The sun had shifted from its soft morning haze to a bolder amber. Shadows from the window grille danced across the tiled floor, stretching long and deliberate — like time was slowing down on purpose. Tara sat just where she'd been all morning: sideways on the window seat, knees drawn to her chest, her cup of chai half-finished but still held like a lifeline.
The first cup of chai always calmed her nerves. The second? That one made her think too much.
She hadn't meant to let the day crawl like this. There was laundry to fold, unread emails blinking with quiet desperation, and a half-written article on "mindful mornings" that was ironically overdue by three days. But the truth was, productivity had no appeal that day.
She tilted her head, watching a squirrel outside leap recklessly from one terrace ledge to another. It made it. Barely.
She smiled.
Then came the knock.
Not loud, not urgent — just... there. As if the universe knew she needed someone, and someone had shown up.
"Coming!" Tara called, though she didn't move right away. She stretched slowly, the kind that made your bones crack in protest. She placed the cup down beside her — careful not to spill the dregs — and padded toward the door, dragging her shawl like a cape.
When she opened it, she already knew who it would be.
Rhea.
Holding a paper bag in one hand and judgment in the other.
"You look like a soft tragic poem," Rhea said, stepping inside without invitation. "Are those yesterday's pajamas?"
Tara smirked. "Define 'yesterday.'"
Rhea dumped the bag on the table and flopped onto the nearest chair. "Brought samosas. Don't ask why. Just eat them before the universe gives you another reason to spiral."
"I wasn't spiraling," Tara defended.
"Your bun is lopsided and your playlist is at peak melancholy. You were *definitely* spiraling."
Tara grinned, despite herself. "Thank you for noticing."
Rhea grinned back. "Always. Shall we brew that second cup?"
The kitchen felt warmer when Rhea was in it — and not just because she always left the gas on too long or opened cupboards like a raccoon. She moved with the energy of someone who didn't need to be told where things were. She had shown up in Tara's life five years ago during a horribly awkward book club meet-up and never really left.
Tara set the kettle on the flame while Rhea opened the paper bag. The smell of deep-fried comfort wafted through the kitchen.
"You know," Rhea said, biting into a samosa, "I still don't get why you always sit at that window like you're waiting for a film scene to happen."
Tara smiled faintly. "It already did. You just walked in with samosas."
Rhea narrowed her eyes. "Flattery won't get you out of explaining why you looked like a rejected poet just now."
"I wasn't waiting for anyone," Tara said, stirring the milk. The clink of the spoon against the steel vessel filled the pause. "I think I'm just... remembering things."
"What things?"
"Who I used to be before I became this."
Rhea didn't respond right away. She watched her friend — watched how her brow furrowed even while stirring chai, how her eyes seemed fixed somewhere just behind the real world.
"That's vague and dramatic," Rhea finally said. "I like it. Keep going."
Tara let out a soft laugh. "You're impossible."
"Thank you. I try."
She poured the tea with practiced ease — not too strong, just enough sugar — and handed Rhea her cup. They settled on the floor by the window, cross-legged and quiet for a while.
Steam curled from the cups and mingled in the sunlight like some kind of slow, golden magic.
Outside, the sky was shifting toward that late-afternoon glow, rooftops shimmering under heat. Inside, their world was a collage of messy comfort: an open notebook on the couch, two empty mugs on the windowsill, and now, the spicy-sweet scent of cardamom filling the air.
"You know," Rhea said quietly, "you don't have to figure it all out today. Or tomorrow. Or next week. You just have to keep showing up."
Tara looked at her, grateful. "Even if I'm wearing the same pajamas for three days straight?"
"Especially then," Rhea said, raising her cup.
Tara clinked hers against it. "To the second cup."
"To the second chance," Rhea added.
The moment lingered.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there.
And sometimes, that was enough.