Meera, a petite girl with rain-dampened hair and a faded cotton dress, wipes down the wooden counter, her eyes flitting between the steaming chai kettle and the puddles outside. The door swings open, and in steps Arjun, a tall, bespectacled boy clutching a leather-bound notebook, his city shirt speckled with raindrops. Their gazes meet as he orders chai, his accent crisp and unfamiliar. "You’re not from around here, are you?"

Arjun reads aloud lines of poetry, his voice low and careful, while Meera listens, chin propped on her hand, her laughter bright and quick. "I never thought the monsoon could sound so beautiful on paper," he muses, scribbling verses as Meera pours more chai. "It’s even better with company," she replies, the warmth in her smile almost rivaling the tea.

Arjun coughs, a sharp sound that breaks their reverie. He waves it off, but a shadow darkens Meera's eyes. "You should see a doctor. You’ve been unwell for weeks," she says, worry threading her words. "It’s nothing. Just the city air still clinging to me," he jokes, though his hand trembles as he lifts his cup.

Meera[/@ch_1], who cleans up as the wind scatters petals across the floor.] A letter sits on the table, Arjun's name written in careful script. Meera hesitates, tears glinting as she tucks it beneath his favorite poetry book. "Some words are easier written than spoken," she whispers to the empty room.

Arjun[/@ch_2] returns, his eyes hollow, clutching the unopened letter.] He stands beneath the awning, reading Meera's words—her confession of love, her secret struggle with illness, her hope that he’ll keep writing poetry in the rain. "You never told me," he murmurs, voice cracking as a fresh storm gathers in his heart.

Arjun[/@ch_2]—places a letter and a sprig of jasmine on the old table.] Arjun reads his latest poem aloud, his words drifting into the rain-soaked air. Though Meera is gone, her laughter lingers in the scent of chai and the hush of the monsoon, a love story written in letters, remembered with every falling drop.