Meera stood beneath the weak glow of the lamp, her dupatta clutched tightly as she trembled. The ache in her chest was mirrored by the storm above. Her voice, barely a whisper, called out, "Ayaan…"

Ayaan faced her, his fingers absently turning the ring that once held so much hope. "You shouldn’t have come," he said, his voice hollow. "I don’t care," Meera cut in, her words fueled by desperation. "I only care about us."

Ayaan sighed deeply, "We are generational rivals of prayers, traditions, and expectations," he lamented. Meera pleaded, "Then let’s go, leave it all behind." The train's whistle pierced the air, demanding a decision.

Ayaan's feet remained planted firmly, "Some love," he murmured, "is meant to be felt, not lived." Tears streamed down Meera's cheeks, "So this is it? We become a story told in whispers?"

Ayaan smiled—a smile that carried a thousand unsaid farewells. "We were never incomplete, Meera. Just...not finished." The train's whistle sounded again, a final call to depart.

Meera stood alone, the rain mingling with her tears as she watched Ayaan fade into the shadows. The weight of unanswered prayers settled upon her, a reminder of love's unfinished journey.