Dhruve told himself he wouldn't go.He said it out loud that morning, even laughed at the thought of meeting her again. But when evening came, he found himself walking down that same familiar street — the one near the café they used to visit every Sunday.
It was pathetic, he thought. He wasn't even sure why he was there. Maybe closure. Maybe curiosity. Or maybe because some part of him still wanted to know why.
The café hadn't changed. Same dim lights, same smell of roasted beans and cinnamon. The only thing different was the person sitting by the window.
Priya.
She looked… smaller somehow. Her hair was shorter, tied messily like she'd stopped caring about appearances. Her eyes, though — they were the same. The same eyes that once held entire worlds, now clouded with guilt.
He almost turned back. But she saw him.
"Dhruve," she said softly, standing up. "You came."
He pulled the chair opposite hers. "Don't make it sound like a miracle."
She smiled faintly. "It feels like one."
He didn't reply. The silence between them stretched, thick and awkward. The waiter approached, but Dhruve waved him away. He didn't come here for coffee.
Priya spoke first. "I don't even know where to start."
"Try the truth," he said coldly.
She winced. "I deserve that."
"No," he said, leaning forward. "You deserve worse. But I'm tired. So, talk."
She stared at her hands. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just… I need you to know I didn't plan any of it. It just—"
"—happened?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. "That's the word you're going with?"
Her voice trembled. "It's not what you think. Things between us were falling apart long before—"
"Don't," he said, cutting her off again. "Don't you dare rewrite the story to make yourself the victim."
Tears filled her eyes, but he didn't feel pity. Not yet.
"Dhruve, I was lonely. You were distant, buried in your work, and I—"
He slammed his hand on the table, making her flinch. Heads turned from nearby tables. He lowered his voice but his eyes burned.
"You were lonely, so you fucked someone else? That's your grand explanation?"
She closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I know I destroyed everything. You have every right to hate me. But I still think about you. Every damn day."
He stared at her, silent. The words hit him harder than he expected.
He wanted to hate her completely. But the truth was—he still thought about her too. That was the worst part.
After a long pause, he said quietly, "You don't get to say that anymore."
She nodded, wiping her tears. "I know. I just… I needed you to hear it once."
Dhruve leaned back, exhaling shakily. "Why now?"
She hesitated. "Because I saw what happened online. The posts. The pictures. The gossip. Everyone's talking about me, about us. I know you didn't post it, but—"
He smirked bitterly. "You think I didn't?"
She froze, her eyes widening.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Relax. I didn't. But part of me wishes I had."
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because I wanted you to feel what I felt. The humiliation. The whispers. The judgment. Everything."
She nodded slowly. "You got your wish anyway."
For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the café filled the silence again — soft chatter, clinking cups, distant laughter. Life, moving on without them.
Then Priya said, "I'm sorry, Dhruve. I know it doesn't fix anything, but I truly am."
He studied her face — the tear-streaked cheeks, the trembling lips, the regret that seemed real. Maybe it was. Maybe not.
"Sorry doesn't rewind time," he said. "It just fills the silence between two people who already said everything that mattered."
She looked down. "Do you ever think we could've fixed it?"
He gave a dry laugh. "We couldn't fix a broken cup by bleeding over the shards."
She smiled faintly at that. "You still talk like a writer."
"I talk like someone who's tired of pain," he said.
Her hand moved slightly, as if she wanted to reach for him, but she stopped midway. "I wish I could undo it."
He looked at her, his expression softer now. "You can't. But you can live with it. Like I have to."
When he stood to leave, she whispered, "Will you ever forgive me?"
He paused. "Maybe one day. But not for you. For me."
He walked out before she could respond.
The night air outside felt heavier than before. He lit a cigarette, the first in years, and stared at the streetlight flickering above. His reflection in the café window looked older, colder — someone who had lost pieces of himself along the way.
And yet, beneath all that bitterness, something inside him eased.Maybe it wasn't closure. But it was something close enough.
He looked up at the sky and muttered, "Guess that's that."