The late evening sun spilled over the rooftops, draping the city in a molten gold that shimmered on the windows. From the small balcony of my fourth-floor apartment, I watched the sky shift from amber to rose, the breeze cool against my face. I had always found this hour the most peaceful, the in-between time when the day exhaled and the night had not yet drawn breath. The noise of traffic blurred into a low hum. I sipped my tea slowly. Everything felt still. Everything felt safe.
My phone buzzed gently beside me. I picked it up, expecting a message from my sister or a reminder from the grocery delivery app. But the screen held a name I had not seen in over five years. A name I had once whispered into the pillow when the nights were too heavy to bear. Aarav.
For a moment I could not breathe. My chest felt tight, my heartbeat like a drum rolling just before the climax of a song. I had deleted his number long ago. Or thought I had. Yet here it was. His message, simple and direct, blinking up at me like a ghost finally asking to be seen.
"I never stopped loving you. Can we talk?"
The words blurred. I blinked again, half expecting the message to vanish. But it remained. I placed the phone down like it had burned me. My tea had turned cold. My hand trembled slightly.
It had been five years since I last saw Aarav. Five years since I left the city we once shared. We had met when we were young, too young to understand how love was more than just passion and promises. He had been the golden boy. Confident, magnetic, kind in a way that made people trust him within minutes. And I had fallen for him like sunlight melts into water. There had been laughter, long walks, dancing barefoot in the living room, holding hands under stars that felt like they belonged only to us.
But it had not lasted. The world intruded. Careers, distance, misunderstandings. One fight turned into many. One silence grew into weeks. He had wanted space. I had taken that space and filled it with escape. I moved to a new city. I cut off contact. It was cleaner that way, or so I had believed.
Now here he was, years later, saying he had never stopped loving me. Asking to talk. The ache in my chest returned.
That night I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. The way he would tilt his head when he listened. The way his thumb would draw circles on my palm when we sat together in quiet. I remembered his scent, the warmth of his hoodie, the sound of his voice humming in the kitchen while he made pasta. The memories flooded me and I let them. After years of pushing them away, tonight I let them in.
In the morning, I replied.
Yes. I think we should
He messaged back immediately. Can we meet tonight. Same place. You know where
Of course I knew where. The little bookstore café on East Lane. The one with fairy lights in the window and almond cake that tasted like joy. It was where we had first met. Where we had first kissed. Where we had last said goodbye.
The hours crawled toward evening. I kept busy. Folded laundry. Watered the plants. Rearranged bookshelves. When nothing else worked, I stood before the mirror and practiced my smile. I wanted to look like I was okay. I wanted to look like I had moved on, even though a part of me never had.
When I walked into the café, time seemed to collapse. Nothing had changed. The same soft music played in the background. The same old man read a newspaper in the corner. And there he was, sitting at the table near the window, wearing the grey sweater I once teased him for loving too much.
He looked up and smiled. And I saw it. The same boy I had fallen for. Older, yes. A little tired. But still him. Still Aarav.
We sat in silence for a moment. Then we both spoke at once and laughed. The ice broke just like that.
He told me everything. About how he had tried to move on but failed. About the relationships that came after and left him emptier than before. About the night he found an old photo of us and cried for the first time in years. He said he had written hundreds of messages but never sent them. Until now.
I told him about my move. My work. The friendships I built and the loneliness I buried. I told him I never stopped missing him but was too afraid to look back.
I am sorry he said and his voice broke
So am I I said and reached for his hand
We talked for hours. The world outside faded. Nothing else existed but the two of us. It felt like coming home. The kind of peace you do not know you are missing until you find it again.
By the time we stepped out of the café, the sky was dark and full of stars. He walked me home, hands brushing, smiles shy. At my door, he paused.
Do you think we can try again
I looked at him and saw not the boy I had loved but the man he had become. A little broken. A little more careful. But real. Honest.
"Yes," I said, "I think we can!"
Days turned into weeks. We fell into each other again slowly and carefully. No declarations. No rush. Just long walks and quiet conversations. He would bring me flowers from the roadside. I would cook for him on Sundays. We watched old movies and held hands like we had never stopped.
There was a calmness in us now. The kind that came from having lost and found each other again. He started sketching again. I started writing poetry. It was as if the very act of loving each other again gave us back parts of ourselves we had abandoned.
One evening, as rain pattered against the window and soft music played from the speakers, he turned to me and whispered
You are the only thing that ever made sense
I held him close and whispered back
And you are the only place I ever felt safe
A month later, he proposed. Not with grand gestures or candlelight. But on a park bench where we first said I love you. He took out a simple silver ring and asked
Can we make it forever this time
I cried. I laughed. I said yes
We decided on a quiet wedding. Just close friends and family. I called my mother. She wept with joy. He told his brother who cheered so loud we heard him through the phone. We picked a date in spring when the air would be soft and the flowers would bloom.
Everything felt perfect.
Until the day before the wedding.
I received a letter. No name. Just my address written in careful script. Inside was a photograph. A grainy picture of a hospital room. Aarav in a hospital bed. Attached to machines. Surrounded by doctors.
I stared at it, confused. Then I turned the photograph over. Four words written in blue ink.
He is not real
My heart pounded. I called him immediately. No answer. I rushed to his apartment. The building manager said there was no one by that name living there. My messages remained unread. My calls unanswered.
Panicking, I went to the café. The old man looked at me kindly and said
I have not seen you with anyone dear. You always come alone
I felt the world tilt.
That evening I went to the hospital listed on the back of the photo. After some pleading, a kind nurse led me to the records.
There he was.
Aarav Mehta.
In a coma.
For five years.
A car accident. Head trauma. Family had tried everything. He had been unresponsive. No signs of waking. Until two months ago.
He opened his eyes for a few minutes. Said my name.
Then slipped back into unconsciousness.
He had never left that hospital bed.
Everything I had experienced with him since the message
Had been a dream
Or something more
They say love crosses dimensions. That some souls are so bound they defy time, space, even death. I do not know what to believe. But I know this
What I felt was real
The love was real
Aarav had reached me. Somehow. From beyond sleep. Beyond the veil. He had come to find me. To say what he never could. To hold me one last time
The next day I wore the dress I picked for our wedding. I went to the hospital and sat beside him. I held his hand and whispered the words I wished he could hear
I found you again
You will always be my home
A single tear slid down his cheek
And for the first time
His fingers curled around mine
React
