The next morning, Tara was already awake before her alarm. A rare occurrence, as she typically required two snoozes and a strong threat from her own conscience to get out of bed.
But not today.
Because today, they were going.
It wasn't a fully planned trip. That would've killed the spirit. Rhea had texted her at midnight:
"I booked two tickets. Same train. Different socks. You're not allowed to say no."
And Tara hadn't said no.
Now she was standing at her suitcase like it was an emotional riddle. What did one pack for a trip that was part nostalgia, part therapy, and entirely chaotic best-friend energy?
She reached for her oldest hoodie—the one Rhea had spilled orange juice on three years ago while yelling at a cricket match—and tossed it in. Then the hair serum Rhea once called "liquid capitalism but in a good way." Some snacks. A journal she hadn't written in since last Diwali. And, after a very dramatic pause, the chipped cup.
Just in case the chai somewhere out there needed extra sentiment.
---
When Rhea arrived at her doorstep, she was wearing sunglasses far too large for 9 a.m., holding two samosas, and humming the Mission: Impossible theme.
Tara didn't even bother to greet her. She just took one samosa and said, "We're going to get lost again, aren't we?"
Rhea grinned. "It's tradition."
---
The train was, blessedly, less fishy this time. No mango-scented papas or rogue college couples in sight. But it still had that same hum — the rhythmic lull of metal on track, life on pause.
They sat side by side, Rhea by the window, Tara with her legs curled up like she was nesting into the moment.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Not because there was nothing to say — but because the silence had finally become comfortable. Worn-in. Safe.
Tara finally broke it. "Do you think we changed too much?"
Rhea squinted at a passing station board. "Of course we did. Thank God. If I were still that girl who wore neon eyeliner and thought hot chocolate counted as dinner, I'd have been arrested by now."
Tara chuckled. "You still eat cookies for dinner."
"Yeah, but now they're gluten-free and overpriced. It's called growth."
---
They reached Lonavala with the same chaos as before — slightly lost, slightly hungry, and deeply underwhelmed by the weather.
But this time, it didn't matter.
They weren't here for views or cafes or aesthetic reels.
They were here to remember who they used to be.
And to see who they'd become.
---
They found the old foggy railing spot again. It was rustier, barely standing. So were they, emotionally.
Still, they took a new selfie.
Still blurry. Still perfect.
Later, they sat by a chai stall, rain misting around them, the plastic chairs squeaking under their weight, and watched a group of teenagers laughing in the distance.
"Do you think they'll also do something this dumb and remember it forever?" Tara asked.
Rhea nodded. "And hopefully, one of them will also accidentally step in cow dung and never live it down."
Tara grinned. "Oh no, we're not telling that story to anyone else."
"Too late. I wrote a poem about it."
"You did not."
"I did. It was called 'The Sole of My Shoe and Other Traumas.' Very well received by my dog."
---
When they boarded the return train, the rain had finally stopped.
Rhea leaned her head on Tara's shoulder.
"You know," she said softly, "we're going to be okay. You and me. Whatever comes next. We've survived terrible vada pavs and quarter-life crises. That's a solid resume."
Tara smiled, eyes half-shut.
"Yeah," she whispered, "we are."
---
Back home that night, Tara unpacked slowly. The hoodie, the serum, the snacks.
The chipped cup came out last.
She placed it on her kitchen shelf, not with reverence, but with something quieter. Something like understanding.
Some things break. But if you hold on gently, they still carry warmth.
And as she turned off the lights and the hum of the city settled around her again, she knew — the real trip had just begun.