Chapter 1: The Day That Was Never Meant to Stay
The rain had no mercy that evening.
It fell relentlessly over the old railway station, washing away colors, sounds, and certainty. The sky was the shade of a bruise—dark, heavy, and aching. Trains came and went, carrying strangers, stories, and destinations that mattered to someone else, but not to Aarav.
He stood near the edge of Platform No. 3, hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the tracks as if answers might rise from the steel rails. His train was delayed—again. Three hours late. A small inconvenience, the announcer had said, as though time was something people carried spare.
Aarav exhaled slowly.
Sometimes, delays felt intentional. As if the universe was pausing him for a reason it hadn't yet revealed.
He checked his phone. No signal. Typical.
That was when he noticed her.
She stood a few feet away, under the broken yellow light near the tea stall, rain clinging to her hair and coat as though she belonged to the storm. She wasn't pacing or complaining like the others. She was still—unnaturally still—like someone who had already accepted waiting.
Aarav didn't know why he looked twice.
Maybe it was the way her fingers trembled as she held her bag strap. Or the way her eyes weren't watching the clock or the tracks—but the people. As if she were memorizing faces she would never see again.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
And then she looked away.
Something shifted in Aarav's chest, subtle but sharp, like a note struck too close to the heart.
He turned back toward the tracks, annoyed at himself. People met every day. Eye contact wasn't destiny. Yet, a strange restlessness crept over him, refusing to be ignored.
Thunder cracked overhead.
The lights flickered.
And just like that, the station plunged into semi-darkness.
A collective groan rose from the crowd. The tea stall owner cursed under his breath. Someone laughed nervously. Rain seeped into places umbrellas failed to protect.
"Great," Aarav muttered.
"Looks like the storm doesn't want anyone leaving tonight."
The voice wasn't his.
He turned.
She was standing beside him now—close enough that he could smell rain and something softer beneath it. Lavender, maybe. Or memory.
"I guess not," he replied, unsure why his voice sounded quieter.
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. "Funny how life does that. Stops you when you're in a hurry to go somewhere."
Aarav nodded. "Or when you're trying to run away."
She glanced at him sharply.
For a moment, he thought he'd said too much. But instead of offense, her expression softened.
"Yeah," she said. "That too."
Silence settled between them—not awkward, not empty. Just… there.
Another announcement echoed through the station. More delays. More waiting.
She sighed. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
"There's no ownership over wet benches," Aarav said, stepping aside.
She laughed softly and sat, tucking her coat closer around herself. Aarav followed, unsure why he did, only knowing that leaving felt wrong.
"I'm Aarav," he said after a moment.
She hesitated. "Meera."
The way she said it—slowly, as if testing the sound—made him wonder if it was real.
"What brings you here, Meera?" he asked.
She stared ahead. "A train."
He smiled. "Fair."
She turned to him then, truly looking for the first time. "And you?"
"Same," he said. "But also… a mistake. Or maybe a choice I made too late."
Meera studied him, eyes thoughtful. "Those are usually the same thing."
They talked after that. About small things at first. The weather. Bad station food. How trains always smelled like metal and stories. Somewhere between jokes and shared silences, time loosened its grip.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
Meera told him she loved sunsets but hated goodbyes. Aarav confessed he wrote stories no one read. She said that meant he was honest. He wasn't sure why that mattered so much to hear.
Rain softened into drizzle.
The storm eased.
And yet, something heavy lingered.
Aarav noticed it when Meera checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. When her smile faltered between laughs. When her fingers curled tightly around her bag again.
"Your train?" he asked.
"Yes," she said quickly. Too quickly. "It's coming."
"Are you relieved?"
She shook her head. "No."
The truth in her voice startled him.
The announcement came then—clear and final. Her train number. Her destination.
She stood.
"So," Aarav said, standing too, heart beating faster for reasons he couldn't name. "I guess this is it."
Meera nodded. Her eyes glistened, though she didn't cry.
"It was nice meeting you," she said.
"Nice feels insufficient," he replied.
A faint smile curved her lips. "It always does."
The train rolled in, loud and impatient. Doors opened. People rushed forward, urgency reclaiming the platform.
Meera stepped back once.
Then stopped.
She turned to Aarav, suddenly fierce, suddenly vulnerable.
"Can I ask you something strange?" she said.
"Strange is my specialty."
"If today—just today—was all you had," she asked softly, "would you be okay with how it ended?"
Aarav's throat tightened. He didn't know why the question felt like a wound.
"I think," he said slowly, "I'd wish I had one more conversation."
Her eyes shimmered.
She reached out, hesitated, then pressed something into his hand. A folded piece of paper.
"Read it later," she said.
"I will," he promised.
The conductor shouted.
Meera took a step toward the train, then turned back one last time.
"Say last time," she whispered.
And before Aarav could ask what she meant—
before he could say anything at all—
She was gone.
The train pulled away, carrying Meera with it, leaving rain-soaked silence in its wake.
Aarav stood there long after the platform emptied, paper clutched in his palm, heart aching with the weight of something unnamed.
He didn't know it yet.
But that night would follow him for the rest of his life.