In the days that followed, Shia returned to her old world.
The one with manicured nails and watermarked selfies. Laughter that echoed but didn't land. Familiarity with no depth.
She looked like herself again.
But every time she moved, it felt like a cover song playing just off-key.
Rohan rode faster now.
Through corners they used to meander through.
He skipped the bench.
Refused tea in the cafeteria.
His answers in class grew sharper. Funnier. Louder. Everything louder - except where it really mattered.
It was Kabir who finally noticed. Tanya who whispered first.
Even Ms. Sen paused once during a roll call, looked toward the empty second row, and said nothing.
Nothing... but everything.
One dusky evening, when clouds once more gathered like witnesses, Rohan's phone lit up:
Shia Oberoi
1 message: Come to the bench.
He didn't text back.
Didn't ask a thing.
Just rode.
Not reckless.
Desperate.
The zoo was quiet. The air thick with monsoon waiting to bloom.
The pond was still. Its surface shimmered with silence.
The storks were gone.
But something else waited.
Shia stood by the banyan tree. Still. Shadowed. Holding something small in both hands.
"Rohan?" she began, her voice tentative.
He stepped closer.
"There's something I need to tell you," she said.
"It was a bet," she whispered, her voice breaking, barely audible over the rustle of leaves. "My friends thought I couldn't make you love me. But you… you were never a game." Her fingers brushed a handkerchief, clutched tightly as if it held her secrets. "There's more I can't say - not yet."
He grabbed her hand, tears welling in his eyes, his voice raw. "Why?" he pleaded, the word heavy with pain. She froze, her eyes flickering with fear or something deeper, then tore free and ran toward the parking lot, her silhouette fading into the evening haze. A car's engine roared, and she was gone, leaving only the handkerchief with a heart and S stitched in red. steeped in a familiar fragrance, the scent of her presence. He stood frozen, the pond's ripples reflecting his unanswered questions
The morning after Shia fled their bench - tears streaking down her face, her confession still echoing in the drizzle - Rohan tried to hold himself together. But something inside had unraveled. The girl who'd once leaned into his shoulder during Delhi's traffic now couldn't meet his eyes. And he had no idea how to stitch the pieces back.
Days passed. Shia didn't return. No rides in the morning. No laughter in class. No texts. Her absence wasn't quiet - it was symphonic. It hummed through Rohan's lectures, vibrated beneath his fingertips whenever he touched the throttle, and clung to his shirt collar like leftover rain.
Whispers started swirling in the corridors. "She's sick." "Family issues." "Some retreat in the hills." But no one knew for sure. And no one told Rohan anything that felt like truth.
Then, one dusky evening, while the sky hung low with the weight of monsoon clouds, Rohan went back to the bench. The one under the banyan. Their bench. The pond lay still, its ripples mourning something it couldn't name. The storks were gone - not flying, not nesting. Just? gone.
But something waited.
A sealed envelope, its edges damp but not ruined. Tucked beneath the bench where she'd once doodled hearts with her thumb. His name written softly in Shia's familiar hand, like a whisper she couldn't say aloud.
He sat down, rain brushing against his sleeves, and opened it carefully. Inside was a letter - neatly folded, ink slightly smudged at the edges, as if even the words had cried.
Rohan,
I don't know how to fix this. Maybe I never did. Maybe I wasn't supposed to.
You were the only person who made me feel like more than my last name.
I broke us. Not because I didn't care. But because I cared too much and didn't know what to do with it.
You once said rain makes Delhi beautiful. I think I understand now. It washes what we can't hold. It lets things flow, even when they ache.
If I never get the chance to say this again, let this be enough: I loved you in every stolen laugh, in every puddle we splashed through, in every silence where words didn't need to exist.
All good things end, Rohan. Even the ones that feel like forever.
Yours, Shia
Rohan read it again. And again. Until the raindrops on the ink matched the ones on his cheek.