The apartment had gone soft again.
That strange, slow quiet after a storm of voices — the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty, but full.
Tara stood at the kitchen counter, slowly stirring the leftover daal in a pan. Her phone buzzed twice, once from the group chat (where someone had sent a reel titled "Signs you're emotionally unavailable") and once from the electricity board, reminding her to pay the bill she'd already paid last week.
She turned both notifications off.
The rain had stopped. Outside, the sun was trying its best to paint gold over everything — the trees, the distant rooftops, even the faint stain on the window glass that refused to clean no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Tara leaned against the counter, spoon still in hand, eyes drifting across the room.
Rhea's jacket was still hanging on the back of the chair — left there a few days ago, when she'd popped in ranting about some Parle-G guy her mom was trying to fix her up with — the one who works at a pickle shop and is still learning Excel.
And now she was gone again. That whirlwind of an elopement still echoing through the house, even after the message had faded from her phone screen.
---
Tara took her bowl to the balcony. The chair creaked a little under her weight, as if it, too, was surprised she was actually sitting down and not pacing the floor with some unresolved anxiety.
She cradled the daal like it was soup for the soul.
Then, quietly, she whispered into the evening air:
"You'd hate this silence, Ma."
"You'd tell me to turn on the radio and make a mess in the kitchen just for fun."
The wind responded by nudging her shawl off one shoulder.
She smiled and tucked it back.
Her mother had always been the kind of woman who cooked in earrings and yelled at onions like they were misbehaving children. Who believed that tea solved everything, including heartbreak, bad grades, and uninvited guests.
Tara missed her most in moments like this — when the world was neither loud nor quiet, but somewhere in between.
She glanced at the empty chair next to hers.
"You'd like Rhea, I think. She's… intense. But funny."
"She keeps saying she'll move in permanently, but I think she's still figuring out where she wants to be."
A pause.
"Maybe I am too."
---
Inside, the lights flickered once. The electricity board meant business.
Tara stood up and stretched. Her back popped. She was officially turning into the auntie who comments on the weather and her joints in the same breath.
As she folded the shawl, she spotted a tiny note on the fridge she hadn't noticed before. In Rhea's handwriting. Torn from a receipt.
"Don't forget: you're doing better than you think.
Also, we're out of jeera."
Tara chuckled.
Rhea had her own chaotic way of leaving breadcrumbs in people's lives — tiny proof she'd been there. A pen cap left in the bathroom. A sock under the pillow. Philosophical reminders hidden among grocery lists.
She placed the note gently in her notebook.
---
The day ended slowly, like someone dragging a finger down the spine of a storybook.
She watered the balcony plants, arranged her desk, and even lit a small candle just for the mood of it.
Before bed, she texted Rhea.
Just a simple:
"You okay?"
No double text. No typing bubbles. No expectations.
Then she opened the window a little wider. Let the city's noises in. The bikes. The far-off honking. Someone arguing with their Alexa. A toddler singing off-key.
And in the stillness, she heard her mother's voice again — not with her ears, but in her bones:
"Some days, we talk to people.
Some days, we talk to the walls.
And some days, if we're lucky...
The walls talk back."
---
As Tara drifted off to sleep, the wind danced through her curtains like a promise.
Something was coming. Something would shift again.
Maybe tomorrow.
But for now…
This quiet would do.