Tara woke up to the sound of Rhea yelling something about "moral emergency" and "the audacity of Delhi weather." It was 6:43 AM.
She stumbled to the living room to find Rhea sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-packed backpack and what looked like a manifesto in bullet points.
"I made a list," Rhea declared, not looking up. "Also, we need more sanitary pads and less self-doubt."
Tara rubbed her eyes. "What… is happening?"
"We're going," Rhea said. "This weekend. Bags. Tickets. Snacks. I'm calling it Operation Reboot."
Tara blinked. "I thought we were brainstorming ideas. Not—mobilizing."
"You said yes."
"I said maybe."
"Same thing."
---
By afternoon, Tara found herself booking a cottage near a hill town neither of them could pronounce. It was somewhere between forests and forgotten poetry. The kind of place travel bloggers call 'quaint' before throwing up drone shots and cinnamon captions.
Rhea, meanwhile, was doing what she called "strategic packing" — which turned out to be mostly skincare products, two novels she'd never finish, and one extremely dramatic pair of sunglasses.
"We'll be new women by the time we return," she said, holding up a face mask like it was a weapon of rebirth.
"Or just tanned and slightly dehydrated," Tara offered.
"Either way, growth."
---
On the day they left, it rained.
Of course it did.
They stood outside Tara's apartment at 5:00 AM, backpacks heavier than their collective emotional baggage. Rhea had made sandwiches. Tara had made playlists. Both were quietly terrified.
"You sure you want to do this?" Tara asked, half-hopeful, half-panicking.
"No," Rhea replied honestly. "But I think I need to."
That was enough.
---
The train station was a swirl of chaos and chai sellers and one man aggressively shouting "window seat!" at the sky.
They found their berth — a cramped little space of dusty maroon curtains, tiny fans, and that weird hopeful energy only 6 AM trains seem to have.
The moment they sat, Rhea whispered, "Tara. We are so main character right now."
"Shut up."
"I swear, if a random stranger gives us life advice or plays a flute, I'm calling Netflix."
---
They passed hours playing cards, dozing off, reading half pages, and talking about everything from shampoo to how people in college used to mispronounce their names.
When the train reached the mountains, everything outside the window slowed into green stretches and fogged-over trees. Tara leaned her head on the windowpane, silent.
Rhea nudged her. "Thinking about work?"
"No. Just... what it means to leave and still carry yourself with you."
Rhea smiled. "We're not escaping, Tara. We're expanding."
That sounded exactly like something Rhea would say. Annoying. But true.
---
The cottage was ridiculous. In the best way.
White walls, warm wood floors, a porch with chipped blue chairs, and a kitchen with exactly one working gas burner and no spoons.
"We are officially in a Pinterest board," Rhea announced.
Tara opened the curtains. "No Wi-Fi."
"Even better. Detox, baby."
They unpacked in silence, each slowly adjusting to the hush of trees instead of traffic, birds instead of pings.
That evening, they sat outside with hot lemon tea and silence that didn't need to be filled.
Tara finally spoke. "This doesn't feel real."
"Because it's not," Rhea said, grinning. "It's better."
---
As night fell, the stars came out like gossip — slowly, then all at once.
They lay on the porch, wrapped in mismatched blankets, watching the sky breathe.
"What do we do tomorrow?" Tara asked softly.
"We live," Rhea said. "Whatever that means."
---
And for once, neither of them needed a plan.
Just a porch, a little courage, and each other.