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The Monsoon Within
Part 1: The Marriage That Wasn't Hers
The first rains of Mumbai had arrived. They came without warning -- sudden, heavy, and unapologetic -- like memories you try to bury but which come knocking anyway.
Inside a modest apartment in Andheri West, Meera Sharma stood in the kitchen, chopping coriander for the evening dal. The pressure cooker hissed behind her, and the aroma of jeera tempering in ghee mingled with the petrichor drifting through the half-open window.
She moved like clockwork -- methodical, swift, and silent.
In the living room, Aarav sat on the floor with their five-year-old daughter, Kiara, building a fragile tower of wooden blocks. Kiara's laughter filled the room, her joy unburdened and pure, in stark contrast to the grown-ups who surrounded her.
"Papa! Papa! Look -- it's taller than you!" she squealed.
Aarav smiled, eyes twinkling. "Almost. But don't let it fall -- we're engineering marvels here."
Meera peeked from the kitchen, her eyes lingering a second longer than usual on their daughter's giggling face. A small smile touched her lips but didn't quite reach her eyes. She returned to the stove without saying a word.
Aarav noticed, as always.
_____
They had been married six years.
But Meera's life had ended long before the wedding garlands were removed.
She still remembered that night -- her voice raw, trembling, echoing off the walls of her childhood home in Surat.
"He's a good man, Papa!" she had cried. "He has a job, he doesn't drink, he treats me with respect. He's kind. We love each other! Isn't that enough?"
Her father had stared at her with cold disapproval. "You're too young to know what love is. He's from a different caste. His family doesn't match ours. This discussion is over."
"You want me to marry a stranger instead? Someone I don't even know?"
"You will learn to love him," her mother had added gently, yet firmly. "You will be happier in a stable home, with a good family. You won't understand now, but you will one day."
"But I already am happy with him!" Meera had yelled, tears streaming down her face. "You are destroying my life."
Her mother had turned away.
Two weeks after her forced wedding to Aarav, her first love died in a motorbike accident. Crushed under a truck on his way home from work. His wallet was the only thing that identified him.
Meera had stared at the phone screen when the news came in. And then gone into the kitchen to make tea for her in-laws.
She cried silently that night, and many nights thereafter.
_____
Now, years later, her mornings began before the sun.
But she was not alone in them.
Aarav woke with her -- made the bed while she prepped breakfast. He packed Kiara's bag while Meera packed their lunchboxes. On weekends, he took care of laundry while she cleaned the bathrooms. In the evenings, he folded clothes, fixed loose taps, gave Kiara her bath, helped with homework, and read bedtime stories in funny voices.
"Shall I warm her milk?" he asked as she brushed Kiara's hair.
"I'll do it," she would say, and he nodded, no argument.
He was not a man of big gestures, but his presence was woven into the very routine of the house -- quiet, reliable, constant.
And yet, the emotional space between them remained untouched.
_____
She seldom spoke to her own parents, who still lived in Surat -- much closer than Aarav's parents in Indore. She hadn't visited Surat in nearly four years. When her mother called, the conversations were stiff.
"How are you, beta?"
"I'm fine."
"Is Aarav keeping you happy?"
Silence.
"You always go to Indore to visit your in-laws, but never come home. We miss you. At least bring Kiara sometime."
"I'm busy with work. And school."
"We only want to see our daughter and grandaughter, Meera. Is that too much?"
"I have to go, Ma."
The calls never lasted more than three minutes.
They visited occasionally -- a day trip to see Kiara. Aarav welcomed them with warmth and respect, making tea, arranging lunch, setting up a fresh bedsheet in the guest room. He treated them like he would his own parents.
But in private, Meera was cold.
She avoided long conversations, kept her responses clipped. Aarav noticed, but never interfered.
One afternoon, her mother pulled her aside gently.
"You look... tired, beta. Sad. Is everything alright?"
Something inside Meera snapped.
"Don't act like you care now," she hissed. "You made me like this. You forced this life on me. And now you ask why I look unhappy?"
Her mother flinched. "We never wanted to hurt you--"
"But you did," Meera said, walking away.
Later, at dinner, she served her parents with a polite smile. Aarav chatted with them cheerfully. No one would've guessed anything had happened.
_____
In contrast, every visit to Indore was filled with warmth.
Meera, Aarav, and Kiara would visit Aarav's parents twice a year.
"Our Meera is like Laxmi," Aarav's mother would say proudly to neighbours. "She runs the entire house, works a full-time job, and never complains. We couldn't have asked for a better daughter-in-law."
"Beta, you don't need to help with the kitchen today. Just rest. You always do so much," her father-in-law would add.
Meera would smile. Polite. Grateful. But she rarely spoke more than necessary.
Even when her mother-in-law hugged her tightly and said, "We love you like our own daughter," Meera simply nodded. Her silence was never questioned here -- it was mistaken for humility.
Aarav noticed, but said nothing.
_____
She spoke to her childhood friends only once in a blue moon. But when she did, the tone was quiet.
Srishti, her friend from college, messaged once:
"I saw someone the other day who looked just like him. I froze. I thought of you. How are you holding up?"
Meera: "I'm okay."
Srishti: "You were always the strongest among us. Don't let silence win. You can talk to me."
Meera: "I know. Thank you."
Another day, Neha, her school best friend, called.
"You remember how you used to dance in the rain and force me to join you? You haven't changed, have you?"
"I haven't danced in years, Neha," Meera said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Come visit. We'll put on your favourite song and ruin the balcony again. Kiara can join us too."
Meera chuckled faintly. "Maybe. One day."
_____
One evening, while Meera was folding Kiara's school uniform, the little girl crawled onto her lap.
"Mumma, why don't we go to Nani's house? You said Surat is nearby. We can take the train, right?"
Meera stiffened. "Nani is busy, beta. We'll go some other time."
"But we go to Dadi's house in Indore! And that's so far!"
"We'll see," Meera said gently, kissing Kiara on the forehead.
Aarav watched from the doorway. He didn't say anything.
_____
That evening, Aarav helped Kiara into her pyjamas and asked, "Should I warm the milk or will you?"
"I'll do it," Meera replied softly, folding Kiara's clothes.
"Did your office finally fix that A/C near your desk?" he asked, trying once again to find a thread of connection.
She nodded. "Yes. Yesterday."
A pause. Then silence again.
Aarav sighed internally. He was used to the short answers, the polite tone, the distance. But today, he felt it more acutely -- maybe it was the smell of rain, maybe it was Kiara's innocent laughter echoing off the walls, or maybe it was the exhaustion of loving someone who never really let you in.
He remembered watching a movie once, long ago, where a man says, "It's not the anger or the fights that destroy a marriage. It's the silence."
Aarav felt like he was living inside that quote.
_____
Later that night, Meera stood by the window, staring at the rainfall -- eyes glassy, unblinking.
She thought of him again.
The man with the crooked smile, who used to wait outside her college on his old bike. The one who brought her coffee during her cramps, who held her hand after arguments with her father, who once said: "You laugh like you don't care what the world thinks. That's my favourite thing about you."
She hadn't laughed like that in six years.
She turned from the window, went to the kitchen, poured warm milk into Kiara's favorite unicorn cup, and walked back to the bedroom.
Aarav was already asleep, one arm thrown over the pillow where she never lay.
She slid in beside him. Not close. Not touching.
Just present.
Present, and still so far away.
Part 2: The Stranger in Her Eyes
It was a humid Wednesday afternoon in Mumbai, the air sticky and still. Aarav had finished an early meeting in Powai and decided, on impulse, to surprise Meera at her workplace. They hadn't had lunch together in months -- perhaps today could be different. A coffee, a light laugh, a shared plate of idli-chutney -- something to shift the tone of their silences.
He parked his Honda Civic car across the lane from her office and walked toward her office.
And then he saw her, at the nearby café she occasionally mentioned in passing. Inside the glass-fronted café, at a corner table near the bookshelf, sat Meera. But not the Meera he lived with.
This Meera was radiant. She wore her hair loose -- the curls she always tied into a bun cascading down her shoulder. Her eyes were lit up with something he hadn't seen in years. She was smiling -- no, laughing -- a kind of open, full-throated laugh that softened her entire face.
Opposite her sat a man. Mid-thirties, neat shirt, thoughtful eyes. Their bodies leaned toward each other; coffee cups forgotten between them. As the man said something, Meera touched his hand lightly across the table. Their fingers intertwined, easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Aarav froze.
It wasn't jealousy that struck him first. It was heartbreak.
Not just because she was with someone else, but because she had never looked that alive with him.
He stepped back from the café window, retreating into the bustle of the street. He didn't confront her. He didn't walk in. He walked away.
The ride home was slow. The rain had started again, light but persistent, painting the streets a reflective silver. Aarav's thoughts churned louder than the traffic.
That laugh. That touch. He had never received either.
He tried to rationalize. Maybe it was an old friend. Maybe it wasn't what it looked like. But the look in her eyes -- that familiarity, that comfort -- it was unmistakable.
_____
That night, she came home at her usual time. Helped Kiara with homework. Heated leftovers. Took her routine night shower. Kissed Kiara on the forehead. Slid into bed, her back turned to him.
Everything was the same. And yet everything was different.
Over the next week, Aarav grew quieter. He watched more closely.
He began noticing small details he had always overlooked: the way Meera stared at her phone and locked it the moment he entered the room. The days she returned with a faint scent of a different perfume. The ghost of a smile that disappeared too quickly.
He didn't ask. Not yet.
Instead, he searched. Slowly, without her noticing.
_____
One weekend when Meera had taken Kiara to her dance class, Aarav opened the bottom drawer of her wardrobe -- the one she rarely touched. Inside were some old greeting cards, a rusted keychain, a photo album, and a single folded letter.
The card read:
"To the girl who made me believe in forever -- always yours, R."
He turned the photo album. College days. Festivals. Hostel birthdays. A boy beside her in every frame -- his arm around her, or holding her hand, or laughing at something off-camera. They looked inseparable. Happy.
Meera's eyes in those photos glowed.
There was even a short video on a pen drive tucked into the album sleeve. It played for seven seconds.
She was dancing in the rain. Spinning in circles. He, presumably R, behind the camera, laughing.
And she looked free.
Aarav sat back on the bed, clutching the photos in his lap.
"Who is he?", he wondered.
_____
Later that evening, Kiara sat on the rug sketching flowers with her crayons. Aarav watched Meera as she folded laundry across the room.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" he asked softly.
She paused. "Yes. At the engagement. You wore a cream kurta."
He nodded. "You didn't smile much that day. I thought maybe you were shy."
She looked at him briefly, then turned away. "I wasn't shy."
Aarav didn't press. But his chest tightened.
He now understood what had always puzzled him: her distance, her formality, her emotional restraint.
She had never been broken.
She had been broken into.
_____
That night, while she was asleep, Aarav opened her laptop.
There were old emails -- college group chains, a few drafts of messages never sent. One, unsent, addressed to her mother, caught his eye.
"You told me I would learn to love him. But what if all I've learned is to survive?"
He closed the laptop gently, his heart broken, sat beside her in the dark.
Outside, the rain tapped against the windows.
And Aarav whispered, "Is she just surviving?"
Part 3: The Calm Before the Storm
The week after Aarav saw Meera in the café passed in agonizing silence -- not the kind that followed a fight, but the kind that filled a space when truth hovered, waiting to be acknowledged.
He hadn't told her what he'd seen.
She hadn't asked. But something in her had shifted too -- as if she could feel a crack forming in the delicate stillness between them.
They continued with the routines -- cooking breakfast together, getting Kiara ready for school, watching her dance around the living room in her glittering dress -- but Meera noticed that Aarav's gaze had changed. He watched her with a quiet pain in his eyes, as if he were searching for someone, he thought he knew.
Meera felt her chest tighten with guilt every time their eyes met.
_____
The café was warm, filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and soft chatter. Meera sat at a small corner table, her hands wrapped around a cup of chai, eyes distant yet calm.
Across from her sat Aman.
His smile was easy, the kind that lit up the room in a way Meera hadn't seen in years.
They talked about small things -- a book he was reading, a funny story from his office, the Mumbai monsoon that had just started to drench the city outside. Meera laughed genuinely, her face brightening with a peace she thought she had lost.
Kiara's innocent voice echoed in her mind from that morning, "Mom, can we visit nani's house today?"
The question felt like a bittersweet reminder of the life she led -- tethered between two worlds. The world she lived in with Aarav and Kiara, and the world of the heart she had closed off long ago.
_____
Late at night, lying awake beside Aarav's steady breathing, Meera's mind was a whirlwind.
She felt drawn to Aman -- not physically, not in the way one might expect, but in the quiet emotional intimacy they shared.
With Aman, she was herself.
Open. Laughing. Not the dutiful, distant wife. She felt guilty.
Guilty for the warmth she found in Aman's presence and the coldness that lingered between her and Aarav.
Her heart ached in a new way -- torn between the comfort of honesty and the weight of silence.
She told herself she would stop seeing Aman.
But each conversation pulled her in deeper.
_____
Meera's guilt became a constant companion.
She thought about Aarav -- his kindness, his efforts, his love that remained steady despite her distance.
And she wondered if she was betraying him with every shared smile, every lingering look with Aman.
Her nights grew restless.
One evening, after a particularly heartfelt conversation with Neha, Meera found herself whispering into the dark, "What do I want? Who do I want to be?"
Neha's words echoed in her mind: "You deserve to be loved -- by yourself and others. Don't run from your heart."
___
Eventually, the guilt won.
Meera stopped responding to Aman's messages.
She felt a deep sorrow, a quiet mourning for the emotional connection she was severing.
Yet, beneath the sorrow, a fragile hope began to take root.
Could she find that connection again -- this time with Aarav?
Could love return, even after being so lost?
___
Her silence with Aarav grew heavier.
Unspoken words crowded the space between them, but her resolve to stop hurting both men pushed her to end the secret, if only in her heart.
The calm before the inevitable storm was filled with tears, regrets, and a yearning for clarity.
That was the quiet before the confrontation -- a fragile peace that could not hold forever.
_____
It was a quiet Sunday evening. Kiara was painting at the table, her face smeared with orange and pink watercolors.
Aarav was helping her wash the brushes when Meera, folding clothes nearby, glanced at them. The domesticity of the moment tugged painfully at her heart.
When Kiara ran off to show her painting to the neighbors, Aarav walked to the bedroom.
Meera followed.
He turned before she could speak. His voice was low.
"I saw you. At the café."
Her heart stopped.
"Last Wednesday. With that man. You were... laughing. Holding his hand."
She looked at him. She wanted to lie. To deflect. But there was no point.
She sat down, slowly. Her fingers clutching a half-folded kurta.
"You followed me?"
"No. I was just there to surprise you. I thought that we may have lunch together. But I didn't expect to see... that. Who is he?"
Her voice trembled. "His name is Aman. He's... someone I met at a seminar last year. Then again during a project. We started talking. Just talking."
He waited.
"It felt harmless, at first," she said. "He didn't know anything about me. And for the first time, I wasn't someone's responsibility. I wasn't living in a shadow."
She looked down at her lap. "And I liked that feeling. Too much."
"Are you in love with him?"
She was silent for a long time. "No! Umm... Maybe. I was falling. Not because of him. But because of how I felt when I was with him."
"And you never felt that with me."
She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. "Not because of you. You did everything right. But I... I came to this marriage grieving. And I never told you."
She took a shaky breath.
"There was someone else. Before. We were in love. We wanted to marry. My parents refused. Forced this match. And then... two weeks after our wedding, he died in an accident."
Aarav inhaled sharply.
"I never got to say goodbye. I just... folded myself into this life. I tried to be good. I tried to be everything they asked me to be. But I wasn't ready to be anyone's wife."
Her voice cracked. "And then you -- so patient, so kind -- you didn't deserve this version of me. But I didn't know how to give you more."
Aarav sat down slowly across from her.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I didn't think I had the right to grieve him in this house."
He was quiet.
"I have stopped talking to Aman," she whispered. "I realized how wrong it was. How unfair to you it was. I couldn't look at myself anymore."
Aarav's voice was low. "And I don't know how to trust you again."
They sat in silence.
The honesty between them didn't bring comfort.
But it brought clarity.
_____
That night, as Meera tucked Kiara into bed, she kissed her a little longer than usual.
When she stepped out, Aarav was on the sofa, lost in thought.
"Do you hate me?" she asked.
"No," he said, brokenly. "I just feel like I never knew you."
She looked down and almost whispered, "Maybe... I never knew myself either."
Part 4: The Distance Between Us
The days that followed were quiet--but no longer with the dense silence of secrets. This was a quieter kind of ache. Like a wound left open to breathe.
Meera and Aarav weren't fighting. They weren't pretending either.
They simply existed, in parallel.
Mornings were still filled with clinking cups and Kiara's school uniform being ironed. But where once Aarav would gently tuck a loose curl behind Meera's ear or crack a silly joke to make her smile, now there was only respectful distance.
He still helped her in the kitchen. Still packed Kiara's lunch while Meera tied her shoelaces. Still read bedtime stories to their daughter. But there was a quiet withdrawal in his gaze--like someone who loved carefully now, afraid of touching a broken glass.
Meera felt it. And she didn't blame him. She too was going through her own slow undoing.
Aarav's inner world had begun to shift in a way he hadn't expected.
He didn't just feel betrayed by Meera's emotional closeness with Aman -- he felt gutted by the revelation that even after years of shared life, parenting, effort, and patience, Meera had never once trusted him with her truth.
It was the omission that stung deeper than the affair.
_____
One night, after Kiara had gone to bed, Aarav sat on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through old photos on his phone. Pictures of their wedding, Kiara's first birthday, the Diwali they spent at his parents' place in Indore. Meera walked in quietly, holding a cup of chamomile tea she had made for him.
She placed it on the table.
He didn't touch it.
"Aarav," she said softly, sitting down on the opposite couch. "Can we talk?"
He nodded, still staring at the phone.
"I know you must hate me right now," she whispered.
He looked up then, not with anger, but something heavier. "I don't hate you, Meera. But I feel like a fool."
Her throat tightened. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did," he said simply. "And not just with Aman. That part I might have understood, eventually. But what breaks me is that all these years... you never told me."
She stayed silent.
"You never even hinted that you didn't love me. That you were grieving someone else. That you didn't choose this life."
His voice cracked slightly. "You let me believe that maybe you were just quiet. Introverted. That with time, maybe we'd grow closer. I kept trying... trying to reach you. But now I find out that the person I was trying to reach wasn't even present."
Meera's hands shook slightly. "I didn't think I had the right to tell you. I didn't think you'd understand. I didn't want to burden you with a past that couldn't be changed."
He shook his head. "You didn't give me the chance to understand. You decided for me. That's what hurts the most."
Her eyes welled up. "I was scared. I thought if I told you, you'd see me differently. That you wouldn't want to stay."
"But you didn't give me that choice. You let me stay in the dark while you built walls around yourself. I tried everything, Meera. I gave you space. I gave you time. I loved Kiara like she was the only light in our life. I thought we were building something... slowly, quietly. But now I realize I was the only one building."
There was no venom in his voice -- only pain.
Meera tried to reach for his hand. He didn't pull away, but he didn't return the gesture either.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I truly am."
He stood up slowly. "I think I'll sleep in the other room for a while. Just to think."
She nodded, the lump in her throat preventing her from speaking.
As he walked away, the room felt colder.
_____
Meera sat alone on the small balcony that night, nursing a cup of ginger tea she barely drank. Her thoughts wandered like the breeze--messy, restless, aching.
She thought about Aarav. About the life she had built. About how unfair she had been--to him, and to herself.
That night, Meera lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
She began to truly wonder--for the first time--if she wanted to stay. Not out of guilt. Not out of duty. But to rebuild something meaningful.
Could she learn to love Aarav--not out of compensation, but out of choice?
And would he even want that?
She wasn't sure. But she knew one thing: if there was a door even slightly open, she wanted to walk through it.
_____
In the guest room, Aarav wasn't sleeping either.
He sat at the edge of the bed; hands clasped tightly. His mind was a whirlwind.
Could he live with this kind of betrayal? Could he unsee the truth he had just learned? Would continuing this marriage mean constantly questioning her feelings, doubting her smiles?
But he also thought about Kiara. About the mornings Meera brewed his tea without fail. About her quiet care, her silent resilience. About how broken she looked when she said she was sorry.
Would walking away mean peace -- or just another kind of grief?
He wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. But he feared the moment he suggested counselling, she might say no. She might choose separation. She might tell him this life was never hers to begin with.
Still, something in him hoped.
_____
Days turned into weeks.
One morning, Aarav paused before heading to work. His voice was cautious, measured.
"Would you be open to seeing someone... together? A counselor, maybe?"
Meera froze.
She had imagined this moment a dozen times, prepared herself to be the one to say it. But hearing it from him--so gently, so sincerely--broke her walls.
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could speak. She nodded. Then whispered, "Yes. I'd like that."
And for the first time, they sat across from each other in a quiet office, speaking not as strangers, not as husband and wife, but as two human beings trying to bridge a distance they never intended to create.
_____
Their first session was slow. The counselor encouraged them to speak openly, honestly.
"Aarav," the counselor asked, "what made you stay?"
Aarav looked at Meera. "Because even when it hurt, I still believed in us. Maybe foolishly. Maybe blindly. But I wanted to believe that the person I loved was still in there somewhere."
Meera lowered her eyes.
"Meera," the counselor asked, "what are you hoping to find through this?"
"Myself," she said softly. "And maybe... learn how to reach him. Not out of obligation. But out of a real desire to connect."
They unpacked grief, unmet expectations, Meera's silence, Aarav's quiet hurt, and everything that lay between.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no shouting matches. No tears flooding rooms.
Just slow, honest conversations.
_____
One day, Aarav told her, "I think I was trying so hard to make you happy, I never asked if you wanted this life."
Meera's voice was small. "I didn't know what I wanted either. But I think I want to find out... with you."
It wasn't a resolution. But it was a beginning. There were still awkward moments. Still spaces filled with hesitation. Still nights where Meera stared at the ceiling, wondering if she deserved another chance.
But there were also shared coffees again. Small smiles. The way Aarav now looked at her--not with the ache of betrayal, but with the soft curiosity of rediscovery.
_____
One Sunday, as they sat together watching Kiara chase pigeons at the park, Aarav gently reached for Meera's hand.
She looked at him, unsure. But when she didn't pull away, he smiled. And for the first time in a long time, she smiled back.
Part 5: The Return to Love
It started with small things.
Aarav began making her coffee just the way she liked--strong, with a touch of cardamom. Meera started asking how his day had been and listened, really listened, even when the answers were ordinary. They both found themselves looking forward to counseling--not for the therapy itself, but for the space it created to speak the truths they'd both buried for years.
Their therapist once told them, "Love doesn't disappear. It withdraws. It retreats into corners and waits to feel safe again."
That struck something deep in Meera.
She realized her love had been buried--not gone.
Not the love for Aarav, perhaps, but the love for what she could become with him. The possibility of love--tender, chosen, and rebuilt--began to peek through the cracks.
_____
One night, after dinner, Aarav lingered in the kitchen while Meera wiped the counter.
"You know," he said, drying the plates, "I used to imagine what our life would look like when Kiara went to college."
Meera glanced at him, curious.
"It always felt blurry," he admitted. "But now... I think I can see us. Not perfect. Just... together."
She smiled, a little shyly. "I think I'd like that too."
The moment was quiet but carried weight. Like two souls gently stepping back into the same rhythm.
Their in-laws visited again. Kiara was excited, running around the apartment while Meera served snacks. Aarav's mother pulled Meera aside.
"You've changed," she said warmly.
Meera looked at her, surprised.
"You seem lighter."
Meera didn't know what to say. But this time, she didn't just smile and stay silent.
"Thank you," she said.
Later, Aarav noticed the way Meera laughed at one of his father's jokes--real laughter, not polite nods. He didn't mention it. But that night, as they got ready for bed, he said, "I missed your laugh."
And Meera, brushing her hair, paused. Then turned and replied, "I missed it too."
The emotional intimacy didn't bloom all at once. Some nights they still slept back-to-back. Some mornings Meera still withdrew into herself. But there were also kisses on the forehead. A hand resting on the other's back during a movie. An occasional whispered, "Thank you for not giving up on me."
They were learning to lean on each other. And in that learning, there was love.
_____
Weeks passed.
One Saturday, Meera took Aarav and Kiara to Surat. It was unannounced.
Her parents were stunned when they saw her standing at the doorstep.
Kiara squealed, running into her nani's arms. Meera watched, quiet.
Her mother blinked rapidly. "You came."
Meera nodded. "I did."
That afternoon, Aarav and her father discussed politics over chai while Meera and her mother folded laundry in the back room.
There was a long silence before her mother finally said, "I know you haven't forgiven us."
Meera swallowed. "I don't think I have. Not fully."
"But you came."
"Yes. Because I'm trying."
Her mother placed a folded kurta down and looked at her daughter. "We were wrong. We didn't know how to listen. I hope someday you'll let us try again."
Meera nodded, eyes stinging. "Maybe someday"
On the drive back, Kiara fell asleep in the backseat.
Aarav reached over and gently took Meera's hand. "That was brave."
She leaned her head against the window, then turned to him. "I want to stop running from myself. From everything."
He gave her hand a squeeze. "We'll take it one step at a time."
_____
Months later, on their anniversary, they didn't throw a party or post pictures. They sat on the floor of their living room, watching old videos of Kiara as a toddler.
Meera rested her head on Aarav's shoulder. "I don't know what the future holds. But I want to be here. Now. With you."
He kissed the top of her head. "That's all I ever wanted."
And for the first time--not out of habit, not out of duty--but out of choice, she whispered back, "I love you."
Sometimes love doesn't arrive with firecrackers or grand declarations.
Sometimes, it rebuilds itself in the quiet.
Piece by broken piece.
And when it returns, it stays.
Not as it was.
But stronger for having been lost.
Epilogue: A Circle Closed
The living room was warm with soft lamps and the faint sound of old Hindi melodies playing from Aarav's Bluetooth speaker. Meera sat at the dining table, sorting through a stack of photos from Kiara's recent graduation. Aarav leaned back on the couch, sipping his evening chai, when Kiara walked in quietly, a nervous energy about her.
She was twenty-three now, elegant and sharp, with Meera's thoughtful eyes and Aarav's steady temperament. A girl grown into a woman.
"Mom? Dad?" she said, hesitantly.
Both looked up instantly. Meera set the photos down, and Aarav muted the music.
"I need to tell you something," Kiara said, her voice a bit breathless.
Meera smiled gently. "What is it, beta?"
Kiara took a deep breath. "There's someone I love."
Aarav and Meera glanced at each other--just for a moment.
It was the kind of glance that didn't need words. A shared history. A shared ache. A shared promise that things would be different.
Meera was the first to speak. "Do we know him?"
Kiara shook her head. "Not yet. We met at university. He's kind. And ambitious. And he makes me feel... like I can be entirely myself."
There was a tremor in her voice, unsure of their response.
Aarav stood up and walked to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then we'd love to meet him."
Meera nodded. Her eyes were glassy, but her voice was calm. "Why don't you invite him for dinner?"
Kiara's face broke into a smile of relief--wide, grateful, disbelieving.
"Really? You're okay with this?"
Aarav chuckled. "We trust your heart."
Meera reached out and took her daughter's hand. "And realize that love should never be silenced."
Kiara embraced them both, arms wrapped tightly, as if she could feel the weight were lifting off her shoulders.
As Meera held her daughter, she saw not just the present but her own past echoing in Kiara's eyes. But this time, the story would end differently.
This time, love would get a chance.
_____
Later that night, after Kiara had gone to bed, Meera and Aarav sat together on the balcony, wrapped in a single shawl, sipping tea.
Outside, the skies were heavy with clouds--the monsoon had returned to Mumbai.
Just like the year it all began.
"She's braver than I ever was at her age," Meera said.
Aarav smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe she had someone showing her the way."
Meera leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you... for letting me grow. For growing with me."
He kissed her forehead. "It was never about the perfect beginning, Meera. It was about choosing each other through the mess. Again, and again."
They sat in silence then, the kind that felt full rather than empty.
The stars above Mumbai shimmered faintly behind drifting clouds. A soft drizzle began to fall.
And inside their home, their daughter was dreaming freely--without fear.
The story had come full circle.
So had the season.
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