It was the same old wooden bench.
The paint had chipped, initials still carved deep — A + J, forever.
Jiya sat there every Sunday at 6 PM, like she had for the past five years.
The lake in front of her still glimmered softly under the fading sunset — peaceful, almost cruelly unchanged.
She placed two paper cups beside her.
One black coffee.
One with too much sugar — just the way Aarav liked it.
Five years ago
“Promise me you’ll come here every Sunday,” Aarav had said, his voice half teasing, half tender.
Jiya had smiled. “Even if you don’t?”
Aarav had looked at her — that calm, honest look she still couldn’t forget.
“Especially if I don’t.”
They’d met here by chance — the same lake, same bench.
She’d been sketching; he’d been reading quietly.
A stray breeze had blown one of her sketches into his lap, and he’d smiled, saying,
“You draw like you’re trying to remember the world.”
From that day on, the bench became their place.
Coffees, long silences, shared laughter, and the kind of peace that only love brings.
Then one night — rain, headlights, a phone call.
And suddenly, the world wasn’t the same.
Aarav was gone.
The noise of the city kept moving, but inside Jiya, everything had gone quiet.
Now
Five years later, Jiya still came back.
Same place. Same time.
Because some promises don’t fade — they live quietly inside you.
She looked at the space beside her and whispered,
“Five years, Aarav. Still feels like yesterday.”
The wind brushed past gently, and a single leaf landed in the sugary coffee cup.
She smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know. You’d say I still make it too sweet.”
Her voice cracked on the laugh that followed.
Just then, a little boy came running after a paper boat.
He tripped near her feet, and the boat drifted toward Jiya.
She picked it up and noticed something written inside — in uneven, childish handwriting:
‘For Papa in heaven. I miss you.’
Her eyes softened. The boy ran back and held out his hand shyly.
“That’s mine, aunty. It’s for Papa.”
Jiya knelt down and handed it back. “He must be really proud of you.”
The boy nodded, smiling. “Mama says he watches me from the stars.”
Jiya’s throat tightened. “He does. They always do.”
He grinned and ran off, the paper boat floating again on the ripples.
Jiya watched it until it disappeared.
Maybe love was like that — it never really sank. It just changed form.
---
As twilight deepened, she took out an old notebook — Aarav’s — and began writing:
> Hey Aarav,
The world has changed, but the lake hasn’t. It still waits, just like me.
There was a little boy today. He reminded me of you — curious, kind, full of light.
You always said love isn’t about staying. It’s about remembering.
So I’m still here, keeping my promise.
She placed the notebook beside the cup with too much sugar, then looked up at the sky.
A soft smile curved her lips — the kind that hurts and heals at the same time.
The wind blew again, tilting the cup, rustling the pages slightly.
For a fleeting second, she could almost hear his voice — warm and teasing.
“You still can’t make coffee right, can you?”
She laughed softly through her tears.
“No, Aarav… I never learned.”
And under that fading sky, with the lake glowing silver and quiet,
it almost felt like he was sitting right beside her —
just like before.
– The End
