Rain streaks down the window of a bustling Mumbai cafe, blurring the neon lights outside. Inside, she sits alone at a small table, nursing a lukewarm chai. Her gaze is fixed on the entrance, a faint, hopeful smile playing on her lips. She’s meticulously arranged a small stack of books and a single, wilting sunflower in a vase – a silent, carefully constructed tableau of expectation. Every few minutes, her eyes dart to the door, a flicker of anticipation quickly followed by a subtle slump of her shoulders. The cafe is full of laughter and chatter, but she exists in a quiet bubble, oblivious to the surrounding joy, completely consumed by the possibility of a face appearing in the doorway. The rain intensifies, mirroring the growing ache in her eyes.
...