Then he hands me mine. He doesn’t say anything, just smirks. A silent, smug acknowledgement of his victory. I smirk back, concede defeat. It’s the same dance we do every day.
His tea is better.
I head to the living room with my now significantly better cup of tea and sit at my desk. Their voices start up in thebackground, low and familiar. Some insult. Some comeback. Something about politics. Something about the dress she let Shilpi borrow. It’s comforting. Like a sitcom rerun that was cringey the first time you watched it, but now you’ve grown to love. Background noise that makes life more interesting.
Their friendship is... unusual. And a little bit wild. Like some secret third language that only the two of them speak. It’s amusing. But it’s not what I always thought. I used to be threatened by it. Who wouldn’t? After the words that were said, it seemed there existed a vacuum between them. I spent countless sleepless nights. Not any more.
Not since I figured out the difference between a shared history and a shared future. Not since she sat us down and explained it to us like we were two truant, stupid Neanderthal schoolboys.
She told us in a voice that was both kind and devastatingly final that she didn’t feel the same way about Raghav as he did. And then, she told us that she knew and Raghav knew and I knew and anyone who heard it knew that Raghav didn’t love Aditi. Not even close. He wasn’t trying to win her. He was just scared of being left behind.
It was the truth, and yet we doubted it. But when she said it, and in the quiet, low voice that she uses when she’s serious, we not only saw the truth, but also felt like the biggest dumbfucks to have existed.
And so, Aditi didn’t leave him behind. Like she promised she would.
She cancelled her rental agreement and instead found an apartment across the hall.
When I officially asked her out, she said yes with a disclaimer. Raghav wasn’t going anywhere. His mess, his opinions, his family drama... all of it came with her.
‘He’s not my baggage,’ she had explained, her eyes searching mine for any sign of retreat. ‘He’s my person. He’s my only family. You have to be okay with that.’
It was less of a warning, more of a reality check.
‘You might be the love of my life,’ she said, ‘but I can’t lose my family again.’
And he’s a nice guy. A little intolerable at times, but cool overall, and is a smart addition to Connect.
Raghav joined our start-up six months ago. Initially just to mock us in what we were doing, and then to help. Now, he’s in. Fully in. He brings data to chaos. He sees patterns where we see panic. He’s annoyingly good at everything except social niceties. But he shows up. Every single time. He’s not just part of her life now. He’s part of mine too. We have our own rhythm.
The only problem is that sometimes he starts to date the people we are supposed to set up. His apparent handsomeness has led to some very awkward conversations and disgruntled single men who come to the event only to find the most desirable of women flocking to Raghav all evening.
This morning, while I’m trying to figure out a revenue-sharing model with a boutique café, I can hear their voices rise. The discussion is still going on. We just hosted our hundredth event, and there’s a trip planned. And these two can’t decide where to take the team. I sit back and sip my tea, watching them ping-pong through the possibilities.
Watching them, it’s sometimes hard to remember they went through hell and back. But they did, and they survived. Isn’t that what life is about? To survive, no matter what?
And I’m glad I get to be here for the aftermath.
Because the tea, really, is excellent.
