Tara didn't mean to look. Honestly, she didn't.
But the thing about cleaning after a storm—whether internal or monsoon-related—is that you always find something you weren't prepared for.
In this case: a yellow envelope, tucked behind her bookshelf, fat with letters she had never posted.
She stared at it like it might explode.
Letters to Rhea. Some angry, some aching. All of them unsent.
The top one started with:
"You don't get to disappear and then text me memes like nothing happened."
And ended with:
"Anyway, I hope you're eating. Idiot."
She sat on the floor and exhaled. This had not been on her to-do list for today. She was supposed to be productive. Make calls. Maybe even brush her hair.
Instead, she found herself flipping through emotional landmines in cursive.
One letter was just a drawing of a cat wearing sunglasses and the words:
"I miss you. But I'm also mad. So here's a cool cat."
That one made her laugh. The weird, loud, slightly embarrassing kind. She folded it and slipped it into her hoodie pocket, like a charm.
Some memories weren't meant to be dealt with all at once. Some needed to be held lightly, like wet glass.
---
Later that evening, Rhea showed up at her door with a bag of groceries and a smug expression that only meant two things: food and drama.
"You didn't die alone in your existential clutter. I'm proud," she said, kicking off her sneakers like she owned the place.
"I almost did. Found a letter I wrote to you where I called you an emotional raccoon."
"Only one letter?"
"Shut up and help me with the milk."
---
The kitchen filled with the familiar sound of pots clanging and lifelong sarcasm.
They moved around each other easily now, like two dancers who knew the steps but still improvised a little just to mess with each other.
"Taraaaa," Rhea said, elongating the name in that irritating way she did when about to ask something dramatic. "Do you think people actually change?"
Tara raised an eyebrow, stirring the chai. "Are you asking philosophically or because you're planning to text your ex again?"
"Philosophically."
"Then yes. If we didn't, you'd still be singing opera in my kitchen and breaking cups."
"I stand by that performance," Rhea said, offended. "It was art."
"It was glassware homicide."
---
Later, as they sipped chai and watched the night soak the city in soft shadows, Tara leaned back and sighed.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think I ever hated you. Not really. I think I hated how much I missed you."
Rhea didn't reply immediately. She just nodded, eyes soft.
"Yeah," she said. "Me too."
Silence followed—not awkward, not heavy. Just real.
---
They talked about everything and nothing—Tara's work, Rhea's freelance chaos, their shared hatred for small talk, and why someone still hadn't returned Tara's green kurti from 20XX.
At some point, Rhea sprawled on the floor like a starfish. "Do you ever think we're just... surviving out of spite?"
"Yes," Tara said, too quickly. "But also because we're kind of awesome."
"True. It's the eyebrows. Power brows."
Tara snorted into her chai.
---
They ended the night in Tara's room, sitting cross-legged with a giant notebook open between them.
"Okay," Rhea said, tapping the page like a war general. "Here's the plan. You, me, somewhere far away. Not forever. Just... enough."
"Enough for what?"
"To remember who we are without all the noise."
---
Tara looked down at the words they'd started scribbling:
Plans. Escape. Somewhere green. Maybe mountains. Definitely less Wi-Fi.
It wasn't just a list.
It was a lifeline.
Something shifted then. Not something dramatic, but something real. Like the beginning of wind before a new season.
---
That night, as she climbed into bed, Tara felt lighter.
Not because everything was fixed. But because she didn't feel alone in the fixing.
And in the quiet moments before sleep, she whispered to herself—not a prayer, not a hope. Just a truth.
"We're not broken. We're just... not done."