The days in the town passed like soft winds - unhurried, unannounced. Aarav didn't fall for Meera. And that was okay. She wasn't a placeholder, nor a rebound. She was a presence - steady, grounding, the kind of person who reminded you healing doesn't have to be loud to be real.
Aarav spent more time journaling. Not to unravel pain, but to understand it. He began sketching again too - nothing elaborate, just small moments: a cracked mug, a leaf on water, a man watching sunsets alone. He'd forgotten how freeing it felt to create without needing approval.
One afternoon, while cleaning out his bag, he found the napkin Tara had scribbled her number on - faded now, edges curled. The ink, though weak, still carried the weight of a thousand memories. He sat for hours, staring at it, until his hand moved to his journal.
This time, not to question, but to speak - to her, to the past, to the ghost of the man he used to be.
He wrote her a letter.
Not angry, not bitter. Just honest. He told her what he had felt, what it had done to him. How she made him feel like art and abandonment at the same time. How her love felt like a wildfire - beautiful, but consuming. And how, after she left, he didn't just lose her - he lost himself.
But he also told her about the lake, about Meera, about the quiet. About the strength in solitude. The peace in rebuilding. The power in not needing someone to fix him.
He signed the letter with a simple line:
"Some stories aren't meant to end with closure. They end when we stop needing it."
He folded the letter, walked to the small backyard behind the café, and burned it. The paper curled and cracked, flames licking his words before turning them into ash.
He watched every bit disappear into the evening breeze.
Not because he hated her.
Because he was done carrying her.
Done waiting for a why. Done needing an apology. Done anchoring his worth in someone else's love.
That night, Meera poured them both a cup of tea. No questions, no pity. Just warmth.
And Aarav realized - some endings aren't fireworks. Some are quiet. Clean. Freeing.
Like finally exhaling after holding your breath too long.