For a moment, Meera didn't say anything after I answered.
Rain continued dripping from the edge of the bus stop roof, creating a soft rhythmic sound between us. Cars moved through the wet streets slowly, their headlights reflecting across the pavement like broken pieces of light.
I suddenly became aware of how strange my words must have sounded.
I barely knew her.
And yet, I had just admitted something that felt far too personal.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly. "That probably sounded weird."
"A little," she admitted softly.
I looked away, embarrassed.
But when I glanced back at her, she wasn't uncomfortable.
If anything, she looked thoughtful.
As if my answer had confirmed something she had already suspected.
"You talk like someone who remembers feelings more than memories," she said quietly.
The sentence caught me off guard.
"What does that mean?"
She hesitated slightly before replying. "I don't know. It just feels like you're trying very hard to remember something your heart already knows."
I stared at her.
There it was again.
That strange feeling that she understood me too easily.
Most people avoided emotional conversations. Especially with strangers. But talking to Meera didn't feel like talking to someone new.
It felt like continuing a conversation we had left unfinished a long time ago.
A bus arrived near the shelter, brakes screeching softly against the wet road. A few passengers got off while others rushed inside to escape the rain.
Neither of us moved.
"You live nearby?" she asked.
"About ten minutes from here."
She nodded lightly. "Same."
For a brief second, both of us seemed unsure whether to continue talking or leave.
Then Meera looked toward the coffee cup still in my hand.
"You don't even like bitter coffee," she said absentmindedly.
I blinked.
"What?"
Her expression changed immediately, as if she had only just realized what she said.
"You always make this face after the first sip," she added quickly. "I noticed earlier in the bookstore too."
But something about the explanation felt rushed.
"How do you know I don't like bitter coffee?"
A small silence followed.
The rain suddenly sounded louder around us.
"I guessed," she said finally.
It wasn't a convincing answer.
And judging from the way she avoided my eyes afterward, she knew that too.
Before I could ask anything else, her phone started ringing. She glanced at the screen and sighed softly.
"I should go."
I nodded, though disappointment settled unexpectedly inside me.
"Will I see you again?" I asked before I could stop myself.
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
"You seem very determined to."
"That's not an answer."
For the first time, something playful appeared in her expression.
"Then maybe you'll have to find me again."
She stepped backward slightly, preparing to leave, but then paused.
"Oh, and Arjun?"
The way she said my name sent a strange warmth through my chest.
"Yeah?"
"Try sleeping tonight."
I frowned slightly. "How do you know I haven't been sleeping?"
Again, that tiny pause.
That almost invisible hesitation.
Then she smiled gently.
"You have tired eyes."
Before I could respond, she turned and walked away into the rain.
I stood there longer than necessary, watching until her figure disappeared into the crowded street.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Not just because of the dreams anymore.
But because of the small things.
The way she seemed to know details she shouldn't.
The way she looked at me sometimes, like she was trying not to say too much.
By the time I reached my apartment, the rain had become heavier again.
I unlocked the door, tossed my keys onto the table, and immediately noticed the silence waiting inside.
Normally, I was used to it.
Tonight, it felt unbearable.
I changed into comfortable clothes and opened the kitchen cabinet, searching for instant noodles. Halfway through boiling water, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
For a second, I considered ignoring it.
Then I answered.
"Hello?"
A few seconds of silence passed.
Then—
"Did you eat dinner?"
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Meera?"
A soft laugh came from the other side. "You sound surprised."
"How did you get my number?"
"Kabir."
"Traitor," I muttered automatically.
"I heard that."
I smiled despite myself.
The conversation flowed strangely easily after that. Easier than it should have.
We talked while I cooked badly-made noodles at midnight.
About small things.
Favorite books.
Rainy weather.
Why she preferred old songs over modern music.
At some point, I realized I was smiling naturally for the first time in months.
Not forcing it.
Not pretending.
Actually smiling.
"You know," Meera said thoughtfully over the phone, "you sound different when you laugh."
"How?"
"Lighter."
Something about the way she said it made my chest ache unexpectedly.
No one had noticed things like that about me in a very long time.
"Can I ask you something?" I said quietly.
"You already ask strange questions. Go ahead."
I leaned against the kitchen counter. "Do you really feel like we've met before?"
The line became quiet.
For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.
Then she spoke softly.
"Sometimes… people can feel familiar even if we don't remember why."
"That sounds like avoiding the question."
"Maybe."
I sighed.
"You do that a lot."
"Do what?"
"Answer questions without actually answering them."
She laughed quietly again.
And suddenly—
Another flash hit me.
A train station crowded with people.
Meera standing near me wearing a yellow scarf.
Laughing.
Then turning serious as she said—
"If one day you forget me, I'll remind you again."
The memory disappeared as quickly as it came.
I pressed a hand against my forehead.
"Arjun?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
For a few seconds, I debated whether to tell her.
Then I did.
"I remembered something again."
The silence on the other end felt different this time.
Careful.
"What did you remember?"
"A train station," I said slowly. "And you."
I expected confusion.
Shock.
Denial.
Instead, Meera only asked one quiet question.
"Was I wearing a yellow scarf?"
Every breath inside my lungs stopped.
Because that was exactly what she had been wearing.