Please Don't Say You Love Me

                                                                                                              CHAPTER I: The City

The city was loud, impatient, caffeinated, and completely incapable of minding its own business. Just like Meera. She lived in a rented shoebox with peeling wallpaper, shared a hallway with a neighbour who sang 80s ballads at 2 a.m., and had just broken her third umbrella this monsoon. She was also late—again—for work, where she was paid to smile at people who didn’t know her name.

Meera didn’t hate the city, not exactly. She hated how much she needed it. It was the kind of place that could make you feel alive and invisible at the same time. Like the chaos was a blanket and you were just another thread in its weave. It smelled like ambition, disappointment, and street-side momos. It sounded like honking rickshaws, distant arguments, and heartbreak in three different languages. And somehow, that soothed her.

She woke up each day to the screech of her malfunctioning alarm clock (which had been stuck on the same Bollywood ringtone since 2019), made a silent promise to drink less caffeine, then promptly broke it with a double espresso. Her mirror was cracked. Her socks never matched. Her landlord texted in all caps.

One Thursday morning, the sky decided to open up with all the fury of a soap opera monsoon scene. Meera, as usual, forgot her umbrella. She sprinted across the street, trying to protect her bag with a scarf that may as well have been made of tissue paper. She ducked into a nearby coffee shop to dry off and was greeted by the comforting aroma of burnt beans and bad decisions.

And that’s when it happened.

A sharp bump, a splash, a shriek. Her white blouse now looked like abstract art. Aarav, tall and flustered, held an empty cup and a face full of regret. “I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching for napkins.

“You owe me dry cleaning,” Meera snapped, squeezing out the sleeve like it was his dignity.

“In my defense, I wasn’t expecting human traffic in the doorway,” he retorted, trying to help and making everything worse.

It was mutual chaos. She ruined his laptop with her soaked bag; he ruined her look with his clumsiness. The barista looked like she’d seen this before—and honestly, she probably had.

Somehow, amidst the glare-off and passive-aggressive patting of towels, they started talking. He was a freelance UI/UX designer (whatever that meant), and she worked in PR. She rolled her eyes at his startup jargon. He laughed at her love for notebooks and gel pens. They both hated coriander.

“Want to exchange numbers?” he asked, almost sheepishly.

She paused. She had a rule about not dating people she met in disasters. But something about his sheepish smile made her lower her guard. Or maybe it was the coffee fumes getting to her head.

“Fine. But don’t call me unless it’s an actual emergency.”

“Define emergency.”

“Bleeding. Fire. You’ve turned into a frog.”

“Got it.”

Mistake #1.

---

The next few days were a blur. Aarav texted. Meera didn’t respond immediately. Then she did. They fell into a rhythm—awkward banter, shared memes, occasional deep-ish chats. They weren’t dating. They were ‘talking.’

One night, he invited her out “for a proper coffee, not a weapon of mass destruction.” She wore a dress she hadn’t touched in months. He wore a jacket that smelled faintly of vanilla and bad decisions.

They talked about work, their annoying neighbours, and existential dread. She told him about the time she locked herself out in a towel. He confessed to once crying during a Disney movie. She laughed too loudly. He noticed.

Something clicked. Not in the movie way, more like two awkward puzzle pieces deciding to make it work despite the dents.

Then came the second coffee date. And the third. Then an accidental brunch that lasted five hours. Then a night where they kissed on her balcony as the city buzzed beneath them like a white noise machine.

By then, Meera was spiraling. Not because of love—she wasn’t even sure it was that. But because she was starting to care. And caring was dangerous.

Love in this city wasn’t candlelit dinners and violin solos. It was rescheduling plans for deadlines, splitting the last pani puri, and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it didn’t). It was messy, noisy, and came with emotional baggage heavier than airport limits.

She found herself smiling at texts. Worse—waiting for them.

Her friends noticed. “You’re glowing,” said Ananya, sipping overpriced wine.

“It's the humidity,” Meera replied.

But she was lying. Not just to Ananya, but to herself. Aarav had snuck in. Under her skin, into her Spotify playlists, even into her favourite bookstore (where he picked the worst novels but made up for it by reading them dramatically).

Still, Meera had doubts. Could someone who didn’t know how to recycle or shut drawers properly really be her person? Could a man who wore socks with sandals understand her soul?

One night, she found herself on a call with Aarav while staring at the ceiling.

“I think you’re trouble,” she whispered.

“Good trouble?” he asked.

“Annoying trouble.”

He chuckled. “Guess I’ll take that.”

She wanted to say more. That maybe, just maybe, she liked him. But something held her back. Maybe it was the city’s cynicism. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the voice in her head whispering, “Don’t say it. Don’t ruin it.”

She went to sleep with the phone still warm against her cheek. Aarav was snoring on the other end. And somewhere outside, the city hummed.

Loud. Impatient. Caffeinated.

Just like her.

And maybe… just maybe, it was okay not to be sure.

(Mistake #2 pending.)

                                                                                                                   CHAPTER II: Dreams

Meera dreamed of owning a bookstore with a lazy cat and free Wi-Fi. Aarav dreamed of selling an app and retiring before thirty. Her Pinterest board had flowers; his had Ferraris. They still kissed on rooftops and texted “thinking of you” at 1 a.m., like that could bridge incompatible life goals.

Turns out, dreams are cute until you try to merge them like bank accounts.

Meera was a romantic. Not in the mushy Hallmark way, but in a “let’s run a business where books smell like hope” kind of way. She had spreadsheets named “One Day” and Google Docs with ideas for cozy literary cafés. Her dream life was narrated by Nora Ephron, with a recurring role played by the aforementioned cat.

Aarav’s dream was leaner. Cleaner. Faster. “Freedom through success,” he’d say, usually while pitching his fifth idea of the month. He wanted speedboats, seed funding, and a co-working office in Dubai.

Their mornings looked different. Meera journaled and drank chai slowly. Aarav read productivity hacks between bites of protein bars. She thrived on poetry; he thrived on TED Talks. She wanted to build a home. He wanted to never be tied to one.

Still, something kept them orbiting each other. That gravitational pull—the weird magic of connection despite chaos.

One evening, while curled up on her couch, Meera told Aarav about her dream bookstore.

“It’ll have mismatched chairs and beanbags. Free Wi-Fi. No clocks. Just tea, cats, and paperbacks.”

Aarav smirked. “Sounds like a money pit.”

“It’s called ambiance,” she replied.

“Do the cats come with an ROI?”

She threw a pillow at him. It hit his ego.

But then he said, “I could build you a site for it. Like a digital version. You know, before the physical one.”

Meera blinked. “You’d do that?”

“Sure. Just don’t expect me to name a tabby ‘Mr. Darcy.’”

They laughed, but under it was a familiar ache. A whisper that one of them might have to compromise more than the other.

---

They attended a wedding a week later. It was one of Aarav’s college friends, all business casual and Instagrammable vows.

Meera caught the bouquet. Aarav caught her looking at it for a second too long.

Later, while lying under a fairy-lit canopy, Meera whispered, “Do you ever want this?”

He exhaled. “Maybe. Someday. When I’m done building everything else.”

“And what if I want it now?”

His silence was a reply she wasn’t ready to read.

---

Their dreams collided again during a dinner with friends. Meera mentioned wanting to move to the hills, start her store in a quiet town.

Aarav joked, “Cool, I’ll visit on my way to Silicon Valley.”

Everyone laughed. Except her.

Later that night, she said, “Why do you always dismiss my dreams?”

“I don’t. I just think practically.”

“Which means unrealistically, if it’s not your version of ‘practical.’”

They argued in whispers and sighs, the kind of fight that bruises without shouting.

---

Yet, they kept trying. Planning. Compromising. Aarav came to the bookstores with her. Meera sat through pitch nights and networking events. They acted like maybe they could be two halves of one weird puzzle.

One morning, Aarav showed her a mockup for the digital store.

“It’s kind of amazing,” she admitted.

He beamed. “We could even add a podcast. You're reading poems.”

She leaned on his shoulder. “Thanks. Really.”

But the gratitude came with a bitter aftertaste. Because the dream was shifting, morphing, being bent into shapes to fit someone else’s blueprint.

She missed the version where she was sitting under string lights, cat on her lap, reading out loud to strangers.

And Aarav—he missed talking about IPOs without someone suggesting naming the stock after a Jane Austen character.

---

They went for a weekend getaway. Just the two of them. No signals, no emails.

On a misty morning, while sipping tea from chipped mugs, Meera asked, “What if we want different futures?”

Aarav, for once, didn’t have a pitch-ready reply.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

She nodded slowly. “I don’t want to kill your dreams, Aarav. I just don’t want mine to die quietly while we pretend we’re fine.”

He reached for her hand. “I don’t want you to dim down for me.”

Meera smiled sadly. “Then don’t ask me to.”

---

They kissed again under the stars, but the sky felt further away than ever.

Love, they were learning, wasn’t about shared Spotify playlists or comfort food. It was about hard choices. About standing on separate roads, waving, hoping they might still cross somewhere down the line.

But for now?

They walked back to the cabin holding hands, dreams dragging behind them like stubborn luggage neither wanted to unpack.

(Mistake #3 in progress.)

                                                                                                            CHAPTER III: Current Mood

Confused. Frustrated. Horny. Not necessarily in that order.

Love was starting to feel like IKEA furniture instructions—written in Swedish and missing half the pieces. But neither of them wanted to admit it wasn’t working. So they continued, emotionally limping and drinking too much overpriced bubble tea.

It was the kind of relationship that looked good from the outside. Quirky date photos, playful texts, hand-holding at music festivals. But behind every filtered selfie was a list of unspoken resentments and half-finished arguments.

Meera started journaling again, not for mindfulness but as emotional triage. She needed a place to bleed quietly. Every page began with “Why am I still doing this?” and ended with “Because I still care.”

Aarav, meanwhile, poured himself into work. Every unread text was a silent scream of avoidance. When they did talk, it was either about logistics—who’s buying groceries, what time’s the event—or banter laced with tension.

They fought about ridiculous things: who forgot to lock the door, whether Netflix recommendations were rigged, the existential meaning of ‘seen’ but not ‘replied.’

One night, Aarav called her “too sensitive.”

Meera laughed, bitter and sharp. “You think I’m sensitive because I ask for basic respect?”

“You think I’m a robot because I don’t cry during reruns of ‘Friends.’”

She slammed the door that night. Not for drama. For oxygen.

---

Sex, somehow, was the only thing that still made sense. Their bodies spoke when words failed. But even that started to feel like a distraction—a temporary ceasefire in a war neither wanted to admit they were losing.

They tried “date nights” to reset. One ended with a spilled drink and Meera crying in the Uber. Another involved Aarav getting a call from work mid-dinner and stepping outside for 40 minutes.

“We’re just busy,” he insisted.

“We’re busy *avoiding each other*,” she replied.

Still, the next day they’d share a croissant and pretend it was fine.

---

One afternoon, Meera found a draft email on Aarav’s laptop titled “Things We’re Not Saying.”

She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to.

She had her list:

 I hate that I’m the only one fighting for this.

I miss who we were when we had nothing to lose.

 I’m scared we’re just used to each other now.

---

Their friends began noticing the cracks. Ananya stopped asking about “how things were going.” Aarav’s buddy Dev simply said, “You guys still a thing?”

They laughed it off. “We’re fine.”

Fine. The most dishonest four-letter word in any relationship.

---

Then came the dinner at her parents’ place.

Her mom asked Aarav if he saw kids in his future. He choked on dal.

Meera changed the subject, but the tension stuck like turmeric stains.

On the cab ride home, they didn’t speak. Meera stared out the window. Aarav scrolled Twitter.

“Do you even want a future with me?” she finally asked.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know what I want right now.”

“Then why are we still here?”

He shrugged. “Habit?”

She nodded. “At least you’re honest.”

---

The next morning, she made two cups of coffee. Took one. Left the other on the table. Cold and untouched.

Later, he texted: “You okay?”

She replied: “Don’t ask that unless you mean it.”

---

Current mood: Waiting. For honesty. For courage. For someone to admit the spark had become smoke.

Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Like a job without pay. Like applause without music.

And yet, they stayed. Because breaking up felt harder than breaking down.

(Mistake #4: prolonged silence.)

----

---

                                                                                                          CHAPTER IV: Our Visit

Meeting each other’s families was like inviting your boss to karaoke. Meera’s mom asked Aarav about his “salary stability” while holding a ladle like a weapon. Aarav’s dad referred to Meera as “the girl with opinions.”

They smiled through the horror, clutching each other’s hands under the table like it was a hostage situation.

Meera’s home was small but smelled like familiarity—cardamom, antiseptic, and unsolicited advice. Her father asked Aarav if he could fix the Wi-Fi. Her younger cousin stalked his Instagram and whispered loudly about his “meh fashion sense.”

At dinner, the interrogation began.

“What are your long-term plans?” her mother asked, ladle tapping her bowl like a gavel.

Aarav tried to be charming. “Still figuring it out. But I’m focused on my startup.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes. “So… no fixed salary?”

Meera stepped in. “He’s doing well. He’s being modest.”

Her mother switched tactics. “You eat garlic?”

“Um. Yes?”

She looked disappointed, as if that disqualified him from sainthood.

---

A week later, they visited Aarav’s family.

His home was colder—minimalist, marble floors, and conversation that hovered like fog. His dad referred to Meera as “a bit too assertive.” His mom smiled a lot but never really looked her in the eyes.

Dinner was quiet. Cutlery clinked. Meera complimented the food. His mother nodded without thanking her.

“So what exactly do you do in PR?” Aarav’s dad asked.

Meera explained. He responded, “Ah, so… not a technical field.”

Aarav squeezed her hand under the table. She tried not to break his fingers.

Later, they argued in whispers behind his bedroom door.

“You could’ve defended me.”

“I did. With my eyes.”

“Your eyes weren’t loud enough.”

He sighed. “It’s just how they are.”

“And how am I supposed to be?”

---

The next day, Meera’s mom called.

“He’s… okay. But does he believe in marriage?”

Meera didn’t know what to say. Aarav hadn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet. They were still figuring out how not to fight during IKEA assembly.

---

Both families represented everything they hadn’t talked about yet—religion, gender roles, class differences, expectations, timelines.

Suddenly, their problems weren’t just theirs. They were inherited.

Every kiss now carried echoes of judgment. Every hug felt like an act of rebellion.

---

They tried again. Invited both families for brunch. It ended with Aarav’s mom correcting Meera’s pronunciation of “quinoa” and Meera’s dad asking if Aarav had considered government exams.

They laughed it off. Pretended it was fine.

Later that night, Meera said, “I think we’re trying to merge two different galaxies.”

Aarav was silent for a long time. Then: “Maybe. But galaxies collide all the time. Sometimes they make stars.”

She smiled, tired. “And sometimes they make black holes.”

They lay side by side that night, not touching. Listening to each other breathe, hoping the sound still meant something.

(Mistake #5: family interference disguised as concern.)

---

                                                                                                                 CHAPTER V: Streams

They started streaming a documentary about love languages. Aarav fell asleep. Meera took notes. Later, she sent him memes about “acts of service” and passive-aggressively vacuumed around his gaming chair.

Moral of the chapter: knowing your love language doesn’t mean you’re fluent.

The documentary had started as a peace offering. Meera thought it might help. Aarav thought it was a clever way to procrastinate actual conversation.

“Did you know most people misidentify their own love language?” she asked the next morning, eyes still puffy from lack of sleep.

“I thought mine was ‘don’t talk to me before coffee,’” he replied.

She didn’t laugh. Not this time.

---

They took a quiz. Meera got “Words of Affirmation” and “Quality Time.” Aarav got “Physical Touch” and “Gift Giving.”

“That tracks,” Meera muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re great at hugging and buying pizza. Not so much at actually *listening*.”

He looked up from his phone. “You’re great at listening. To your voice.”

That led to a two-hour standoff, three slices of passive-aggressive pizza, and one unopened bottle of wine.

---

The thing is, Meera did want to understand him. She read books, watched videos, even downloaded a podcast. Aarav said, “It feels like homework.”

She wanted validation. He wanted silence. She wrote long texts. He replied with “K.”

Their love languages weren’t just different—they were speaking in accents neither could understand.

She planned a picnic. Made his favourite sandwiches, brought that weird Kombucha he liked, and picked a spot under a tree with zero Wi-Fi. Aarav showed up late, spilled the drink, and forgot the playlist.

“I tried,” he said.

“I planned,” she replied.

---

One day, she made him breakfast and left a note: “Your turn tomorrow?”

The next day, he brought coffee but no food. She stared at the cup.

“This isn’t breakfast.”

“It’s caffeine. That’s breakfast for you, isn’t it?”

She felt like throwing the cup. Instead, she drank it. Cold.

---

Meera started writing in her journal again.

 “Is it unfair to want more?”

 “Is wanting more the same as being ungrateful?”

 “Why do I feel lonelier beside him than when I was actually alone?”

---

Aarav tried, in his own way. He bought her a gift—an expensive pen. She appreciated the gesture but wanted a conversation.

He planned a surprise date. But didn’t ask if she was free that day. She wasn’t.

“I was trying,” he said.

“So was I,” she whispered.

They were trying. Just not in sync.

---

They started sleeping back-to-back. Not in anger, but in exhaustion. The kind of fatigue that comes from loving someone with all the wrong tools.

Love languages, they realised, weren’t the problem. The problem was translation. Interpretation. And stubborn pride that refused to read the subtitles.

One night, Meera left a sticky note on the bathroom mirror:

“I know you love me. But I don’t feel it.”

He read it. Stared at it. Didn’t reply.

---

Current mood: disconnected Wi-Fi. The bars are there. But nothing’s loading.

(Mistake #6: assuming love is enough without literacy.)

---

                                                                                                                     CHAPTER VI: Him

He wasn't a bad guy. Just... blissfully unaware. He thought emotional vulnerability was sharing his Spotify playlist. He once replied “same here” when Meera said she was scared of being alone.

Yet she stayed. Because sometimes, love looks like clinging to potential wrapped in cologne.

He had good intentions. He opened doors, remembered her favourite brand of chips, and always played her favourite song in the car. But when it came to the hard stuff—fears, insecurities, past trauma—he was emotionally tone-deaf.

“Why don’t you talk about your childhood?” she once asked.

“It was fine,” he replied. “I mean, I turned out okay, right?”

She wasn’t so sure.

---

Meera tended to overanalyze everything. Aarav had a habit of avoiding everything. Their conversations often felt like two people shouting from opposite ends of a football field.

She wanted depth. He offered surface-level charm. She asked about dreams; he changed the subject to movie trailers. She wanted to unpack emotions; he tried to rewatch old Marvel scenes.

“You talk to your friends more than me,” she said one evening.

“They don’t expect me to be a mind reader,” he shot back.

She flinched. He didn’t notice.

---

He had a good heart. That was never the issue. He donated to charity, fed stray dogs, and helped his building’s watchman fix his bike. But with Meera, he just couldn’t seem to show up the way she needed.

She felt like she was loving for two people—writing the script and performing both roles.

He once forgot her promotion day. She forgave him.

He forgot their six-month anniversary. She made a joke.

He forgot her cat’s name. That one hurt.

---

One night, after a tense dinner, Meera asked him point-blank, “Do you see me?”

He blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

He sat quietly, as if waiting for a script.

---

Meera started making small changes. Pulling back. Skipping texts. Not initiating hangouts. Testing if he noticed.

He didn’t. Or he did, but assumed she was just busy.

They became two people orbiting the same space but never quite colliding. No fights. No explosions. Just a slow, quiet fading.

She missed him. But more than that, she missed who *she* was before she started shrinking herself to fit into his version of ‘okay.’

---

She once found an old note she wrote months ago:

“He’s kind. But kindness without connection is just manners.”

---

And still, she stayed. For now. Because leaving felt like declaring defeat. Because sometimes, it’s harder to walk away from something almost working than something broken.

Because she still remembered the version of him that made her laugh until she cried.

But memories aren’t promises. And potential isn’t a guarantee.

(Mistake #7: mistaking good intentions for good partnership.)

----

---

                                                                                                                   CHAPTER VII: Camping Trip

They fought over how to pitch a tent. He didn’t read the instructions. She overpacked. It rained. They cried.

They made up by roasting marshmallows over a shared grudge against nature. The tent collapsed mid-snuggle. Meera declared it the most romantic disaster of her life.

---

They had planned the trip during a rare moment of optimism—an impulsive decision made between two yawns and one canceled date night. Meera thought nature might reset them. Aarav just liked the idea of a weekend with no work calls.

It started well enough. They argued about which trail to take, what snacks to bring, and whether or not bug spray was a scam. Meera packed enough to survive a small apocalypse. Aarav brought a Bluetooth speaker and one pair of socks.

By the time they reached the campsite, Meera was sweaty, cranky, and convinced this was a mistake. Aarav was shirtless, smiling, and convinced he was Bear Grylls.

“I told you we should’ve left earlier,” she muttered, swatting mosquitoes.

“And miss watching you try to Google ‘how to not die in the wild’? Never.”

She rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

They tried setting up the tent. Aarav tossed the manual aside. Meera picked it up. He insisted he “had a system.” She insisted he was making it worse. He knocked over a pole. She knocked over his ego.

The rain came like a punchline.

First, a drizzle. Then a downpour. Meera screamed. Aarav laughed. Then Meera screamed at Aarav for laughing.

Drenched, muddy, and surrounded by angry ants, they both broke.

“Why do you always do this?” she snapped. “Act like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not?”

“Because I’m trying to make it *fun*,” he shot back. “God, Meera, you make everything so heavy.”

“Maybe because I’m the only one carrying it!”

Silence.

They sat under a crooked tarp, water dripping on their knees, breathing like people who’d just survived a different kind of storm.

Then he passed her a marshmallow. “Truce?”

She bit it straight off the stick. “Temporary.”

---

That night, huddled in their barely-standing tent, Meera whispered, “You know this doesn’t fix anything, right?”

“I know,” he said.

She turned to him. “So why are we still trying?”

“Because sometimes, when you know it’s almost over, you fight harder. Even if it’s dumb.”

“Even if it hurts?”

“Especially then.”

The tent collapsed five minutes later. They lay flat on their backs in the dark, wet nylon pressing against their faces

--

---

                                                                                                             CHAPTER VIII: Wild Night

They got drunk, danced to 90s Bollywood, and accidentally adopted a cat named Sushi.

At 3 a.m., Meera asked if he loved her. Aarav paused. Said, “I think I do.”

She laughed. “Please don’t say it unless you mean it.”

He didn’t repeat it.

---

It had started as a casual Friday—work stress, too many messages ignored, and a bottle of wine daring them to forget the week. Meera put on old Bollywood music and lit fairy lights. Aarav brought a six-pack and accidentally kicked over a plant.

They laughed too loudly, too long, about nothing. It was the kind of night that makes you feel like time has paused just for you.

They sang off-key. Meera tried to mimic Madhuri Dixit. Aarav danced like a malfunctioning robot. They spilled wine on the rug and used kitchen towels as dance props. For a few hours, everything felt like it used to be—fun, simple, light.

Then came the stray kitten.

Meera heard a faint mewling from the balcony. There, in the corner, soaked and shaking, was a tiny white-and-grey cat. Aarav wrapped it in his hoodie. Meera Googled “how to tell if a cat is cold.”

They named her Sushi because it felt ironic. She was fed milk from a coffee mug and curled up between them like a tiny, furred mediator.

And in that warm, chaotic, wine-soft space, Meera whispered the question that had been lodged in her throat for months.

“Do you love me?”

Aarav blinked slowly. His lips parted. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I think I do.”

Meera stared at him. Long. Hard.

“You *think*?” she said, the smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes.

He shrugged, drunk and unprepared. “I mean, isn’t that how it works? You just… figure it out as you go?”

She laughed. A sound filled with too many emotions. “Please don’t say it unless you mean it.”

He didn’t repeat it.

---

The next morning, he made pancakes. She didn’t eat them.

They watched the cat play with a shoelace in silence.

“What do we do with her?” he asked.

“I’ll take her,” Meera replied.

“You sure?”

“She’s not a maybe.”

The words hung there, unacknowledged.

---

That day, Meera met Ananya for coffee.

“He said ‘I think I do,’” she explained, stirring her cappuccino like it owed her answers.

Ananya winced. “Oof. That’s a soft maybe.”

“That’s a no with commitment issues,” Meera replied.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I love him. But I think I need someone who *knows*.”

---

Back at home, Sushi purred and climbed over Meera’s journal. Meera picked her up, kissed her tiny head, and whispered, “At least you don’t lie.”

Aarav sent a text that night: “You okay?”

She stared at it for a long time.

Then typed: “Do *you* know?”

No reply.

(Mistake #9: asking questions you’re not ready to hear the truth about.)

---

                                                                                                          CHAPTER IX: At the Park

They sat on a bench watching other couples argue over Instagram poses. Meera finally admitted she wasn’t sure they were right for each other.

Aarav said, “We could try to be.”

Meera replied, “We *have* been trying.”

They didn’t break up. But they didn’t hold hands either.

Sometimes, the bravest thing in love is letting go before the damage becomes permanent.

---

The park was quiet except for the hum of weekend chaos: a kid screaming about spilled juice, teenagers filming TikToks, and an old couple arguing about where they left the picnic mat. It was oddly comforting—proof that dysfunction wasn’t unique.

Meera and Aarav sat on a bench like statues, their silence a third presence between them.

“I feel like we’ve been sitting in the waiting room of our relationship,” she finally said.

He looked at her. “Waiting for what?”

“For it to get better. For one of us to blink first.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“But you don’t know how to keep me either,” she replied.

They watched a little girl fall, then get up and run again. Meera wanted that kind of resilience. She was tired of being tired.

“I don’t know when we stopped laughing,” she added. “We used to be so good at that.”

“I think we still are. Just... not at the same time.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not wrong.”

---

They took a walk. No destination, just slow steps. Aarav tried to talk about work. Meera nodded, but her mind wandered.

She remembered their first kiss, their rooftop dance, the way he once surprised her with chai on a rainy day. She also remembered the nights she cried quietly beside him while he slept.

“I wish it didn’t feel like this,” she said.

“I wish I knew how to fix it,” he said.

They sat on a bench again, finishing a shared ice cream in silence.

“It’s not just about love,” Meera whispered. “It’s about feeling safe. Seen. Valued.”

Aarav stared at his hands. “I thought I was doing okay.”

“You were. In your head.”

He nodded. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

---

That evening, they sat in a rickshaw heading home. Their knees touched, but they didn’t look at each other.

Meera stared at the blur of city lights. “I think I’m scared to start over.”

“You wouldn’t be starting over,” he said. “You’d just be starting something new.”

She didn’t reply.

When they reached her place, she stepped out. He didn’t follow.

“Text me when you’re home,” she said.

“Will do.”

She waited a second. “Goodnight, Aarav.”

“Night, Meera.”

She closed the door. Quietly. Carefully. Like it might break if she slammed it.

(Mistake #10: confusing endurance with love.)

---

                                                                                                                     CHAPTER X: Her

She moved to a quieter part of town. Bought a bookshelf. Named the cat Sushi 2 (the original Sushi stayed with Aarav).

Meera didn’t hate love. She just stopped waiting for it to save her. She danced alone in her apartment, drank red wine, and texted herself affirmations.

Because love shouldn’t feel like emotional dodgeball.

And if someone says they love you, they better mean it.

---

Her new place was a third-floor flat above a bookstore that smelled like paperbacks and purpose. The landlord was elderly and kind, and never asked invasive questions. The neighbours were either very quiet or very deaf. It was perfect.

Meera started waking up without dread. That was new.

She began her mornings with music—retro Bollywood, jazz, sometimes silence. She wrote. She took long walks. She found a nearby café that knew her name and didn’t mess up her order. Small miracles.

One day, she passed a mirror and did a double take—not because she looked amazing, but because she looked… like herself.

Whole. Present. Enough.

---

Aarav texted once. “Hope you’re good.”

She replied, “I am.”

And it was the truth.

---

She joined a book club. All women. They read feminist essays and laughed about bad dates. Meera didn’t talk much at first, but when she did, her voice didn’t shake. She told them about Sushi 2, about late-night red wine, about choosing herself.

One of them said, “That’s not loneliness. That’s sovereignty.”

Meera nodded. She liked that.

---

She kept her old journal but started a new one too. No more tracking his replies. No more questions like “Am I asking for too much?”

Instead, she wrote:

* “What brings me peace?”

* “What does love look like when I give it to myself?”

* “What would I do if I weren’t afraid?”

---

One rainy afternoon, she danced barefoot in her living room, holding Sushi 2 like a tiny judge of her rhythm. The cat looked unimpressed. Meera laughed until she snorted.

She was okay.

Not healed overnight. Not magically better. But okay.

Some nights, she still missed him—not the version she left, but the version she first met. The dream, not the reality. But now, she missed him the way you miss an old favourite shirt: fondly, but not enough to wear it again.

---

She met someone new eventually. Not a replacement, just a different energy. They talked. Laughed. Took things slow.

She told him, “I don’t need saving. Just honesty.”

He nodded. “Same.”

They didn’t say forever. Just “for now.” And that felt enough.

Because Meera finally knew she was enough—with or without a love story.

The end? Maybe. Or maybe just the start.