The café became his habit. Not because he loved the place, but because it was quiet, predictable — something that didn't ask him for explanations.
Every morning, Dhruve would show up around the same time, order the same thing — black coffee, no sugar — and sit by the same window. From there, he could watch the street below: people rushing to work, couples laughing, strangers living without realizing how lucky they were to not be broken.
The waitress — her name tag said Riya — started recognizing him after a week."Same order?" she'd ask, smiling faintly."Yeah," he'd reply, pretending not to notice the kindness in her tone.
Sometimes she'd add a small cookie next to his cup. "On the house," she'd say.He never refused, but never thanked her either. Just nodded. That was all he could manage.
It wasn't that he was cold — he just didn't know how to be warm anymore.
Still, every morning, their small exchanges carved something familiar in his days. Something he didn't realize he'd started depending on.
One morning, it was raining — the kind that makes the city smell alive again. Dhruve sat inside, watching raindrops race down the glass. His thoughts, as usual, drifted where they weren't welcome.
He saw Priya in his mind — not crying, not smiling, just there. The memories were softer now, but they still carried weight.
He thought about how love had once made him feel invincible… and how betrayal made him realize just how fragile he really was.
Riya approached quietly, setting his coffee down. "You always stare out the window like you're waiting for something."
Dhruve looked up, surprised. "Maybe I am."
She tilted her head. "What?"
He shrugged. "Don't know yet."
She laughed softly — not mocking, just curious. "That's deep. You sure you're not secretly a poet or something?"
He almost smiled. "If I was, I'd write something about how coffee tastes better when you stop expecting sweetness."
Riya smirked. "That's… dark. But I like it."
She walked away, and Dhruve stared at his reflection in the glass — faint, distorted by the rain. Maybe that's what healing was — not becoming someone new, but learning to live with your reflection, however warped it got.
When he got home that evening, he didn't feel as heavy as usual. The silence was still there, but it wasn't suffocating.
He cooked for himself — badly, but it was something. The act of doing something ordinary, something that wasn't about survival or revenge, felt strangely grounding.
He ate in front of the TV, though he barely watched anything. His mind wandered to that café again — the warmth of the cup, Riya's half-smile, her voice that sounded like a normal day.
It scared him, a little — how normalcy could start to feel dangerous after you'd lived in chaos for too long.
Later that night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling. His thoughts came and went — not like knives anymore, more like ghosts passing through.
He thought about how easy it had been to fall in love once, and how hard it was now to even trust someone's kindness.
He thought about revenge — the thrill, the satisfaction — and how it had faded into emptiness.
"Guess you can't stay angry forever," he murmured.
But forgiveness? That was another story.
He turned to his side, eyes growing heavy. For the first time in months, he didn't dream of her.
The last thought that flickered before sleep took him was simple — Maybe tomorrow won't hurt as much.