It started with a drawer.
Not even a dramatic one. Just a stubborn, overstuffed, too-many-rubber-bands-and-paperclips kind of drawer.
Tara had been hunting for a stapler. A simple, functioning stapler. But what she found instead — wedged between old receipts, half-used sketch pens, and a cracked pair of sunglasses — was a folded-up polaroid.
She blinked. Then laughed.
The photo was faded, but unmistakable.
Two girls, drenched in the first rain of that season, standing under the world's tiniest umbrella. Tara was scowling at the camera, hair clinging to her cheeks, while Rhea had one arm around her and the other flashing a victorious thumbs-up like she'd just won a war.
That stupid umbrella. That stupid day.
That was the first time they'd ever really talked.
---
Back then, Tara had been... different. Quieter, more suspicious of people who laughed too loudly. Life was a checklist she was constantly failing. School, tuition, her mother's cold silences, and a string of "you should be more like…" comparisons that arrived at the dinner table like side dishes.
Rhea, on the other hand, had crashed into her world like a musical number in a horror film. She was new to the area, transferred mid-term, and had chosen — for reasons still unclear — to sit next to Tara during biology class.
Tara didn't trust girls who wore eyeliner that perfectly and answered roll call with a wink. But Rhea didn't care. She kept talking. About her old school, her weird cousin who was in love with his economics teacher, and why frogs deserved better PR.
Tara had given her one-word answers for a week.
Then came the rain.
It had started right after school — one of those sudden Mumbai downpours that soaked everything in seconds. Tara was standing under the bus stop roof, clutching her files like they were made of sugar.
And then… Rhea.
With her tiny pink umbrella and a grin too wide for someone that wet.
"Hey, potato-face," Rhea had said, completely unprovoked. "You're gonna dissolve. Come under."
Tara had blinked. "Potato-face?"
"I don't mean it in a rude way. Potatoes are comforting. And you've got this... resting storm-face. Like you're constantly judging people who microwave tea."
Tara had actually laughed. She didn't remember the last time she'd done that with someone who wasn't fictional.
She hadn't known it yet, but something had shifted. Not big. Not obvious. Just... shifted.
---
Now, sitting on the floor with that old photo in hand and the rain tapping politely at the windows, Tara let the memory play out.
How they'd grown closer over notes passed in class, over samosas stolen from lunchboxes, over Rhea's absolute inability to whisper during library hours. How Rhea had begun to drop by her house — awkward at first, unsure of Tara's mother's frosty welcome. But how she kept coming anyway. With snacks, loud laughter, and a weirdly specific knowledge of late-night TV ads.
She remembered the time Rhea had painted her nails while Tara studied for finals, claiming it would "unlock her true potential." She remembered how Rhea had been the only one to show up when Tara's father forgot her birthday.
Tara closed the drawer.
The stapler could wait.
---
She got up, photo still in hand, and walked to the window.
Outside, the world was grey and humming. A little like how it had been the first day they'd met. And it struck her — the wild, weird, miraculous thing of it all. How two completely mismatched people had found home in each other.
Not without fights. God, no. They had argued over everything — from coffee orders to the morality of pineapple on pizza. But there was something deeper. Something not easily explained in words or Instagram captions.
A loyalty that didn't need proving.
---
Her phone buzzed again.
Rhea:
"Are you eating properly or just surviving on banana chips and spite again?"
Tara smiled.
Then replied:
"Mostly spite. But now I'm considering Maggi. You?"
Rhea:
"Parle-G's family thinks I'm too 'city-girl' because I said I don't like raw mango with salt. Might elope again just to escape the aunties."
Tara shook her head, laughter soft. The kind that came from deep, warm places.
---
Outside, the rain began to fall harder.
Inside, Tara stuck the photo to the fridge with a crooked magnet.
Some things — the right things — were worth keeping. Even if they came from broken umbrellas and unexpected friendships.
And maybe, just maybe, the past wasn't something to escape.
It was something to carry with you.
One chipped chai cup at a time.