Ren was leaving again.
This time, it wasn't a sudden silence.
He had told her, this time like he wanted her to know he wasn't disappearing.
"Going to Mumbai for a few days. Cousin's place. Need a break from boards madness."
That message came early in the morning, and Tulip, still half-asleep, had stared at it for a while before her fingers moved.
"You better bring back stories. And photos. And maybe a stray cat."
"Bet."
She could almost hear his soft chuckle. It wasn't loud or playful like it used to be when they first met, but it wasn't hollow either. Just... softer. Calmer.
She smiled.
Maybe that was enough.
The morning he left, she found herself refreshing his chat every few minutes. Not because she expected a message but because it made her feel close. Like maybe she was traveling too, inside his pocket, looking out at passing platforms and crowded compartments.
At 11:43 AM, her screen lit up.
A reel. A dog zipping up a suitcase with struggle and pure chaos.
"Mood?"
"Accurate."
She laughed really laughed. It was full, real. A sound she hadn't let out in days
That evening, Ren's updates arrived like postcards:
A blurry photo of a chai cup on the train window.
A signboard that read "Don't spit. Love instead."
A selfie with his cousin who looked like the polar opposite of him extroverted, all teeth and confidence.
And then, a photo of a sticker from the station washroom mirror:
"Love is a choice."
"I thought of you."
The words hit different. Not flirty. Not heavy. Just... weightless, but grounding.
It was the kind of sentence that stayed with her longer than it should have.
In the days that followed, their chats turned into a little time capsule. Little flashbacks sewn into the present.
He told her about the time he got lost at Juhu Beach when he was six and cried until a pani puri seller gave him a strawberry cone and asked if he liked Pokémon.
"I said yes and then told him my whole Pikachu theory. He pretended to listen."
"He sounds like a hero."
She sent voice notes too telling him about her glitter boot rebellion in fourth grade.
"I had this shiny pink pair. My mom said I looked like a disco ball. I cried. Told her I'd never speak to her again. Lasted three hours."
He laughed in a voice note of his own.
The sound made her sit up straighter.
She replayed it three times.
But some things don't change.
Her friends noticed the change in her again. The quiet softness when his name popped up on her screen. The way she scrolled through her gallery at lunch, eyes lingering on one specific photo of a chessboard scribbled with cat doodles he'd drawn during a call.
They didn't like it.
"He barely talks anymore."
"Isn't it weird how he just vanishes sometimes?"
"You sure he's not talking to someone else over there?"
"He's ghosting you slowly and you're just... okay with that?"
Tulip didn't respond. She didn't fight it. But their words echoed somewhere in the corners of her mind like unwanted wind chimes.
She hated that. Hated how easily doubt could crawl in, even through locked doors.
That night, she turned off her lights, crawled under her blanket, and stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above her.
He was in another city. Breathing the same air, but from a different sky.
What if he changed?
What if he already had?
She almost typed:
"Do you still like talking to me?"
But she backspaced it before she could even finish.
Instead, she wrote:
"How's Bandra? Found anything you'd steal and bring back?"
A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.
A photo of a wall mural an anime-style girl flying in the wind, hair wild, eyes wide, colors exploding around her.
"You'd love this."
"I already do."
She set it as her wallpaper without even thinking.
There was something about that girl in the mural. She looked like she was holding on to something invisible. Not afraid. Just... trusting.
Outside Tulip's window, the breeze whispered through the half-open pane. She looked at her curtain swaying gently, like it knew something she didn't. Then back at her screen.Trust didn't always need logic.
Some people... you just chose.
Even if the wind was loud. Even if others couldn't hear what you heard.
Because deep down, she knew
Some winds only blew to bring people back.