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Three months.

“Three freaking months.” I dropped onto the cold iron bench, my fingers tapping restlessly against the envelope clenched in my hand, as if the paper could answer me back.

The last envelope. The last letter.

I opened it again, for the hundredth time, or maybe more. I had long lost count.

Everything sounded normal. She sounded… fine. Then why? Why had she suddenly stopped writing?

“God, please help,” I whispered, my throat tightening. “I couldn’t even find her at the address written on these letters.”

“What do I do?” I groaned, burying my face into my palms as a dull ache throbbed inside my head, heavy and relentless.

I was too busy cursing my fate when the envelope slipped from my lap, carried away by the gentle breeze that flowed through the park like a quiet mockery of my chaos.

I jumped to my feet and caught it after two hurried strides. That’s when my eyes landed on a woman. She stood at a little distance, facing a large banyan tree, her back partially turned towards me.

I stopped, standing diagonally, unsure why my feet suddenly refused to move. Her hands were folded together, fingers intertwined as if holding onto a silent prayer. Her eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against her cheeks.

“What is she even doing?” I wondered, my brows knitting together. Yet, something about her presence kept me rooted there, watching.

Her waist-long hair was half tied with a claw clip, the rest cascading freely down her back. A white dupatta fluttered around her, dancing with the breeze along with a few loose strands of her hair. There was a strange calm about her, an unspoken serenity that felt out of place in my restless world.

“What am I even thinking?” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I turned to leave.

That’s when I noticed she had moved away. But her basket hadn’t. It lay there, abandoned near the tree.

“Hello?” I called out instinctively.

No response.

“Hello… Miss?” I jogged forward, reaching the tree. I took a deep breath and bent slightly to pick up the basket when a sudden thought struck me like lightning.

Wait a second… what if she was a terrorist?

“Kya pata ismey bomb ho?”I froze, my eyes darting around the park.

(What if there’s a bomb inside this?)

A few elderly couples were strolling lazily on the walking path. Small children laughed and ran around, their innocent giggles filling the air.

“Should I call the police?” I murmured.

“Lekin agar ismey bomb nahi hua toh…”

(But what if there isn’t a bomb inside?)

My heart pounded harder, “Khol ke dekhu kya?”

(Should I open it and check?)

Thought after thought slammed into my mind like a hammer striking the same nail over and over again.

I bent down and slowly reached for the basket, then yanked my hand back instantly,“Lekin agar bomb hua toh…”

(But what if it is a bomb?)

I paced around it, switching sides, my mind tangled between fear and responsibility. The jute basket lay there innocently, silent, as if mocking my paranoia.

Finally, I inhaled deeply, steadying myself.

Enough. With trembling fingers and a racing heart, I decided to open it.

I slowly lowered myself to the ground and peeked inside the basket.

“Books.”

The basket was filled with books. Romance novels, dog-eared, loved, read more than once. I opened it completely, only to be greeted by a small pile stacked carelessly inside.

“Logo ko na aaj-kal kitabon ki kadar hai, aur na hi kisi ke jazbaaton ki,” I muttered, lifting the books one by one.

(These days, people value neither books nor someone’s emotions.)

Then the next book made my breath hitch.

It was my book. I gently placed the others aside from my lap and stood up, holding my book as if it might disappear if I loosened my grip. I flipped the cover…

A signed copy. My heart stuttered. How?

No one knew my identity as an author except a handful of people. Despite the success, I had never held a book-signing event. Never.

In my entire life, I had signed books only for one person. Just for he—

Her.

The realization hit me so hard that it would be a lie to say my heart didn’t stop for a moment. Was the girl who stood here a few minutes ago… her?

My breathing turned erratic, every thought crashing into the next before I could process any of them.

With shaking fingers, I frantically flipped through the pages, and then it happened.

An envelope slipped out from between them.

I picked it up, my hands trembling now, a bead of sweat sliding down my temple. Holding it delicately, as if it were made of fragile glass, I opened it.

Dear Ray,

She was her. I didn’t read further. I didn’t need to. I needed to find her.

Because that nickname, Ray…only she had ever used for me. Stuffing the letter into my jacket pocket, I broke into a run in the direction she had gone.

“God, please… please,” I whispered between uneven breaths, praying with every step I took, hoping with every stride.

White dupatta. Blue flowers.

“C’mon.”

“C’mon,” I urged myself as my eyes scanned every passing face, weaving through clusters of people.

I doubled back at the last turn and took another path. The park was huge. My steps were fast, frantic. My gaze darted everywhere, searching for one particular girl..

A white suit printed with blue flowers, a matching dupatta, her hair pinned with a blue claw clip.

My steps abruptly halted near a pine tree.

My body stopped before my mind could.

I held onto the rough trunk and peeked around it.

There she was.

A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding finally left my chest as I leaned back against the tree, crossing my arms loosely. A small, helpless smile curved my lips as I watched her crouched down, laughing softly, cuddling a tiny puppy. I admired her…quietly, completely.

Then her expression shifted. A single pearl of a tear slipped down her cheek as she caressed the puppy one last time. She stood up, straightened her shoulders, and walked away, her face carefully blank.

I watched her leave. I didn’t follow. I couldn’t.

Instead, I walked over to the little puppy and lifted him into my arms. Sitting there, I stroked his back gently, replaying every moment that had just unfolded.

I had met her.

The girl I had loved for the past two years through ink and paper. Today, I had finally seen the woman who had held my heart captive for so long, without ever knowing it.

.

.

.

“Maa.”

“Mummy yaar, kaha ho aap?” I shouted as I stepped into the hall, the little puppy curled securely in my arms, my eyes scanning the house for her presence.

(Mom, where are you?)

“Arey, whose puppy is this?” my mother asked, descending the staircase, her brows lifting in surprise.

“Mine,” I replied softly, absentmindedly caressing the puppy’s head. “From today.”

She chuckled, amusement dancing in her eyes,“Aur kaise?”

(And how did that happen?)

“Bas… jabse usne gale lagaya tabse,” I said, my voice dropping as a faint blush crept up my cheeks.

(Just… ever since she hugged it.)

“Usne?” my mother repeated, confused. “Usne… kisne?”

(She? Who hugged you?)

“Usne…” My voice trailed off, the heat rushing up my neck, betraying me.

She froze for a second. “Wait a second…” Her eyes widened. “Tune usey dekha?”

(Wait a second… you saw her?)

Before I could respond, she leaned forward eagerly,“Sab bata mujhe. Kya? Kab? Kahan? Kaise?”

(Tell me everything. What? When? Where? How?)

She settled beside me on the sofa, her posture relaxed yet attentive, eyes glowing with genuine curiosity, the kind only a mother could have.

I began narrating everything. From my panic-stricken thoughts of her being a terrorist to the abandoned basket. Her books.

My book. Her letter.

When I finished, there was a brief silence.

“Kuch pata hai kahaan rehti hai?” Mumma asked gently.

(Do you know where she lives?)

I shook my head slowly, my lips forming a small, disappointed pout.

“But chinta mat karo,” I added immediately, a spark lighting up my eyes. “Pata chal jaayega.”

(But don’t worry, I’ll find out.)

She raised an eyebrow,“Lekin kaise?”

(But how?)

“Bas… dekhte jao,” I said, waving my hand casually, mischief dancing unmistakably in my eyes.

(Just… wait and watch.)

Her letters had never carried a return address. Which meant only one thing.

She lived somewhere near the publication house…and every fifteen days, she personally slipped her letters into the mailbox.

Hmm…

That was a point worth remembering.

“Aa gayi, madam, wapas? Kahaan thi ab tak?” my mother’s voice echoed through the hall the moment I stepped inside.

(So you’re finally back, madam? Where were you till now?)

“Aapke damaad se milne gayi thi,” I replied flatly, walking past her and heading straight towards my room.

(I went to meet your son-in-law.)

“Yeh kaisa jawaab hai?” she snapped, her tone hardening as one hand landed firmly on her waist.

(What kind of an answer is that?)

“Jaisa sawaal poocha tha…” I said over my shoulder before stepping inside my room.

(The kind of question you asked.)

Even after I shut the door, her voice seeped through the walls,“Batmeeziyaan itni badh gayi hain iski ke poochho mat. Aur meri baaton ka toh is par asar hona hi band ho gaya hai…”

(Her insolence has crossed all limits. And nothing I say affects her anymore…)

I didn’t reply.

I went straight into the restroom. Cold water hit my face, but it did nothing to cool the heaviness settled in my chest. After freshening up, I came out, plugged in my headphones, and collapsed onto the bed.

I had barely closed my eyes when muffled noises reached my ears. Something wasn’t right.

I pulled off my headphones and the next second, my father’s enraged voice pierced through the house.

“Mujhe chhodo! Aaj main isey tameez sikha ke rahunga!”

(Leave me! Today I’ll teach her some manners!)

“Iss ladki ne aaj hadd kar di. Meri izzat mitti mein mila di!”

(This girl has crossed all limits today. She’s dragged my honour through the dirt!)

My heart dropped. I bolted out of the room.

My father stood there, one hand frozen mid-air, clenched tightly as if fighting the urge to bring it down. His jaw was locked, teeth grinding against each other in fury. My mother stood behind him, gripping his raised arm with both hands, desperately trying to hold him back.

On the sofa sat my little sister. Kavya. Her shoulders shook silently, her head bowed, tears slipping down unchecked.

“Kavya,” I breathed, rushing to her side and pulling her into my arms. She clung to me like a lifeline.

“Humara toh jeevan hi bekaar ho gaya hai,” my father spat, his voice dripping with disgust.

(Our life has become worthless.)

“Ek aulaad waise hi haath se nikal chuki thi… aur doosri–” He laughed bitterly.

(One daughter had already slipped out of our hands… and the second–)

“Doosri ladkon ke saath ghoomti phirti hai.”

(The second one roams around with boys.)

Before anyone could stop her, “Haan,” Kavyaa said. The word was soft. But steady.

“Haan, karti hoon,” she continued, lifting her tear-filled eyes.

(Yes, I do.)

“Pyaar karti hoon usey,” her voice trembled, yet didn’t break.

(I love him.)

“Aur shaadi bhi usi se karungi.”

(And I’ll marry only him.)

Silence crashed into the room. My father turned his face away, his chest heaving.

“Ankita,” he said sharply to my mother, “isse keh do andar chali jaaye….isse pehle main kuch kar baithoon.”

(Tell her to go inside before I end up doing something.)

I stood up, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Kavya. Without a word, I guided her towards our room. She didn’t resist. The door closed behind us.

And just like that, the war outside stayed there, while we behind the gate we pretended like a storm wasn't about to unfold.

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