"Hey honey! I’m on my way home. I’ll be there in 20 minutes." Krishna held his phone tightly, his voice barely audible over the heavy rain drumming against his umbrella.

"I need to talk to you," came the response. Her voice carried a weight that cut through the static of the call.

"Yeah, sure! I’m just drenched—it was raining heavily when I got out of the office."

"Alright. Call me when you’re home."

"Will do," he replied before the line disconnected.

The rain continued its relentless assault as Krishna entered his apartment building. His steps echoed in the narrow, dimly lit hallway leading to his tiny apartment. The hall was little more than a slim gallery, and the rooms were barely large enough to fit a bed.

Inside, water dripped from his clothes, forming small puddles on the cracked tile floor. He tossed his bag onto the worn-out sofa and changed into something dry. Once settled, he picked up his phone and dialed her number.

"Hey, I’m home. You wanted to talk?"

Her reply was immediate, sharp, and almost rehearsed. "I don’t think this is working between us."

He froze, unsure if he had heard her correctly. "What do you mean?"

"You’re always busy—your work, your anime, your movies. It feels like I don’t exist in your life."

"Do we really need to be on call 24/7 for this to be a relationship?" he countered, his voice tinged with frustration.

"You know that’s not what I mean," she shot back, her tone rising. "But honestly, I don’t care what you think anymore. If you had even an ounce of affection for me, I wouldn’t have to say all this."

Krishna took a deep breath, his voice soft but firm. "Maybe you’re right. So… do whatever you wish. Goodbye."

He hung up before she could respond.

---

The streets were alive with chaos despite the late hour. Honking cars, chattering vendors, and groups of people wandered aimlessly. Krishna walked without purpose, his mind a storm far more turbulent than the rain from earlier.

He stopped at a corner shop and bought a pack of cigarettes. The smell of freshly brewed tea wafted from the adjacent tea vendor’s stall. Krishna ordered a cup and leaned against a weathered wall, lighting a cigarette.

In India, tea vendors were ubiquitous, their clay cups unique in design and charm. When hot tea was poured into them, the earthy aroma of wet clay filled the air. It was an acquired taste, but Krishna found the smell oddly grounding.

He finished his cigarette, crushed it into the empty tea cup, and tossed it into a nearby bin. As he walked back to his apartment, a strange emptiness settled over him. There was no guilt, no sadness, no longing for the person he had just lost.

"Did I even love her?" he murmured to himself, his words swallowed by the warm night air.

Back home, he tried distracting himself. He flipped through channels, scrolled on his phone, even picked up the series he’d been binge-watching for weeks. But nothing held his attention. Everything felt dull, lifeless, and strangely unfamiliar.

Restless, he grabbed his cigarettes and headed to the rooftop. The city stretched out before him, a sea of yellow lights resembling fireflies in the darkness. The honking from the streets below was faint now, almost like a distant memory. A cool breeze brushed against his face, wiping away the sweat from his forehead.

And then, the tears came.

They weren’t for her. They weren’t for the failed relationship or the argument that had just unfolded. They were for something deeper, something buried within him