Vikram's whiteboard arrived by courier at 10:06 AM.
It came with more reverence than a housewarming gift and more packaging than a small refrigerator. Rhea stared at it like it might explode.
"Is it sentient?" she asked.
"Only spiritually," Vikram replied, unboxing it like it was the lost ark of creative productivity.
It was Day 18 of Tara's 30-day break from the world—a detail she marked with an almost smug smile as she scratched another sarcastic line into her calendar:
'Day 18: Rhea offered kombucha to a squirrel. Squirrel declined.'
---
"You use this for planning?" Tara asked as Vikram rolled the whiteboard into the living room.
"I use it to manifest," he said seriously.
Ananya added, "We brainstorm better when our thoughts are... vertical."
Tara raised an eyebrow. "Gravity-assisted ideas. Got it."
To be fair, there was something satisfying about watching them plot arcs and character dilemmas with colorful markers and big arm gestures. Rhea was drawn in instantly. She labeled a corner "Wild but probably genius" and scribbled:
Secret twins?
Disappearing goats
Conspiracy surrounding scented candles??
Tara quietly added "What if success didn't mean selling your soul?" and then erased it just as quickly when no one was looking.
---
By midday, the cottage looked like a very polite creative cult had moved in.
There were notebooks on every surface, a stack of oat-flour brownies on the kitchen counter, and a playlist called 'Dreamy But With Deadlines' echoing from Vikram's phone.
Rhea and Tara had started writing again—not in full, not like the old days—but enough. Enough to feel like the stillness was breaking in the right places.
They didn't talk about it. They just wrote beside each other in silence, with mugs of tea refilled without being asked. That was enough.
---
Then, of course, the power went out.
Again.
"Oh no," Ananya groaned, flicking the light switch three times like it was a vending machine.
"Maybe it's the universe asking us to go analog," Vikram suggested cheerfully, already lighting candles like it was a séance.
Rhea clutched her laptop. "The universe can leave a note next time."
With the Wi-Fi down and batteries fading, the quartet did what any group of adults with failing ambition and failing electricity might do: they played an aggressively competitive game of Pictionary by candlelight.
Tara's drawing of "existential dread" was voted both least helpful and most accurate.
---
Later that night, after Ananya and Vikram had retired to their room to probably discuss fonts and fermented tea, Rhea stood by the window with her arms folded.
"You okay?" Tara asked.
Rhea nodded slowly, then said, "I think I like them."
"You say that like it's a confession."
"It is. I was ready to hate them. But they're weird in a good way."
Tara sipped her tea. "Like us."
They watched the candlelight flicker on the walls, as the wind made the old wooden frames creak.
"Hey," Rhea said suddenly. "What if we did it?"
Tara blinked. "Did what?"
"Actually wrote something. Like, together. For real this time."
There was a long pause. A deep breath.
Then Tara said, "Okay. But only if I get veto power over scented candle conspiracies."
"No promises."
---
Just before going to bed, Tara opened her notebook.
Not the messy journal. The good one. The one that hadn't been touched in months.
She didn't write anything yet.
But she placed it on her desk. Pen clipped. Page clean. Light from the candle soft and hopeful.
It was a start.