Monsoon of Unfinished Love

The Rain That Never Stopped

( C ) All right reserved by the author

Instagram :@rajatchandrasarmah 5

The first drops hit the windowpane—slow, hesitant, like a forgotten melody trying to remember its tune.

Rudra watched the rain through the half-open glass, fingers tracing old scars on the wooden table. The air smelled of wet earth, of longing, of her.

Damn it. Five years. Five whole years, and Meera still lived inside him like a ghost that refused to leave.

He lit a cigarette. Took a slow drag. Let the smoke twist into the night. Maybe, if he exhaled long enough, he could force her out.

But memory is a stubborn thing. And rain… rain is a curse.

That night at the railway station—how could he forget? How she had stood there, a blue dupatta slipping off her trembling shoulders, eyes heavy with something between love and surrender.

“Go, Meera,” he had whispered.

“No,” she had wanted to say. He had seen it in her eyes. But sometimes, love is not about wanting. Sometimes, it’s about losing.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

He never read her letter. What was the point? Words wouldn’t bring her back.

But tonight, something felt different. Maybe it was the loneliness. Or the exhaustion of carrying her absence for too long. He reached for the letter—crumpled, yellowed, untouched. His hands shook as he unfolded it.

“Rudra,

If you are reading this, it means I have left a part of me behind with you.

I fought. I tried. But my father—he told me that love is a luxury people like us cannot afford. That duty comes first. That I must forget you.

But how do I forget the man who is in the air I breathe? In the rains that drench my soul? In the spaces between my ribs?

I walked away, Rudra. But I did not leave.

And I will love you, in every storm, in every silence, in every life to come.

Meera.”

His chest felt like it was caving in. He wanted to scream, to throw the letter into the fire, to rewrite the past. But fate is cruel—it never hands you a pen.

Then, his phone rang.

A name flashed on the screen. A name he never expected to see again.

Meera.

He stared at it. Let it ring once. Twice. By the third time, his fingers betrayed him.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then, a voice that shattered him.

“Rudra…”

He shut his eyes. Breathed in her name. Five years, and it still felt like home.

“I—I’m back in Mumbai,” she whispered. “I need to see you.”

His pulse pounded. His throat dried.

“Where?” His voice was rough, almost foreign.

A beat of silence.

“Outside your apartment.”

The world stopped.( To be Continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA 

14/02/2025