Aarav learned the sound of waiting long before he learned the sound of love.
Waiting was the hush of hospital corridors at dawn.
Waiting was the way his mother used to fold his school uniform with trembling fingers, knowing she wouldn't live long enough to watch him grow into it.
Waiting was grief, slow and patient, sitting beside him on empty bus seats and at half-filled dinner tables.
By twenty-eight, Aarav had mastered solitude the way some people mastered music — quietly, diligently, with no audience. He worked as a freelance illustrator in Mumbai, drawing book covers and children's stories, creating worlds that were warmer than the one he lived in. His apartment was small but neat, with plants lining the windowsill and sketches taped to the walls like silent companions.
He liked his life calm. Predictable. Safe.
And then one rainy afternoon, Maya walked into it.
She arrived at the café where Aarav spent most afternoons working — soaked, breathless, and apologetic — because she had mistaken the place for a bookstore she was supposed to meet someone in. Her umbrella had flipped inside out, her hair was plastered to her cheeks, and she smelled faintly of wet paper and jasmine.
"I'm so sorry," she said, scanning the room. "This isn't Pages & Co., is it?"
Aarav looked up from his tablet, blinked once, and shook his head. "No. But it's better coffee."
She laughed, surprised, and something in that sound — soft, unguarded — loosened something in him he hadn't known was tight.
"Well," she said, shrugging off her wet cardigan, "since I'm here, I might as well wait out the rain."
She ordered tea, sat two tables away, and pulled out a notebook stuffed with sticky notes. Every few minutes, she glanced up, chewing the end of her pen, lost in thought. Aarav tried to go back to work, but he found himself watching the way her eyebrows pinched together when she concentrated, the way she mouthed sentences before writing them down.
After twenty minutes, she caught him looking and smiled.
"Are you an artist?" she asked, nodding toward his screen.
"Something like that."
She stood, walked over, and tilted her head. "That's beautiful. Who's it for?"
"A children's book. About a boy who collects stars."
Her eyes softened. "I would've loved that as a kid."
Something in her voice made him ask, "What did you love as a kid?"
She smiled, but it was a careful smile. "Stories where people stayed."
He didn't know why, but he understood.
They talked until the rain slowed to a drizzle and then to nothing at all. Maya was a writer — freelance articles, short stories, the occasional poetry submission that came back with kind rejections. She loved bookstores, long walks, old songs, and tea that tasted faintly of cardamom. She hated loud places, unfinished conversations, and promises that arrived empty.
Before leaving, she hesitated.
"I come here sometimes," she said, gesturing around. "If… you're ever here again…"
"I usually am," Aarav said, surprising himself with how much he meant it.
She smiled, brighter this time. "Good."
They became a habit before they became anything else.
Maya started bringing her laptop and sitting across from him, their work unfolding in parallel silence. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes she read him a paragraph she was stuck on, and he'd sketch a character based on her description. Sometimes he'd show her a drawing, and she'd build a story around it.
Their friendship grew in the quiet spaces — in the shared sugar packets, the exchanged playlists, the comfortable way she leaned over his shoulder to look at his work without asking.
Aarav liked the way she made the world feel bigger without making him feel small.
One evening, as the café lights dimmed and rain drummed softly against the windows again, Maya asked, "Why don't you draw people?"
He paused. "I do."
"No," she said gently. "You draw characters. Fairies. Children. Animals. But not real people."
He shrugged. "Real people are complicated."
She studied him. "So are stories."
Something in her gaze made him uncomfortable — not because it felt intrusive, but because it felt accurate.
"Why do you write?" he asked instead.
She smiled faintly. "Because I don't know how to say things out loud."
He understood that too.
The first time Aarav realized he loved her was not dramatic.
It was Tuesday. She was late. He had already ordered her tea the way she liked it — no sugar, extra cardamom — and was pretending not to worry when the door finally opened and she rushed in, breathless.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "My editor—"
He handed her the cup. "I know."
Her eyes widened. "You remembered."
"Of course."
Something shifted in her face — surprise melting into something softer, something almost fragile. She smiled at him the way people smile when they're seen.
That night, alone in his apartment, Aarav stared at his unfinished sketches and realized he'd drawn her five times without meaning to.
He didn't tell her.
Not then.
He was afraid of breaking what they had — afraid that love would turn their easy silence into something tense, something heavy. He told himself he was protecting the friendship. But deep down, he knew he was protecting himself.
Maya had her own silences.
Sometimes, when she laughed, her eyes didn't join in. Sometimes, she disappeared for days with only a vague text: Work stuff. Talk soon. Sometimes, when conversations drifted toward childhood or family, she gently steered them elsewhere.
Aarav didn't push. He knew too well what it felt like to be forced into truths before you were ready to carry them.
But love, like water, has a way of finding cracks.
One night, months later, they were walking along Marine Drive, the sea dark and endless beside them. The air smelled of salt and street food. Maya kicked at a pebble as they walked.
"I think I'm bad at relationships," she said suddenly.
Aarav looked at her. "Why?"
She shrugged. "I always leave before things get too real. Or I stay until they hurt."
"That's… one way to live."
She laughed weakly. "I know."
They walked in silence for a while. Then she asked, "Have you ever been in love?"
He thought about the way he'd folded his mother's clothes after her death, afraid of the emptiness they left behind. About friendships that faded because he was too quiet to hold them. About the way his chest felt every time Maya smiled at him.
"I think I am," he said.
She stopped walking.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"With who?"
He met her eyes. "With you."
The world felt suddenly loud — waves crashing, cars honking, voices overlapping — as if everything were happening at once.
Maya stared at him, and for a moment, he saw something raw pass through her face. Not rejection. Not surprise.
Fear.
"I…" she began, then stopped. "Aarav, I care about you so much. You know that. But—"
"But you don't feel the same."
"No," she said quickly. "That's not it. I just… I'm not good at this. I mess things up. I get scared. I hurt people without meaning to."
"I'm not fragile," he said quietly.
"I am."
She looked like she might cry, and the sight of it hurt more than rejection would have.
"I don't want to lose you," she whispered.
"Neither do I."
"Then maybe…" she hesitated. "Maybe we shouldn't change anything."
He nodded, even though something in him cracked. "Okay."
But love doesn't disappear just because you ask it to.
They stayed friends.
They still worked at the café, still shared playlists, still walked by the sea. But something delicate had shifted — like glass with a hairline fracture, still whole but no longer unbreakable.
Maya became more distant without meaning to. Aarav became quieter than usual. They both pretended nothing was wrong.
Then, one evening, she didn't show up.
No text. No call. Just absence.
He waited an hour, then two. Finally, he went home.
She didn't answer messages for three days.
When she finally did, it was a single line:
I'm sorry. I needed space.
He stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
Okay. I'm here when you're ready.
What he didn't say was: I miss you.
What he didn't say was: This hurts more than I expected.
What he didn't say was: I don't know how to unlove you.
Maya had always believed love was something you lost.
Her father had left when she was nine — not dramatically, not cruelly — just quietly, like someone stepping out for milk and never returning. Her mother pretended it didn't matter, but Maya learned early that people could disappear even when they loved you.
Later came relationships that burned brightly and then collapsed under the weight of expectations, misunderstandings, and fear. She became skilled at leaving first — at keeping exits within reach.
Aarav was different.
He didn't demand. He didn't rush. He didn't try to fix her silences or fill them with noise. He simply stayed — patiently, gently — in a way that felt unfamiliar and terrifying.
When he confessed his feelings, it felt like someone had finally named the thing she'd been trying not to look at. And instead of relief, she felt panic.
Because what if she loved him too?
What if she lost him too?
So she ran.
Not far. Just enough to breathe.
But in the quiet of her apartment, surrounded by half-finished stories and cold cups of tea, she realized something uncomfortable:
She missed him in ordinary ways.
She missed the way he remembered her tea order. The way he listened without interrupting. The way he drew little stars in the margins of her notebook when she wasn't looking. The way he never made her feel like too much or not enough.
She missed him the way you miss sunlight on a cloudy day — not desperately, but deeply.
On the fourth night, she dreamed of him standing at the edge of a shoreline, holding out his hand. When she tried to reach him, the tide pulled him back.
She woke up crying.
That's when she knew.
When Maya finally returned to the café, Aarav was there, sketching quietly by the window. His hair was longer than usual, falling into his eyes. He looked tired.
He looked up when she approached and offered a small, careful smile.
"Hey."
"Hey," she said softly. "Can we talk?"
He nodded.
They took their drinks outside, sitting on the low wall overlooking the street. For a moment, neither spoke.
"I'm sorry I disappeared," she said finally. "That wasn't fair."
"It hurt," he admitted. "But… I get needing space."
She swallowed. "I didn't just need space. I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of you," she said honestly. "Of how safe you felt. Of how much I cared. Of how much it would destroy me if I lost you."
He looked at her, surprised. "You care?"
She laughed weakly. "Aarav, I think I've been in love with you for months."
His breath caught.
"Then why—"
"Because loving you feels like standing on a cliff," she whispered. "Beautiful. Terrifying. Like one wrong step and everything shatters."
He turned to her fully. "Loving anyone is like that."
"I know. But with you, it matters more."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he said the truth.
"I've already fallen," he said quietly. "And yeah, it could hurt. But not loving you hurts too."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not," he said. "It's just… worth it."
She studied his face — the steadiness of his gaze, the gentleness of his voice, the vulnerability he never tried to hide behind charm or confidence.
"What if I mess this up?" she asked.
"Then we talk," he said. "We try again. We forgive each other. We learn."
"What if I leave again?"
"Then I'll be hurt," he said honestly. "But I'd rather risk that than never know what this could be."
She laughed through tears. "You're unfair."
"How?"
"You make love sound survivable."
He smiled softly. "It is. Even when it ends. But sometimes… it doesn't."
She looked down at her hands. Then, slowly, she reached for his.
Her fingers trembled.
"I don't want to run anymore," she said. "I want to stay. Even if it's scary."
He squeezed her hand gently. "We can be scared together."
That was their beginning.
Their love was not loud.
There were no grand declarations or dramatic gestures. Instead, there were small things — Aarav leaving notes in her bag, Maya texting him lines of poetry at midnight, their habit of sitting in comfortable silence with their shoulders touching.
They learned each other's wounds the way you learn the shape of a scar — carefully, respectfully.
Maya learned that Aarav had stopped believing in permanence after his mother's death. That he carried grief quietly, like a stone in his pocket — always there, rarely shown. That sometimes, when people he loved didn't reply quickly, his chest tightened with old fears.
Aarav learned that Maya flinched at raised voices, that abandonment lived in her bones, that she sometimes sabotaged happiness before it could leave her.
They didn't fix each other.
They didn't try to.
They simply stayed.
And sometimes, staying was enough.
But love, even gentle love, is not immune to storms.
Six months into their relationship, Maya received an offer — a year-long writing fellowship in Delhi. It was everything she'd worked for: mentorship, publishing opportunities, stability.
It was also eight hours away.
She didn't tell Aarav right away.
Not because she didn't trust him, but because she didn't trust herself.
She knew what she wanted — the fellowship. She also knew what she feared — losing him.
When she finally told him, they were sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by takeout containers and unfinished sketches.
"I got accepted into something," she said, trying to sound casual.
"That's great," he said. "What is it?"
"A fellowship. In Delhi."
His smile faltered. "Delhi?"
"For a year."
Silence filled the room.
"Oh," he said quietly.
"I haven't accepted yet."
He nodded slowly. "You should."
She stared at him. "Just like that?"
"Yes."
"Might I remind you that this means long-distance?"
"I know."
"That this means missed birthdays, delayed hugs, awkward video calls, time differences, loneliness—"
"I know," he said gently. "And you should still go."
"Why?"
"Because you've wanted this since before you met me."
Her eyes filled with tears. "What if I leave and… we fade?"
"Then we'll fade," he said honestly. "But I'd rather lose you to your dreams than keep you from them."
"That's not fair," she whispered. "I want both."
"Then let's try for both."
She stared at him. "You're not scared?"
"I am," he admitted. "Terrified. But I love you more than I fear distance."
She moved closer, resting her forehead against his. "I don't deserve you."
"That's not how love works," he murmured.
She accepted the fellowship.
Long-distance was harder than either of them expected.
Calls dropped. Messages went unread. Time zones and deadlines and exhaustion crept into the spaces between them.
Maya felt herself pulling away when she was overwhelmed. Aarav felt himself growing quieter when he felt unwanted.
They fought — softly, at first. Then louder.
"You don't tell me when you're struggling," he said once. "You just disappear."
"And you shut down instead of saying you're hurt," she snapped. "I'm not a mind reader."
"Neither am I!"
Some nights ended in silence. Some mornings began with apologies.
Once, after a particularly bad argument, Maya didn't call for two days.
Aarav lay awake both nights, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how love ended — not with betrayal or drama, but with exhaustion.
When she finally called, her voice was shaking.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't disappear because I don't care. I disappeared because I care too much and didn't know how to talk without crying."
"I thought you were leaving," he admitted.
"I don't want to leave," she whispered. "I just don't know how to be perfect."
"I don't want perfect," he said. "I want honest."
She cried then — openly, messily — and he listened, the way he always had.
After that, they tried differently.
They started telling each other the truth earlier — before resentment could build, before fear could grow roots. They sent voice notes instead of texts. They scheduled calls instead of hoping time would magically align. They learned that love, at a distance, required intention.
Some days were still lonely.
But they were lonely together.
Near the end of her fellowship, Maya stood in a bookstore in Delhi and stared at a shelf labeled New Indian Voices. On it sat a thin paperback with her name on the spine.
Her hands trembled as she pulled it out.
Her first book.
She bought three copies immediately — one for her mother, one for herself, and one for Aarav.
That night, she called him.
"I did it," she said breathlessly.
"You did what?"
"My book. It's real. It exists."
He laughed — a sound so full of pride it made her chest ache. "I knew it would."
"I couldn't have without you."
"I just believed," he said. "You did the work."
There was a pause.
"I miss you," she said.
"I miss you too."
"I'm coming home next month."
"I know."
"And after that?"
He hesitated. "That's up to you."
"No," she said softly. "It's up to us."
When Maya returned, the city felt louder, brighter, more alive — or maybe it was just her.
Aarav waited for her at the train station, holding a small bouquet of jasmine flowers because he remembered she liked the smell. When she saw him, standing awkwardly by the gate with nervous energy and hopeful eyes, something inside her broke open.
She dropped her bag and ran.
He barely had time to react before she was in his arms, crying into his shoulder, laughing at the same time.
"You're real," she murmured.
"So are you," he said, holding her tightly. "You're really here."
They didn't speak much that day. They didn't need to. They just walked, hands intertwined, shoulders brushing, soaking in the simple miracle of proximity.
That night, lying side by side in silence, Maya said, "I used to think love was something that hurt."
Aarav turned to her. "And now?"
"I think love is something that stays."
He smiled. "I like that."
Months later, Aarav showed her something.
It was a sketchbook he'd been filling quietly over the years — not with fantasy characters or imaginary worlds, but with her.
Maya laughing at the café.
Maya asleep on his shoulder during a bus ride.
Maya biting her lip while thinking.
Maya crying softly into her hands during a bad day.
Maya standing on a balcony in Delhi, hair blowing in the wind, phone pressed to her ear.
"You draw people now," she whispered.
"Just one."
Her throat tightened. "Since when?"
"Since the day I realized real people aren't too complicated," he said. "They're just… unfinished stories."
She pressed her forehead to his chest. "You see me better than I see myself."
"Then borrow my eyes," he said.
She kissed him — slow, steady, certain.
Years later, on a quiet evening, they sat on the balcony of their shared apartment, city lights flickering below. Maya was editing her second book. Aarav was sketching in his notebook.
"Do you ever think about how close we came to not happening?" Maya asked.
"All the time."
"Does that scare you?"
"No," he said. "It makes me grateful."
She leaned against him. "I used to think love meant never being afraid."
"And now?"
"I think love means being afraid… and staying anyway."
He smiled. "That's my favorite kind."
She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For waiting."
He kissed her forehead. "I was never waiting," he said softly. "I was choosing."
Love didn't erase their fears.
Maya still sometimes felt the urge to run.
Aarav still sometimes felt the fear of loss tighten his chest.
But they had learned something important:
Fear didn't mean failure.
Pain didn't mean ending.
Distance didn't mean disappearance.
Love, they learned, wasn't about finding someone perfect.
It was about finding someone who stayed — not because it was easy, but because it was worth it.
And in the quiet, ordinary moments — morning tea, unfinished sentences, hands reaching for each other in the dark — they found something extraordinary:
A love that didn't demand certainty.
A love that didn't promise forever.
A love that simply showed up, again and again.
And sometimes, that was enough to feel like eternity.