallowed.
“I don’t want to lose him,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to wait forever either.”
“Then don’t punish him for being slow if you know he’s sincere.”
Hope surfaced—quiet, stubborn.
The First Christmas Choice
Ananthagiri Hills smelled like pine, damp earth, and wood smoke.
Fairy lights wrapped around trees. Laughter rose and fell with the fog. Families moved in clusters, retelling old stories while new ones waited quietly.
Saanvi stood near the edge of the gathering, hot chocolate warming her hands.
She hadn’t planned on seeing Advay.
But of course, he was there.
Their eyes met.
He looked away first.
Later, when the crowd drifted toward the bonfire, she stepped onto the stone path leading into the fog.
“Saanvi.”
His voice was careful.
“I’m not here to fight,” he said. “And I’m not here to explain myself badly again.”
She turned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. No buildup.
She waited.
“I wanted to tell you something. I panicked. I hid behind something safe.”
“You made me feel foolish.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“I like you,” he said finally. “In a way that scares me enough to mess things up.”
Silence stretched.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” she said.
“I know.”
“But it’s a start.”
They stood there, not touching, letting something fragile settle into place.
For the first time, neither of them felt late.
They felt present.
The Song That Didn’t Play
The mood shifted after dinner.
Someone found a Bluetooth speaker. Someone else found confidence. And inevitably, someone suggested a song.
“Newyork Nagaram,” an uncle announced, with the authority of someone who had no intention of singing alone.
A ripple of approval followed.
The opening notes floated through the cold Ananthagiri air—soft, nostalgic, unmistakably familiar. People gathered near the bonfire, arms slung over shoulders, cups in hand, off-key confidence everywhere.
They began together.
It was terrible.
It was beautiful.
Some sang too loudly. Some too early. Some with dramatic hand gestures that suggested deep heartbreak despite being happily married for decades.
Saanvi stood near Avani, laughing, while Advay pretended not to sing but mouthed enough words to avoid suspicion.
Then the music stopped.
Abruptly.
Silence fell.
Everyone froze.
Except one voice.
Clear. Loud. Confident.
Saanvi’s younger brother—barely ten, oversized jacket, absolute commitment—stood in the center, eyes closed, singing with full theatrical passion.
Except he wasn’t actually singing.
His mouth moved. His eyebrows worked overtime. His hand rose dramatically.
No sound came out.
The group stared.
He continued.
Completely unaware.
An uncle whispered, “Is he… lip-syncing?”
The boy reached the imaginary high note and finished with a flourish.
Silence.
Then laughter exploded.
“I was in the feeling,” the boy said calmly.
Even Advay doubled over.
Some performances didn’t need sound at all.
Staying
The resort slept peacefully that night.
Fog wrapped the cottages. Laughter faded into quiet corridors. Blankets were pulled tight against the hill cold.
For once, Saanvi slept without replaying conversations.
Advay slept without rehearsing apologies.
Morning arrived gently.
Mist hovered low over the hills as sunlight filtered through trees. Breakfast was loud and simple. Steel plates clinked. Coffee steamed.
Advay sat across from Saanvi—not beside her, not far either.
Comfortable distance.
Their eyes met.
A smile.
Quiet. Real.
By late morning, cars rolled out of Ananthagiri Hills.
The fog lifted slowly behind them.
The Christmas weekend ended not with grand declarations, but with ease—and the quiet understanding that some stories didn’t need to rush.
Twenty-Six
The countdown to Advay’s twenty-sixth birthday felt less like a celebration and more like a looming deadline.
In Chennai IT, birthdays meant two things—funding an overpriced team lunch and having your face smeared with industrial-grade cake icing.
On the eve of the big day, Advay went to bed early.
He was jolted awake at midnight by chaos.
Lights blazed.
“Happy Birthday, Advay!”
Saanvi stood at the foot of his bed wearing a ridiculous party hat and livestreaming his disoriented expression.
Behind her, friends grinned.
“This is a heart attack,” Advay croaked.
She dragged him out anyway.
The next hour blurred into candles, singing, and bruising birthday bumps.
Then came the icing.
She painted him with it.
“I have a bribe,” Advay shouted, holding out a wrapped package.
Inside was a leather-bound omnibus of P.S. I Love You.
Her expression softened.
“You got me a gift? On your birthday?”
“Peace offering,” he said.
Something shifted between them.
The Cake Incident
By two a.m., the apartment was quiet.
Saanvi stayed back to help clean.
“I should go,” she said.
“I’ll drop you.”
The drive was calm. Chennai air drifted through open windows.
At her building, she hesitated.
“Thanks,” Advay said. “For everything.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” she smiled.
As he drove away, something hit his windshield.
She stood on the balcony, waving.
The buddy phase had just expired.
The next evening, he visited her apartment.
“I made the cake,” she admitted.
“You baked?”
“I practiced all week.”
She listed every failed attempt.
Advay looked at the cake.
At her.
That was when the truth surfaced.
He wasn’t just her friend.
He was in deep.
New York in a Sentence
The next morning, Advay’s boss called him into the corner office.
The air-conditioning hummed with a clinical calm that stood in direct contrast to the chaos in Advay’s chest.
“Two years,” Mr. Deshpande said, tapping a pen against his desk. “Lead role. New York. Backend architecture. Career-maker.”
Normally, this was the moment people smiled.
Advay didn’t.
All he saw was chocolate cake. Burnt edges. Saanvi listing failed attempts with pride.
“Any problem with going?” his boss asked.
“Not really,” Advay said, though his throat felt dry. “It’s just… sudden.”
“You leave in four weeks.”
Four weeks.
Advay walked out in a daze.
He had spent a year being just a friend. And now that he finally understood what he felt, the world was pulling him away.
Winter Clothes in Summer
He told her the next evening.
They sat on the steps outside his apartment.
“New York?” Saanvi said, forcing a smile. “Wow. You’ll probably forget us while dating some Broadway star.”
“I don’t care about women there,” he said too quickly.
She flinched, then laughed. “Go. See the world.”
For the next three weeks, Saanvi became his relocation manager.
She dragged him through Abids and Hitech City.
“Try this on.”
“Saanvi, it’s ninety-five degrees.”
“You need to know if you can move. New York muggers won’t wait.”
She adjusted the collar of a heavy coat. Her fingers brushed his neck.
For a second, the mall disappeared.
“You look almost civilized,” she said softly.
“I can’t breathe,” he replied.
It wasn’t the coat.
Almost Confessions
With ten days left, Saanvi made a list.
They watched sunsets at Durgam Cheruvu. Ate biryani at Shadab. Walked Tank Bund at night.
“You’ll change,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Accent. Words.”
“I’ll still be me.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s what scares me.”
Every night, the words waited on his tongue.
He didn’t say them.
The Bucket List
The morning of his departure smelled like Irani chai and exhaust.
At the airport café, she weighed his bags with military precision.
“I don’t want to go,” he said.
“It’s a career move.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine a Tuesday without you hitting my arm. I’m in love with you, Saanvi.”
The noise fell away.
She laughed and cried at the same time.
“Spectacular timing, dumbo.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Because I’ll be there in eight weeks.”
He stared.
“I pulled strings,” she said. “I was waiting for you to say something.”
He laughed—relieved, breathless.
Snow and Suitcases
February. Jersey City.
Advay waited outside the PATH station, wrapped in a familiar coat.
She emerged with a suitcase too big for her.
“Need help?” he asked.
“You’re late,” she smiled.
They walked together.
Some distances were worth crossing oceans for.
The Ring
Snow fell softly.
“You remember the cake?” she asked.
“I think about it every day.”
She held out a simple silver ring.
“I don’t want a buddy anymore. I want a life. With you.”
Advay took her hand.
“Fifty years isn’t enough.”
Full Circle
Hyderabad welcomed them back with heat and jasmine.
At the wedding, she whispered, “Wrong socks again?”
He grinned.
The cake waited at the reception.
Not perfect.
Made with care.
She smeared chocolate on his nose.
“Forever tradition.”
EPILOGUE
Home
Fireworks lit the skyline.
Home wasn’t a city.
It was the person who knew exactly where to hit your arm to make you listen.
“I love you,” Advay said.
She punched his shoulder and smiled.
—————————————————THE END—————————
