They met in the quiet space between two traffic lights.
Anaya had dropped her notebook, and Aarav picked it up before the wind could steal the loose pages. Their fingers brushed—not long enough to mean anything, but long enough to remember.
They began meeting there every evening, never planning it, never admitting it. Two strangers pretending coincidence was enough. They talked about small things—favorite songs, unfinished dreams, the kind of love that scares people because it asks them to stay.
One evening, Anaya didn't come.
The traffic lights changed. Once. Twice. Again.
Days passed. Aarav waited anyway.
Weeks later, he found a letter slipped into his jacket pocket
Some love stories repeat themselves—
not because they are forgotten,
but because they are meant to be finished., written in a handwriting he knew too well.