They were born only eight days apart. In the same neighbourhood. In the same lane. Into families that had shared recipes, laughter, weddings, and grief long before either of them existed.
Arin and Meera.
To everyone else, they were a pair—like salt and sugar on the family shelf. Two different tastes, but always side by side. They went to the same kindergarten, the same tuition teacher, the same school. He hated the color yellow. She wore it every Monday just to annoy him. She was loud, expressive, dramatic. He was quiet, logical, and avoided emotional chaos like it was a contagious disease.
Still, he waited at her school gate whenever her dance class ended late. Still, she carried extra tiffin during exams because he always forgot his lunch when he got nervous.
They were not "in love." At least that's what they told themselves.
Even when Meera fell sick in Class 10 and Arin biked through the rain to bring her fever medicine… they didn't call it love.
Even when she cried during her college farewell and hugged him just a little too long.
Even when he couldn't bear seeing her with her crush from the architecture department, and pretended to "accidentally" spill coffee on the guy.
No. Not love.
Just friendship.
And life, as it tends to do, flowed on.
The Proposal
One fine, lazy winter afternoon, Arin sat scrolling mindlessly through job portals when his mother barged in.
"Beta, do you remember Meera? Our neighbor aunty's daughter?"
He looked up. "Of course I remember Meera. She lives next door."
"Perfect!" She clapped her hands. "Their family brought up a proposal. They want to fix your marriage with her."
He stared at his mother like she had announced the moon was made of biryani.
"What?"
"Don't act so surprised! You two have grown up together. She's educated, lovely, kind—"
"I know who she is, Ma!"
"Then say yes."
"I—" He paused. "Have you asked Meera?"
"Her parents said she has no objections."
"That's not the same as saying yes."
His mother gave him the classic eyebrow raise that only Bengali mothers have mastered. "You talk to her every other day. Ask her yourself."
So he did.
Later that evening, standing on the terrace where they used to fly kites as children, Arin asked, "You… okay with this marriage?"
Meera shrugged. "You?"
"I don't know."
She kicked at the dusty ground. "It's not the worst idea. We know each other."
"Too well," he muttered.
She chuckled. "Afraid I'll expose your sock collection to your future in-laws?"
"Only if you promise not to burn the rice every second Sunday."
She smirked. "So that's a yes?"
"I guess."
"Then it's a yes from me too."
And that was it.
Not a confession. Not a dramatic declaration.
Just two childhood friends walking down a path that everyone assumed they'd eventually take.
Married… but Not Quite
The wedding was a blur of laughter, chaos, selfies, and aunties comparing sarees. When it was done, Meera sat in their new home, on their shared bed, staring at Arin like he was a puzzle she'd never really solved.
He sat at the edge of the bed, folding his kurta sleeves nervously.
"So... this is weird."
"Very."
"I guess we should talk about boundaries?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I mean—sleep schedules, sharing space, food preferences—"
"Arin, we've lived next to each other for twenty-five years."
"Exactly. Which is why this feels like I just moved in with my cousin."
She burst out laughing. "Please never say that again."
He blushed. "Sorry."
They spent the first night not as lovers, not even as husband and wife—but as two overgrown kids figuring out how to share a wardrobe and divide the toothpaste tube.
Weeks passed.
She laughed too loudly at his dad jokes. He secretly bookmarked all her favorite shows so they could binge together.
They bickered over bedsheets. He always took too long in the shower. She always left her coffee mugs in weird places.
But somewhere between burnt toast and Sunday movie marathons, something started to shift.
Unspoken Things
One evening, Meera came home late. Her eyes were red. Arin stood in the kitchen, holding a half-burnt roti with tongs.
"Are you crying?"
"No."
"Meera."
"My promotion got delayed. Again."
She slumped onto the couch, exhaustion written on her face.
He didn't say anything, just placed a plate of her favorite butter toast in front of her and sat silently.
She sniffled. "You're not even going to say something inspirational?"
He shrugged. "I figured you'd rather have toast than a lecture."
She smiled, watery. "You're such a weirdo."
He nodded. "Your weirdo."
She looked up.
It hung in the air.
Then faded into the silence like steam from her tea.
Almost Realization
They went on a family trip to Darjeeling six months after the wedding.
Their families had insisted on it as a "honeymoon." It was a bit ridiculous, considering both sets of parents were in the adjacent resort rooms and Arin's uncle kept calling him to fix the WiFi.
Still, they had one quiet evening together on the hotel balcony.
Meera was wrapped in a shawl. Arin handed her a cup of hot chocolate.
"You remember when we came here in Class 7?"
"You cried because you lost your Pokémon cards."
"And you laughed for three hours."
"You sulked for the entire train ride back."
He smiled. "Even then, I kind of liked how you made fun of me."
She turned to him. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"Why didn't you?"
They stared at each other for a moment too long.
He opened his mouth.
The doorbell rang. It was Arin's uncle again.
And the moment was gone.
The Shift
It wasn't dramatic. It didn't involve roses or candlelit confessions.
One morning, Arin caught a cold.
Meera scolded him like a schoolteacher, wrapped him in three layers of blankets, and made ginger tea with extra honey.
"You're annoying when you're sick," she grumbled, blowing on the tea.
"You're annoying all the time," he muttered with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes. "Still, I like taking care of you."
He looked up. "Really?"
"Yeah. I think I've always liked it."
He reached out and held her hand.
They didn't say anything more.
But that was the day they kissed for the first time—not out of obligation, not because they were married—but because they wanted to.
Slow-Blooming Love
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was steady.
When Meera had a bad day, she rested her head on his shoulder without asking.
When Arin felt anxious before a presentation, Meera slipped a note into his laptop: You've got this, nerd.
They still fought. Over bathroom towels. Over playlists. Over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
But now, they made up faster. With hugs. With forehead kisses. With whispered apologies at 2 a.m.
And one day, as they decorated their first anniversary cake together, Meera suddenly looked up.
"You know," she said quietly, "I think I love you."
He blinked. "You think?"
"I mean, I know. But it sort of… snuck up on me."
He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "Same here."
Years Later
Two kids. One garden. A backyard full of Lego bricks and laundry.
Meera leaned back on a chair, watching Arin teach their son how to ride a bicycle.
Their daughter was drawing weird faces on the wall.
Arin looked up and smiled at her.
Meera smiled back.
She didn't know when exactly they had fallen in love. There was no one moment. No grand turning point.
It was a slow bloom. A soft unfolding.
Like rain after a long summer.
Like tea on a cold morning.
Quiet. Familiar. Unmistakably home.
End