Tara hadn't meant to fall asleep on the floor. But the rain, the warmth of memory, and the strangely comforting ache of nostalgia had coaxed her into a soft, blanket-wrapped nap, right next to the window.
When she woke up, her hair was a disaster, the photo had stuck to her cheek, and there were three unread messages from Rhea — all variations of:
"I FOUND OUR TRAIN TICKET."
Tara blinked, still groggy.
Rhea:
"Guess what I found in my old wallet? That stupid ticket. The one from our very first crime."
Tara groaned, equal parts fond and horrified.
Because yes, that trip. That illegal, unsupervised, extremely idiotic trip.
And of course, it had been Rhea's idea. It was always Rhea's idea.
---
They were sixteen.
Too young to know better and too old to keep pretending they didn't need a break from the lives they were barely surviving.
"We'll go to Lonavala," Rhea had declared one sweaty afternoon as they both lay on Tara's floor, exhausted from exams and existential dread. "No parents. No permission. Just two girls and a local train."
Tara had stared at her like she'd suggested robbing a bank.
"Have you seen my mother? She'll disown me mid-sentence and still expect me to bring groceries on the way out."
But somehow — through the sheer force of Rhea's stubborn charm and Tara's quiet, unspoken craving for anything different — they ended up doing it.
They pooled pocket money, packed exactly one extra T-shirt each (which they never wore), and snuck out under the classic Indian cover story: "Combined study session." As if either of their mothers ever believed that meant actual studying.
---
The train ride was... a comedy of errors.
They missed the first one, climbed onto a moving second, got stuck in a compartment full of fish baskets, and Tara's kurta strap betrayed her halfway through the journey.
But it was also weirdly magical.
They laughed at graffiti in the bathroom, shared a packet of glucose biscuits Rhea had squashed in her bag, and gave strangers names — Mango Papa, Romeo and Chutney, Saree Auntie with Weapon Eyes.
Tara, for the first time in months, felt her chest expand without effort.
She looked over at Rhea — messy bun, mismatched earrings, grin like she'd won a lottery nobody else knew about — and thought, Okay fine. You're officially tolerable.
---
Lonavala itself was underwhelming.
It rained the entire time. They could afford only roadside vada pavs, and Rhea's grand "secret viewpoint" was just a rock with some suspicious lizard activity nearby.
Tara stepped in cow dung. Barefoot.
They took a single blurry selfie near a fogged-up railing and decided it would be their future band's album cover — if the band was ever formed and accepted off-tune humming as a skill.
But even in the chaos and damp socks, Tara had felt something — something fierce and soft and wordless.
A sense of home, wrapped in rebellion.
---
Now, years later, her fingers moved on their own, replying:
Tara:
"Only if you promise not to make me climb snake-infested hills again."
Rhea:
"No promises. But this time I'll bring good snacks and GPS."
Tara chuckled and stood up, her joints cracking like old secrets.
The photo — the umbrella day — was now on the fridge.
The ticket? Still in Rhea's old wallet. Somehow.
And the rain outside hadn't let up. Still tapping gently, like it knew something was stirring inside her again.
---
She stretched, wandered into the kitchen, poured herself the third cup of chai — the dangerous one, the one that usually preceded decisions.
Rhea appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.
"You slept like someone who hasn't paid rent."
"I've been awake since 5 AM, reliving every mosquito bite from Lonavala."
"Ah. So spiritual awakening."
"More like nostalgia poisoning."
They sat at the table, mugs in hand, and that familiar quiet settled between them.
But this time, it didn't feel heavy. It felt ripe.
---
"I want to leave," Rhea said suddenly. "Not just this flat. I mean... all of it."
Tara met her eyes.
Rhea shrugged. "I don't mean run away. We already did that. I mean go forward. For once. Like two people who actually want to build something."
"With what money?" Tara asked.
"Don't be practical. I'm trying to be poetic."
Tara smiled into her chai. "I'm in. Wherever you go."
Rhea blinked. "Just like that?"
"Well... as long as there are no snakes and you promise to pack socks."
They clinked mugs.
---
Outside, the city groaned under the weight of grey clouds and decisions waiting to be made.
But inside, something shifted.
No thunder. No lightning.
Just two girls, one train ticket, three cups of chai, and the quiet, brave decision to begin again.
Because sometimes, the past doesn't haunt you.
It reminds you who you were before you forgot.
And sometimes... that's enough to start.