Before Tomorrow Felt Near
Some people sip their tea while it is still warm. Others let it sit until the steam disappears—not because they enjoy cold tea, but because they fear the burn of drinking too soon. Feelings are much the same. Some accept them when they are still intense, while others wait until the heat fades. People forget that tea was meant to be savored warm—just as feelings were meant to be understood before they faded.
And sometimes, by the time we gather the courage to take a sip, the tea has already gone cold.
Back then, no one understood that. Tea was just tea, and feelings were things they laughed about without thinking too deeply.
I remember one afternoon when the steam from her cup had already faded, yet she hadn’t taken a single sip. Maybe she preferred coffee over tea—who knows.
She sat quietly, as if waiting for something even she didn’t fully understand.
Her hair fell in long golden-brown strands, catching the light whenever she moved. Her eyes held a depth that made people pause, as if there were stories inside them she had never spoken aloud. Anyone who met her gaze remembered it longer than they expected.
And there was always something unspoken resting on her lips—like a wish she hadn’t gathered the courage to voice.
She was a believer in beautiful illusions. Her name was Aarohi.
And then there was Kabir—a boy who chose simplicity over comfort. His short, untidy hair always looked like he had better things to do than care about appearances, though sometimes it felt more like he simply didn’t care how the world saw him.
There was something fragile about him—something easily wounded—yet he noticed emotions others preferred to ignore.
Unlike her, Kabir drank his tea while it was hot. He never waited for the steam to fade. He accepted the burn, as if he believed some things were worth the pain.
Kabir listened more than he spoke, yet when he did speak, it was usually about things others avoided. Meanwhile, Aarohi was a natural speaker—someone who found comfort in filling silences. Together, they formed a quiet balance—one filled the silence, while the other made space for it.
Every evening, Kabir would stop in front of her gate and honk twice—the same impatient sound that echoed through the quiet lane.
Within moments, Aarohi would appear, usually half-running, half-laughing, as if she had been waiting longer than she would ever admit.
Those evenings became their ritual. Some days led them to the park, where she insisted on walking slowly while talking endlessly. Other days ended at the badminton court, where Kabir lost more matches than he liked to remember.
And on the days that felt ordinary, they found themselves at her favorite momo stall—the place she claimed had the only momos worth trusting.
One evening, they were playing badminton in the small court near her house. The shuttlecock landed outside the line again, and Kabir sighed in defeat.
“That’s three times,” Aarohi laughed, spinning her racket in celebration. “You should feel ashamed, my cute slave!”
Kabir bent down to pick up the shuttlecock, shaking his head. He was used to her strange titles—“slave,” “servant,” “bodyguard”—names she threw at him whenever she won.
“Oh come on, my lady,” he replied, stepping back into position. “Don’t celebrate too early. I don’t want a lady crying in public after losing the next match.”
Aarohi scoffed, tightening her grip on the racket. “In your dreams.”
In those days, even a lost game felt like failure. They had no idea how much bigger losses life had waiting. Tomorrow always felt far away—until it wasn’t.
