The late monsoon arrived in Mumbai with a vengeance. Tushar watched the sheets of rain blur the skyline outside his office window. Every drop struck the glass with a strange finality, as if the universe itself was urging him to finally make a decision.
He hadn't spoken to Amrita in days.
It had started with something small—an unanswered message, a missed lunch, a delay in returning a book. But the silence between them had swollen, a quiet rift growing deeper with every passing hour.
He kept going back to the last time they had spoken properly. Amrita had suggested they go on a weekend trip to Lonavala, to "breathe a little," she'd said. Tushar had hesitated—his work was overwhelming, and he wasn't good with spontaneity. But instead of explaining that, he had said something sharp, too sharp.
"You always think disappearing will fix things. Life doesn't work that way, Amrita."
Her eyes had narrowed. "And you think sitting in this tower of yours, running from everything that matters, is any better?"
That was it. The last real conversation.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes closing for a moment, mind filled with static. His phone buzzed. A message from Meera, a mutual friend.
> "Hey, I think you should know—Amrita's mom was hospitalized. She didn't want me to tell you, but I thought you'd care."
His chest tightened.
In the whirlwind of ego and assumptions, he had missed what mattered.
Without a second thought, he grabbed his jacket and keys, rushing through the wet chaos of the city.
---
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion. Tushar spotted Meera in the waiting area.
"She's inside," she whispered. "Amrita hasn't slept in two days."
Tushar stepped into the room.
Amrita sat beside her mother's bed, her frame frailer than he remembered, a shawl draped around her. Her eyes were shadowed, yet fiercely alert as she clutched her mother's hand.
She turned when she sensed him.
For a second, the room seemed to pause. No thunder, no beep of machines, no breathing. Just the weight of everything they hadn't said.
"You came," she said simply.
"I should have come earlier," he replied, voice hoarse. "I didn't know."
She didn't speak, just looked at him with a quiet weariness.
"I was angry," he continued. "Not at you. At everything. I didn't mean what I said."
Amrita rose slowly and walked to him.
"You hurt me, Tushar," she said. "And I let the silence grow because I was tired of fixing what you never acknowledged."
He nodded. "I understand. I want to do better. Be better—for us. I miss my best friend."
A long pause. Then, tears in her eyes, she leaned into him, resting her head on his chest.
"I missed you too," she whispered.
---
Hours passed. They sat beside the hospital bed, Amrita's head leaning on Tushar's shoulder as her mother slept peacefully.
"You think we'll always fight like this?" Amrita asked softly.
"We probably will," he replied. "But we'll also always come back. That's what matters."
Outside, the rain had softened into a gentle drizzle.
---
Moral: True friendship isn't the absence of conflict, but the ability to overcome it—together.