Two of Us

You and I have memories 

Longer than the road 

That stretches out ahead 

The Beatles, Two of Us 

The rain had a way of rewriting memories. As Aditi stood under the awning of a quiet café, waiting for her latte, she felt the unmistakable pull of nostalgia. The city’s streets, drenched and shimmering, were alive with echoes of a time she thought she had left behind. That’s when she heard his voice.

“Still black coffee, dash of milk no sugar?”

She turned sharply, and there he was—Nikhil, his salt-and-pepper hair lending him an air of wisdom, his eyes, albeit covered by thick-rimmed spectacles, still carrying the same mischief that had once unravelled her.

“Still chasing the perfect latte?” he teased.

For a moment, it was as though no time had passed.

College Days, 18 Years Ago

They were inseparable back then. Every evening, they would escape to the small, dimly lit bookshop-café near campus, where they devoured words, films, and each other’s thoughts. Nikhil would bring poetry—Allen Ginsberg, Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Rumi—reading aloud in a voice that made Aditi feel the verses were written just for her. She would counter with her love for cinema, dragging him to arthouse screenings, their whispered debates in the theatre far more intense than the films themselves.

One summer evening, under the sprawling banyan tree at the edge of campus, Aditi had confessed her love for the smell of old books.

“They carry stories within stories,” she had said.

Nikhil had smiled, plucking a yellowed leaf from the ground. “And some leaves, like some people, carry the weight of seasons.”

No one ever suspected the depth of their bond. To everyone else, they were just best friends, and the two of them found comfort in that misunderstanding. They never held hands in public, never exchanged love letters, never declared anything aloud. Their relationship existed in the spaces between words, in the unspoken connection that transcended labels.

When college ended, they broke apart without drama, as if agreeing silently that their story had run its course. Their friends thought it was a petty argument, a rift between two companions. Only Aditi and Nikhil knew it was a heartbreak disguised as something else.

The Present

Now, sitting across from each other in a café eerily similar to their old haunt, they talked as though no time had passed.

“So, two kids and a golden retriever,” Nikhil said, stirring his coffee. “You’re living the dream.”

“And you? Professor Nikhil Mehta, shaping young minds?” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

They laughed easily, their conversation flowing like a well-rehearsed symphony. The past seemed to fold itself into the present, the years apart shrinking into nothingness. They shared stories of their spouses—both of whom they genuinely adored—and the quiet contentment of their lives.

That evening, as the rain pattered against the windows of Aditi’s guesthouse, she invited Nikhil to stay. They stayed up late, revisiting their favourite poems, watching an old Satyajit Ray film, and arguing over the best way to make masala chai.

When it was finally time to sleep, Aditi offered him the bed while she took the couch.

“You really think I’d let you sleep on that lumpy thing?” Nikhil protested.

And so, they lay on the bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation—just a profound comfort that only decades of understanding could bring.

The World’s Misconception

Over the weeks that followed, their rekindled friendship became the subject of speculation. Friends and acquaintances, seeing their easy camaraderie, whispered about a love that had rekindled after years apart.

“Making up for lost time, aren’t they?” someone remarked at a dinner party.

Aditi and Nikhil exchanged a knowing glance.

“They’ll never understand,” she murmured later, as they walked back to her car.

“Maybe they don’t have to,” Nikhil replied, his voice warm.

…and in the end 

One evening, as they walked along the shore, the waves licking at their feet, Aditi paused.

“Do you think… if we’d told people back then, if we’d admitted what we were, it would’ve been different?”

Nikhil considered her question. “Maybe. But then, we wouldn’t have what we have now.”

She smiled. “This—whatever it is—feels better, doesn’t it? Pure, unburdened.”

“Completely,” he agreed.

As they stood there, watching the sun dip into the horizon, there was no longing, no what-if. Only gratitude for a connection that had survived the test of time.

And perhaps that was the most romantic thing of all—a love so complete, it didn’t need to be anything more.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used