It was one of those evenings that smelled like rain long before the clouds agreed to deliver it.
Tara sat on the balcony floor, legs stretched out, a chipped mug of chai in one hand and an unopened packet of bourbon biscuits in the other. The city below was humming — cars sighing past, someone yelling at a delivery guy, distant music floating from a third-floor party Tara wasn't invited to (and wouldn't have gone to even if she was).
Inside, the living room light cast a soft glow across half-read books and forgotten laundry. Her phone buzzed once. Then again.
Then aggressively.
Rhea.
Incoming video call.
Tara sighed, switched the call to the speaker, and placed the phone next to the mug.
Rhea's face filled the screen, looking both overexposed and over it. She had eyeliner on only one eye and a necklace tangled in her hair.
"Tara," she said with deep drama. "I think I'm actually eloping this time."
Tara blinked. "Again?"
"I know what you're thinking."
"That this is the fourth time in eighteen months?"
"No, that I look amazing with one winged eyeliner. Which I do. But listen, this time it's serious. My mom just introduced me to a boy whose name rhymes with 'Parle-G.'"
"...Did she say that like it's a good thing?"
"YES. She said he's 'as sweet and dependable as a biscuit.' Like I'm a cup of tea in need of dunking."
Tara laughed so hard she nearly choked on her biscuit.
"You've got to admit, that's some top-tier matchmaking metaphor," she managed, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Oh shut up and take me seriously. I was packing."
"You were what?"
"I had my socks, my headphones, two energy bars, and my passport. That's practically elopement, no?"
Tara leaned back against the wall. "You know, when you texted me that you were eloping two weeks ago, I skipped my bath, forgot the chai, and sat by the door like a backup getaway driver. My paintbrush didn't even touch the box."
"I didn't ask for all that."
"You literally said 'It's happening. I'm eloping. Be ready.'"
Rhea paused.
"Okay but… emotionally, it was happening. You know what my mom said when I asked what this biscuit boy does for a living?"
"What?"
"She said, 'He's learning Reiki and working part-time at his uncle's pickle shop.'"
Tara snorted. "Healing chakras by day, bottling lemon pickle by night. Man's a superhero."
"Exactly!" Rhea threw her hands up. "I need someone with ambition. Or at least someone who can spell 'ambition.'"
There was silence after the laughter died down. The kind of silence that wasn't heavy — just honest.
Rhea pulled her legs up onto her couch onscreen and softened her voice. "I'm not really running away, Tara. I just… panic. You know how my house is. Every lunch turns into a discussion about 'good family backgrounds' and 'suitable matches.' And every time I hear the word 'settled,' I want to grow wings and fly into a volcano."
Tara sipped her chai slowly.
"I get it," she said. "You're not eloping. You're trying to escape."
"Exactly." Rhea smiled, small and real. "And when I text you those things — even if they're over the top — it's because I need to feel like I've got a plan. Or at least someone who'll laugh with me when I don't."
"You've always got me," Tara said simply. "Even if you marry Parle-G."
"I won't."
"I'd come for the snacks."
They both burst into laughter again.
Outside, the first few raindrops tapped on the balcony railing like shy percussion. Inside, Tara placed her phone upright so Rhea could "watch the rain" with her.
They sat like that for a while — one on a balcony, the other on a sofa, both wrapped in invisible comfort.
"You remember the time I actually tried to run away in college?" Rhea said suddenly. "I made it to the train station and forgot my wallet."
Tara smiled. "And I brought you parathas and sat with you on the bench while you cried about your GPA."
"And you said, 'You can run away, but only after breakfast.'"
"You were wearing two different shoes."
"It was a statement."
---
That night, after they hung up, Tara stayed on the balcony a little longer. The rain had begun in earnest now, drumming gently around her.
She looked at the empty biscuit wrapper, the steam from her second cup rising softly toward the sky.
Elopement wasn't always about weddings or rebellion, she thought.
Sometimes it was about finding a moment of stillness when your life felt too loud.
And sometimes it was just code for "I need someone to sit with me while I figure it out."
Tara picked up her phone again, opened the chat with Rhea, and typed:
"Next time you elope, bring chai."
"Only if it's homemade. Your maid makes better chai than you."
"Rude but fair."