I hadn't heard his voice in months. But that night, in the middle of the pouring rain, Shresth Jaiswal called me.
I stared at my phone. He rarely called first anymore. For weeks, we had been orbiting each other in this strange rhythm—sometimes too close, sometimes too far. But I still answered.
"Where are you?" His tone was casual, almost careless.
"At the bus stop. It's raining," I replied.
A pause. I could almost imagine him leaning back in his chair, thinking, calculating. "Did you bring an umbrella?"
"No."
"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered. "Wait there, I'll come."
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him not to bother. But deep down, I still longed for the version of him that cared without asking. So I waited.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The rain softened, but the heaviness inside me didn't. When he finally arrived, his scooty skidding to a halt, I felt that familiar pull.
"Let's go," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And I followed.
I didn't know then, but this call was only the beginning. The beginning of everything I thought I had forgotten.