The rain had returned to Bengaluru—not gentle, not poetic, but wild and unrelenting. It beat against windows, flooded streets, and reminded everyone that beauty could also be overwhelming.
Vihaan sat at Matteo's, staring at an email on his phone. The subject line read:
"Creative Residency Offer – Amsterdam."
It was everything he'd once dreamed of—a six-month program with international poets, gallery collaborations, and a stipend that could finally let him live off his art. But the timing felt cruel.
Aanya arrived minutes later, umbrella dripping, cheeks flushed from the cold.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said.
"Not a ghost," Vihaan replied. "A future."
He showed her the email. She read it twice, then handed it back.
"Congratulations," she said, voice steady.
"I haven't accepted."
"Why not?"
"Because of you."
Aanya looked away. "Don't make me the reason you stay. Not like that."
"I'm not choosing between you and the residency," Vihaan said. "I'm choosing how I want to live. And I don't know if I want to live it without you."
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "You should go."
Vihaan blinked. "What?"
"You should go. Not because I don't matter. But because you do. And if this is your dream, you owe it to yourself."
He reached for her hand. "And us?"
"We'll find out. If it's real, it won't break. It'll bend. Like bamboo in the storm."
Vihaan smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "You always speak in metaphors."
"Because reality is too sharp sometimes."
They sat together, the rain roaring outside, the silence between them no longer heavy—but stretched, like a thread pulled taut across continents.
And sometimes, love isn't about holding on. It's about letting go, just enough to see if it returns.