Some reunions are not just about meeting someone. They are about feeling whole again, about finding the piece you did not even realize had been missing until it was back in front of you. As her journey brought her closer, I kept thinking of how much I had missed her presence. The wait felt endless, yet every moment of it carried its own joy, because I knew she was on her way.
Moments like these are too precious to let slip away into memory. That is why I write them down, just as I have with other times that meant so much to me, so I can return to them one day, read these words, and feel the same warmth, the same excitement, the same smile that made everything brighter. I regret not capturing her last visit, and I don’t want to repeat that mistake..
Finally, in the evening, AkM touched down at the airport. All through her drive from there to home, I don’t think there was a single minute when I wasn’t tracking her location, my excitement building with every update. And then suddenly, she was just a few hundred meters away. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly pulled my spouse along to rush downstairs to receive her.
And there she was. That smile. The one I had been waiting almost a year to see again. On the outside, with our spouses around, it was just a simple, casual exchange, as though nothing was special. But deep inside, I knew just how much it meant to me.
This time, they were to stay with us at our place, unlike the last visit when they stayed at the nearby guest house. The thought itself made me quietly happy, knowing that from tonight, and for the next four nights, she was going to be right here, just a little closer than before.
I had bought mishti doi especially for her, knowing how much she loves it. The last time she visited, I had brought it too, but for one reason or another, she couldn’t have it then. That’s why, when she finally had it this time with her dinner, it felt like the very first little tick on her wish-list for this trip. Over the past year, each time I bought mishti doi for myself, she came to mind, and I would find myself wishing she were there to share it with me. So even though I worried a little about her cough, I knew I couldn’t let her leave without having it. That very night, it had to be mishti doi—because with so much to fit into just a few short days, I didn’t want to miss even the smallest of things that mattered to her.
And then there was the walnut coffee ice cream from her favorite place, something I had picked up with her in mind. I know how even a hint of coffee keeps her from falling asleep, and maybe, deep down, that was exactly what I was hoping for, that it would keep her awake just a little longer, so the night could stretch and I could steal a little more time by her side.
We finally wound up the night well past midnight, closer to 2 a.m. While my spouse already eager to get some rest before the school routine in the morning. I, however, stayed back in the drawing room under the pretext of switching off the lights, really just waiting for that final smile and wishing her a quiet goodnight.
I woke up early the next day. It was 15th August, a holiday for me, and the plan was to head out for our small road trip. She was still asleep, and I even tried making a little noise in the hope she might wake and step out. But I guess she was really tired and fast asleep. I had to drop my son for his school bus, so I left with the hope that by the time I returned, she would be up and I would get to see her. By the time I got back, she was just waking up. I did get to wish her a good morning in person after so many morning wishes over text only...
For breakfast, we quickly decided on a nearby Tamil-style South Indian joint. Since we needed to start early for the trip, there wasn’t much time to head to the places I had really been hoping for. It turned out to be more of a rushed breakfast, but it still gave me a moment I’ll remember—the first time in a year that I saw her reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Back home, after a little chit-chat and sharing her favorite sandesh (along with the last of the mishti doi), we were almost ready for the trip. There was a small chance for us to step out when my spouse suggested a quick walk at the nearby park while she finished the chores. For a moment, it felt like an opportunity, but her son wasn’t in the mood, and that plan slipped away.
So instead, we just spent a little time at home. My spouse gave her the bracelet I had bought for her, and I was quietly happy to see that she genuinely liked it. By then, it was already noon, my son was back, and soon we were all set to leave for the road trip.
The first stretch of the drive was rather uneventful—just long stretches of expressway. But for me, it was still precious time with her, filled with music and easy conversations. By the time we stopped for lunch at another South Indian place, it was already quite late. I knew how much she loved South Indian food, though I wasn’t sure if her spouse enjoyed it as much. By evening, we reached our destination, visited a few spots, and shared little conversations whenever we found a moment. I had hoped the place would offer a completely different vibe, but instead, it was overflowing with more tourists than I had ever seen. Everyone was a bit too tired to explore further, so we chose to have a proper dinner before heading back to the hotel to rest.
That night, for the first time, it felt like we were both trying—almost desperately—to find a little space for ourselves. With our spouses worn out from the day, there seemed to be a small chance to slip away for a quiet conversation in the breakout room. My spouse and son had already gone to bed, and I kept waiting for her to get the comfort of stepping out for a bit. But once again, it didn’t quite fall into place the way I had hoped. So we fell back on what had slowly become our safe space—exchanging texts late into the night, until we finally said goodnight and let the day end.
The second day began with the same quiet hope of finding even a little time with her. A quick morning text led to another attempt, and she found the simplest reason to step out of her room and come over to mine—just to pick up the water bottles. By chance, my spouse was in the shower and my son still fast asleep, giving us a brief window to meet. Just a few seconds, yet enough to leave me quietly happy. Soon after, we were packed and ready for breakfast, aware that another long drive awaited us—three to four hours where I would once again only catch glimpses of her in the rear-view mirror.
We started as planned, driving towards our main destination through stretches of forest. I was desperately hoping we might spot some wildlife, if not more then at least the deer that are so common along this route. But as luck would have it, the rain began, and with it, any chance of sightings slipped away. The weather stayed pleasant enough, but I felt a little low knowing that if the rain continued, my wish of going to the lake might also vanish. Still, with good music and some beautiful views breaking through the mist, we reached our first stop.
It was a small uphill trek, with the rain still falling. Strangely, no one objected, and we decided to go ahead. For me, it became a moment to remember. My first trek with her. Watching her drenched in the rain, getting a chance to hold her hand quietly for a few seconds, and a photograph that my spouse happened to click. Those are the memories that will forever mark that little climb.
We came down and decided to head directly to the resort, and with that, my hope of visiting the lake slipped away. I told myself there would still be a chance tomorrow morning. That evening passed with dinner together and then a long board game session that stretched late into the night. My heart was not really in the game, it was in the little exchanges of text between us, the kind that carried more meaning than the moves on the board.
We eventually wrapped up the board game with her winning, though the game itself was hardly on my mind. What followed was a long discussion about life — our top four priorities, the roles our spouses play, and the places where things align or fall short. Somewhere along the way, the tone grew serious, especially with my spouse, and I knew there was little point in pushing the conversation further.
The only silver lining of those hours was catching those rare, unguarded moments where she laughed freely — in person, right in front of me, after what felt like such a long time. That alone was worth it.
I went to bed holding onto one wish, that tomorrow morning there might be a chance for that long walk I had been hoping for. I knew her spouse would not join, and that meant maybe, just maybe, that wish could finally come true.
I woke up early next day, or in truth, hardly slept at all. Part of the night was a battle with the pillow, the rest with the fear of oversleeping and missing the one chance I was holding onto. When I finally got up and checked with my spouse, she simply said, “You go ahead.” I kept hoping she would wake up too, but perhaps it was not meant to be. My text went unanswered, a missed call unnoticed. By the time her reply came, the rain had started again, and with it, my hope of that morning walk washed away.
She did step out onto the patio, and we stood there together for a while. But something felt incomplete, as though a moment had slipped past me. She might not have remembered, but I had once told her, during a late-night Zoom last April, that someday I would propose to her in person. That morning was supposed to be the chance — and I knew now it was gone.
The rain showed no sign of stopping, so we chose to take it slow, settling into a relaxed morning before driving straight home. Breakfast together became a small comfort, something simple yet precious. Under the table, our hands found each other for a few fleeting seconds—a quiet promise, an unspoken assurance that no matter how many wishes went unfulfilled, I would always be there. That gentle squeeze meant more than words could carry. Thank you for making the bread butter jam. After breakfast came a few family clicks before everyone scattered again.
Back in the room, with my spouse yet to arrive, I made a last attempt and sent her a quick text. But they were already in the breakroom, and soon my spouse called me to join. I had no choice but to go, and with that, the hope of a walk, a hug, a proposal, the lake—all of it—was quietly written off.
It was time to pack and prepare for the long journey back, six to seven hours on the road. Once again, it was music, passing views, and her reflection in the rear-view mirror that kept me company. A glimpse of deer on the way back felt like a small mercy, though the endless traffic soon dulled the drive. We skipped the expressway for an alternate road, hoping for better views, and paused for a much-delayed lunch before heading on.
By the time we reached the city that evening, we stopped for some quick chaats and then her favorite bakery. Sitting across from her, I stretched out my legs, and she did the same — a quiet, unspoken moment of closeness. It felt like the nearest we could come to what my heart truly wanted.
Back home, the night wound down with light gossip and chatter. And just before parting, I managed to steal a few seconds for a quick hug, a final goodnight in person. Tomorrow, I knew, it would all be back to texts again.
Not everything I had hoped for came true. The walk never happened, the proposal remained unsaid, the lake unseen. Yet, in the end, I held on to the little moments we did have. Her laughter, the play of legs across the table, and those countless glances through the rear-view mirror — those are the memories I will carry with me, quietly, forever.
It felt like a blink of an eye, and soon the last day arrived. She had to leave early since her spouse had plans to meet someone in the city, which meant breakfast was the only time we had left together. We chose the same place where we’d had our last breakfast together the year before. Over coffee and food, it felt warm and familiar—my legs unconsciously reaching toward hers under the table. Time slipped away too quickly, and before I knew it, breakfast was done, and we had to head back so she could pack and prepare to leave.
The coffee seemed to hit her a little too strongly, and for a moment she looked uncomfortable. I was worried, but selfishly, a part of me wished she might feel unwell enough to cancel her other plans and stay a little longer. But she, being who she is, gathered herself, went back to packing, and prepared for departure.
Then suddenly, she broke into tears, and I was completely clueless. A part of me thought it was because the trip was coming to an end. My spouse was there to comfort her, but not knowing the reason — and not being able to just hold her — was deeply unsettling. I quickly sent her a message, and she replied that it wasn’t about the trip and that she’d tell me later. Honestly, I had no idea what the reason was in that moment. But one thing I did know: I might not show my own tears, yet goodbyes with her are something I can never handle. Even saying bye over text feels impossible — and now, it was about saying it face-to-face. I knew these were the last few moments I’d be seeing her in person, and the thought of not knowing when such moments would come again was painfully hard to carry.
For some reason, her Uber wasn’t showing up, and my spouse suggested that we drop them off instead. I had already excused myself from work for half a day, and I couldn’t miss that chance to spend a few more minutes with her. I dashed upstairs for the car keys, and off we went. That short drive became my last chance to watch her through the rearview mirror, sharing a few songs together one final time.
It wasn’t long before we reached, and all I got was a quick goodbye—a brief side hug—and then it was over. I drove away, watching her fade in the rearview, wishing I had gotten a proper goodbye.
Not everything on this trip went the way I had hoped. There were things I wished for, moments I longed to have, that slipped away. But what I did get was more than enough to hold close forever: her first morning look, getting soaked in the rain together, the music we shared, her smile, her favorite food, the long drive, and countless little pieces of time that felt like gifts.
Even after dropping them off, the night carried on in long and difficult conversations with my spouse, whose possessiveness made her uneasy about the closeness I share with AkM. But as I opened up and reflected on what this bond truly means, and with the quiet reassurance I carry from AkM herself, one truth became clear. This is not a passing chapter. This bond is forever, and she will always remain a part of my life.