The rain in Shimla didn't fall; it wept. For Alax, the mist clinging to the pine trees felt like the physical manifestation of his own lungs—heavy, damp, and suffocating.
He stood on the Ridge, the wooden planks of the promenade slick beneath his boots. In his hand, he held a crumpled envelope. Inside wasn't a breakup letter, but something far more permanent: an invitation to a wedding.
Neha's wedding.
Alax and Neha hadn't met in a field of flowers or a crowded library. They met in the digital ether of 2022, two lonely souls drifting through a social media abyss.
Alax was a freelance illustrator with a penchant for dark coffee and darker poetry. Neha was a medical student with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a storm. When they first spoke, it wasn't a spark; it was a wildfire.
The First Call, Six hours of talking about everything from the heat death of the universe to why pineapple belongs on pizza.
The First Meeting , A train station in Delhi. Alax remembered the way Neha's yellow dupatta stood out against the gray concrete. When she saw him, she didn't wave; she ran.
For two years, they were "the couple." They were the ones friends pointed to when they wanted to believe in soulmates. Alax drew her in every medium—charcoal, watercolor, digital—capturing the way her eyes crinkled when she was skeptical. Neha, in turn, became his anchor, pulling him out of his depressive funks with a firm, "Alax, get up. The world hasn't ended yet."