The next day felt strangely hollow — as if the world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it out. I woke up and reached for my phone out of habit, hoping for his message — that usual, teasing "Morning, cap," or a half-asleep emoji. But there was nothing.

The silence was loud.

I got ready for college anyway. The streets buzzed with life, but it all felt distant, like I was walking through someone else's day. Even Kavya noticed. She nudged me during class, whispering, "You seem off today." I shrugged it off, smiling faintly, but inside my thoughts kept circling back to him.

Hours passed before my phone finally buzzed. My heart jumped — his name glowing on the screen like a small piece of sunlight. But it wasn't a text. Not a call either. It was a voice message.

I plugged in my earphones and pressed play.

His voice came through — low, soft, carrying that tired edge that always made me worry.
"Hey... sorry I couldn't talk today," he said, his words slow, like each one weighed something. "Didn't sleep much. Feeling a bit down, that's all. Don't worry, cap. Just... take care, okay? Eat something. I'll talk later."

The message ended, but I didn't move. Just sat there, staring at the ground while his voice replayed in my mind. Twenty seconds — and yet it lingered like a song that refused to fade.

Through the rest of the day, I kept replaying it — not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. Each time, I caught small things I'd missed before — the faint sound of wind, the quiet sigh at the end, the little pause before he said "later."

After college, I didn't rush to the restaurant. I walked aimlessly through the streets, phone in hand, headphones still in. The world moved around me — people talking, laughing, living — but his silence followed me like a shadow.

By evening, I reached the restaurant and switched on the lights. The familiar smell of coffee and spice filled the air, but it didn't warm me like before. I worked quietly, lost in the rhythm of cleaning tables and serving plates.

When everyone left, I sat by the window — city lights blurring outside, phone resting in my palm. I played the voice message one last time before bed.

And as his voice faded into static, I whispered, "You don't have to be okay all the time... just don't disappear."

Then, I closed my eyes — letting the quiet wrap around me, his words echoing softly in the dark

The fourth day began like all the others — quiet, ordinary, with that dull ache of waiting tucked under my ribs. I didn't expect anything to change.

Morning classes blurred by; even Kavya's jokes couldn't pull a real smile out of me. After college, I walked straight to the restaurant. The air smelled of cardamom and rain, the sky heavy with clouds. I unlocked the doors, turned on the lights, and slipped into the usual rhythm — wiping tables, setting chairs, humming faintly to fill the silence.

Then the doorbell chimed.

I didn't even look up at first — just another customer, I thought. But when I finally did, my breath caught.

He was standing there.

Real. Not pixels. Not a voice through the speaker. Him — the one who had only ever existed on a screen, now framed by the doorway, wearing that same half-smile I'd seen a hundred times in photos.

For a second, I couldn't move. My hands froze around the tray I was holding.
He laughed softly, that same tired but familiar sound. "Surprise, cap."

The words hit harder than they should have. I blinked, stepped forward slowly, unsure if I was dreaming. But then he spoke again, and it was all real — the warmth, the hesitation, the small sparkle in his eyes.

"I told you I'd visit someday," he said, looking around at the restaurant we built together. "Guess someday's today."

I didn't even realize I was smiling until he laughed at me. "You look shocked," he teased.
"I... I just didn't think you'd actually come," I managed.

He shrugged, glancing around, taking it all in. Every corner we'd once designed through late-night calls, every color we'd argued about.
"It's more beautiful than I imagined," he said quietly.

We sat at our usual corner table — the one by the window. He ordered coffee, just to make it feel normal. But it wasn't normal. It was electric. Alive. Every silence between us held meaning, every laugh felt heavier with all the miles we had crossed to get here.

As night settled outside, he leaned back and said, "You really made it, cap. You made our dream stand tall."
I looked at him, heart full, and replied, "No. We made it. You were never just behind the screen — you were always here."

The lights glowed warm around us, rain whispering softly against the glass. And for the first time in a long while, the restaurant didn't feel like my secret anymore — it felt like home, because he was finally in it.

The rain kept falling outside — soft, steady, and endless — as if the night itself was blessing the moment.

He stayed. We didn't even realize how the hours slipped away. The restaurant was closed to everyone else, but for us, it was alive — our world in four glowing walls.

We made coffee together, the way we used to argue about in chats — too sweet for him, too strong for me. Laughter filled the space, quiet at first, then free, like it had been waiting years to escape.

He moved through the kitchen, touching things carefully — the counter we designed, the shelf we argued about painting blue. "It's strange," he said softly, "to finally stand in the middle of what we built."

I watched him — real, breathing, laughing — and it still didn't feel real. Every time he spoke, his voice felt like a melody I already knew by heart.

We sat at the window, watching the rain trace silver lines down the glass. He told me stories from his city, how he'd planned this trip without telling me, how he almost backed out at the airport because he didn't know what to say first.

I laughed. "You could've just said hi."
He grinned. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

Hours passed like minutes. We played old songs through his phone, talked about dreams, about fear, about everything we'd kept inside. Sometimes we didn't talk at all — just sat there, the hum of rain filling the silence.

At one point, he leaned his head on the table, eyes half-closed, and said, "Feels like home here."
I whispered, "It is."

By the time the rain stopped, it was already dawn. The first light crept through the window, painting gold across the floor.

We looked at each other — tired, happy, silent. Two people who had built something bigger than distance.

And in that quiet morning glow, surrounded by the smell of coffee and dreams, the night felt infinite — like it had finally given us back the time we lost.

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