Stuck Voyage of 20's

(Because the right love doesn't fade. It just waits for both people to catch up.)

---

[3 Years Later]

The sky over Delhi looked tired. Dust clung to the edges of the wind, and traffic hummed its familiar, unforgiving rhythm. But inside a quiet corner café tucked in a lane near Hauz Khas, time moved differently.

Dhruv adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, glanced at the empty seat across from him, then checked the clock again. Five minutes past four.

And then — she walked in.

Avantika.

Older, calmer, still radiant — but in a way that came from knowing herself, not trying to prove herself. Her hair was shorter now, her bag heavier with journals, and her smile — slow, intentional.

He stood up, and they hugged. Just like that. No hesitation. No performance. It was home in motion.

"Three years," he whispered near her ear.

"Three," she echoed, as if the number itself had weight.

They sat.

No awkwardness. No forced laughter. Just the kind of silence only two people who've been through storms can sit inside peacefully.

---

He ordered ginger chai. She chose black coffee.

"How's the book tour treating you?" he asked.

Avantika shrugged. "Better than I expected. Exhausting in a good way. Every city feels like I'm collecting pieces of who I used to be."

"And now?"

She leaned back. "Now I'm here. Sitting in front of the one person I never stopped writing about — even when I stopped mentioning your name."

His eyes didn't flinch. "I know. I read every line."

She smiled, almost shy. "You never told me."

"I didn't know if I deserved to."

Her voice turned firm. "Don't do that. We both broke things. And we both built ourselves again. You deserve this moment just as much as I do."

He breathed in like her words were oxygen.

"Avantika," he said, voice low but steady, "do you still think about us?"

"I never stopped," she replied. "Not once. I didn't cling to it. But it was always… there. Like an unfinished sentence that still made sense somehow."

His hand reached for hers on the table — no trembling this time. No fear.

"I tried moving on," he confessed. "Dated. Laughed. Even planned a future with someone once. But it always came back to you. Not because I couldn't let go. But because... you never let go of the real me. Even when I did."

She blinked, tears threatening. But she didn't look away.

"You once told me love needed air to breathe," she said softly. "We gave it years."

"And it's still alive," he finished.

He stood up and came closer. She rose too. Their hands met, but this time — with the quiet urgency of people who knew what they were choosing.

"Can I say it?" he asked.

She nodded. "Please."

"I still love you," he whispered. "Not the version I imagined. The you that exists now. The woman you fought to become. And the one who taught me how to stop running."

Tears spilled over.

And then her hands framed his face as she whispered back, "I love you too. Boldly. Finally. Completely. I don't want to pause anymore."

They kissed.

It wasn't cinematic. It was real. Deep. A reunion not of bodies, but of souls that had grown separately — and were now ready to meet as equals.

---

Later, as the sun melted into dusk, they sat in the café's patio, legs tangled beneath the table, sipping slowly.

"We have separate lives now," she said, tracing circles on his palm.

"We do," he agreed.

"But I want to build something together. Not because I need to. But because I finally want to."

He kissed the back of her hand. "Then let's build. One truth at a time."

---