In Between Everything
Days adjusted.
They no longer stood on the same platform every morning.
No more shared coffee at 7:42.
No more predictable glances from across the tracks.
Now they traveled in opposite directions.
But strangely
They began meeting in smaller, quieter places.
Mira would sit in her new office cafeteria, staring at a cup of coffee she barely drank.
She didn’t even like coffee much.
But the steam rising from it reminded her of the way Kabir used to hold his cup carefully, blowing on it as if it were fragile glass.
She would smile unknowingly.
At the same time, Kabir would step out of his office building and hear an auto driver argue loudly with a passenger.
Instantly
He would turn his head.
For a second, he would expect to see her waving her hands dramatically, negotiating over five rupees as if it were a national debate.
He would almost smile.
Then remember.
She wasn’t there.
Distance did not shout.
It quietly slipped into daily routines.
She would draft emails and suddenly think, He would correct this sentence.
He would organize his files and think, She would mess this table in five minutes.
They didn’t call daily.
Not because they didn’t want to.
But because something delicate had entered between them — a carefulness.
One evening, while waiting for her train, Mira typed a message:
“Do you ever miss Platform 3?”
She stared at it for a long time.
Deleted it.
At the same time, Kabir stood near an auto stand, watching drivers argue.
He opened their chat window.
Typed:
“Coffee tastes bad alone.”
Deleted.
Neither wanted to sound needy.
Neither wanted to disturb the balance.
Yet
Whenever she saw coffee, she thought of him.
Whenever he saw an auto, he thought of her.
The city was full of reminders.
Not loud enough to hurt.
Not soft enough to ignore.
And somewhere between missed trains and unfinished messages
Their almost-love was learning to breathe quietly.
