It had been two months since their visit to the school, and Mumbai had quietly transitioned from monsoon to early winter. The mornings carried a crispness, and the evenings pulled in faster, cloaking the city in shadows by six. Street vendors wrapped themselves in shawls, college students sipped more cutting chai, and the air, though not quite cold, had begun to whisper change.
For Amrita and Tushar, things had changed too—but not in the sweeping, cinematic way stories often promise.
They had returned to their routines, their separate lives, but now with a lingering warmth. They messaged more often, shared memes again, laughed about small things. Tushar even showed up unannounced at Amrita's apartment one evening with Chinese takeout and a bottle of old wine.
"Truce?" he'd asked.
She had rolled her eyes, but let him in anyway.
Yet, beneath the easy friendship, something else simmered—an unspoken current pulling them in directions neither was prepared to name. Some days, they were closer than ever. On others, the distance returned like a silent guest.
It was on one such day, a Friday, that Amrita received the news.
She had just wrapped up a meeting when her editor called.
"I have something for you," Richa said. "A travel piece. Full-length feature. Three weeks in Italy. Florence, Venice, Rome. Think: culture, cuisine, and memory. You'll write about cities through the lens of emotion."
Amrita's heart skipped. "Italy? When?"
"Ten days from now."
She paused. "That soon?"
"It's a big deal, Amu," Richa said, using the old nickname. "You've been asking for something substantial. This is it."
Amrita said yes before she could second-guess herself.
But later that night, as she sat in her room packing notes and brushing up her Italian phrases, she thought about Tushar. About the lake, the tree, the carved initials. She thought of how easily he had slipped back into her life—and how difficult it had become to imagine days without his voice.
She didn't tell him about the trip right away.
---
Tushar found out two days later—from Meera, of all people.
They had bumped into each other at a café in Bandra.
"So you must be proud," Meera said casually.
"Proud?" he asked, sipping his coffee.
"Amrita's trip. Italy. It's huge."
He froze. "What trip?"
Meera's eyes widened. "Oh. She didn't tell you?"
"No," he said, trying to sound unaffected. "She must've been busy."
But inside, something sank. Not because she was going—but because she hadn't told him.
That evening, he messaged her.
> Heard you're leaving for Italy. Congratulations.
A minute passed. Then five. Then an hour. Finally, her reply came.
> I was going to tell you. I just… didn't know how.
> Why not?
> Because I didn't want to see your face when I told you.
> What does that mean?
> It means I didn't want to see you pretend to be happy if you weren't.
The conversation died there.
---
The next evening, Amrita showed up at his place unannounced, just like he had, weeks ago.
He opened the door slowly. "Hey."
"Hey," she said. "Can I come in?"
He nodded.
They sat on opposite sides of the sofa, a silence stretching between them, fragile and full.
"I should've told you myself," she said. "I was excited. Then scared. Then I convinced myself it wasn't a big deal."
"It is a big deal, Amrita. And I'm happy for you. Truly," he said, his voice calm but clipped. "But why did you hide it?"
She took a breath. "Because I was afraid it would create distance. That you'd look at me like I was… leaving you behind."
Tushar leaned back. "You weren't wrong."
She looked at him sharply.
"I do feel left behind," he admitted. "Not because you're chasing your dream. But because somewhere along the way, I thought we were building something again. Slowly, carefully. And this—this feels like the chapter ends again, without warning."
She didn't answer. Instead, she stood and walked to the window.
"I've been waiting for something like this for years, Tush. But I also know this—when I come back, I won't be the same. Travel changes you. And I don't want to come back to us pretending nothing changed."
"What do you want then?"
"I want honesty," she said. "Even if it's hard. Even if it means admitting that we're more than just friends now."
He stood too. "We are more. I've felt it for months. But I kept quiet because I didn't want to rush you, or ruin it again."
She turned to face him. "You didn't ruin anything. We just never dared to admit what this really was."
Silence again. Then she walked toward him.
"I'm scared," she said, her voice cracking. "Because I love my work. I love moving. I love discovering. But I also—" she stopped.
"You also what?" he whispered.
"I also think about you more than I should."
Tushar smiled sadly. "That makes two of us."
She took his hand.
"Can we promise something?" she asked.
"Anything."
"No matter where we go, no matter who we become—we don't let fear silence us again."
He nodded. "Deal."
---
The night before she left, they sat on his rooftop with two mugs of coffee between them. The city stretched below, lights like stars scattered across the ground.
"You'll write from there?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "But not just for the magazine. For us."
"Us?"
She nodded. "Letters. Like the old days. Except now, they'll have stamps from foreign cities."
He laughed. "I'll write back. Though mine will be filled with reports and office gossip."
"That's fine," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "As long as you don't forget me."
"I couldn't. Even if I tried."
---
The taxi waited downstairs the next morning. As she loaded her bags, Tushar stood beside her, hands in pockets, eyes on the road.
"Come back to me," he said softly.
She smiled. "I never left you."
And then, she was gone.
---
Moral: Some distances are physical, others emotional—but true friendship survives both when honesty becomes the bridge.