After the Coffee Turns Cold (Episode 1)- The Unsaid

The coffee had already crossed that invisible line between hot and warm, neither of them noticed.
The balcony had always been their place. Not because it had the best view, but because it had just enough distance from the rest of the house. And in the corner stood what they still insisted on calling a palm.

It hadn’t survived their relentless attempts to make it lush. Fertilizers, YouTube gardening tips, measured sunlight, overwatering, underwatering; they had loved the poor thing to death. Neither of them had the heart to throw it away.
Beyond the railing, the apartment park was winding down. Children bargained for “five more minutes,” grandparents debated politics as if the country had asked for their opinion, and a Labrador (not sure if he’s allowed to be there, and nobody is sure of that)  chased a tennis ball with the commitment of someone who had no EMIs.

 

The fountain in the middle of the courtyard came alive.
She smiled.
“I still can’t believe our apartment has a fountain, if we can call it so.”
“It gives us a fake sense of luxury.”
“If someone visited only between seven and eight, they’d think we’ve done very well in our life.”
“They wouldn’t know half the building is arguing about maintenance charges.”
He watched the water shoot into the air.
“So much confidence for something that keeps throwing the same water over and over.”
She laughed.
“Like corporate meetings.”
The fountain carried on. The dead palm remained magnificently unimpressed.
She tucked one leg beneath herself and wrapped both hands around her mug.

He leaned back.
“You know…”
She groaned.
“I don’t like conversations that begin with ‘You know.’ They’re usually followed by emotional damage.”
He smiled.
“If this was the last conversation we’d ever have… what are the things you’ve always wanted me to know but never said because they’d make living together awkward?”
She looked at him.
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“I know.”
“You’ll regret asking it.”
“I probably will.”
She set her mug down.
“My turn.”
He nodded.

“You know what genuinely irritates me about you?”
“I’ve been preparing for this since marriage.”
“You don’t know how to greet people.”
“I do.”
“You nod.”
“I acknowledge.”
“You acknowledge people the way banks acknowledge complaints.”
He laughed.
“The security guy wishes you every morning. The delivery guy hands you food. You collect it like you’re receiving a courier from the Income Tax Department.”
“I say thank you.”
“If I glare at you first.”
He smiled.
“I genuinely don’t think about those things.”
“I know.”
She softened.
“I just wish people who meet you for thirty seconds got to know the version of you that I do.”
He looked away.
“I never realised that mattered.”
“It does.”

She took another sip.
“And yes, you lose your patience with me.”
He sighed.
“The vegetables.”
“The vegetables.”
“You don’t wash grapes.”
She smiled.
“You conduct its baptism.”
“You sigh every time I check whether the gas is off.”
“You’ve already checked.”
“What if I forgot?”
“You checked because you thought you’d forgotten.”
She laughed.
“And then you call me dependent.”
“You are.”
“I ask you to open jars.”
“You ask me where your phone is while talking to me.”
She Stared.
“Fine.”
“But I don’t depend on you because I can’t do things.”
She reached across the table.
“I depend on you because you’re the only person with whom I don’t have to carry everything.”
He nodded quietly.

“My turn?”
She asked.
“Your toxic positivity.” She added
“My optimism.”
“Exactly.”
“You can turn any inconvenience into a philosophy lecture.”
“I call it perspective.”
“I call it exhausting.”
He laughed.
“When I’m irritated, I don’t need to hear that life is teaching us something.”
“Fair.”

“And stop saying money is just a number.”
“It is.”
“No.”
She counted on her fingers.
“It’s school fees. It’s EMIs. It’s deciding whether we take that holiday or postpone it.”
He surrendered.
“Fair again.”

“And you’re still glued to those arcade games.”
“They relax me.”
“You’re already in the second half of your Thirties dear.”
“So are my thumbs.”
She shook her head.
“I also miss the reader.”
He smiled sadly.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“You used to carry books everywhere.”
“I know.”
“You’d stop halfway through a page just to read me one beautiful paragraph.”
He stared at his coffee.
“I miss him too.”
Life had quietly replaced books with life.
Another silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Earned.

He looked at her.
“You expect me to read between the lines.”
“You should.”
“I genuinely can’t.”
“You say ‘It’s fine’ when it clearly isn’t.”
She smiled.
“You need subtitles.”
“I really do.”

“And when we fight…”
She looked at him.
“…you disappear.”
He nodded.
“I don’t go quiet because I don’t care.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“One angry sentence.”
He looked into his mug.
“The kind you spend twenty years wishing you could take back.”
She reached for his hand.
“I always thought silence meant indifference.”
“It means fear.”
She squeezed his fingers.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”

After a while she spoke again.
“I miss something.”
“The reader?”
She nodded.
“But I’m not asking you to become him again.”
“No?”
“I just wanted you to know I miss him.”
He smiled.
“I’ll try anyway.”

She looked towards the now-empty park.
“You overthink too little.”
He smiled.
“And you overthink enough for both of us.”
“I imagine every possible disaster.”
“So I don’t have to.”
He smiled.
“And I joke about everything…”
“…so I don’t.”

Garden lights flickered on.
The last child was being called home.
She broke the silence.
“If this really was our last conversation…”
He looked at her.
“…I hope you never spend your life wondering whether I loved you.”
“I won’t.”
“How are you so sure?”
He looked at their empty mugs.
“Because love was never in the big moments.”
He smiled.
“It was in you making me thank the delivery guy.”
She laughed.

“And you complaining that grapes deserves only one wash.”
“It was in you worrying enough for both of us.”
“And you hoping enough for both of us.”

He stood, gathering the empty mugs.
Halfway to the kitchen he turned.
“Tomorrow, when the milk gets delivered…”
She looked up.
“…I’ll thank him.”
She smiled.
“Don’t do it because I told you to.”
“Then why?”
“Because somewhere, someone raised him hoping the world would be kind to him.”

He stood there for a second.
Then smiled.
A real smile.
The kind she had been asking him to give the world all along.