Chapter 4 : A Note Between Pages

Whispers in the rain

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Continuing Ayan and Misha’s journey

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It had been two days since they last met. The café felt quieter without Misha’s laughter echoing in the corner, and Ayan had been coming in anyway—just in case. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he missed her. Her stories, her little jokes, the way she tilted her head when she was curious.

He sat at their usual spot, the table by the window, scribbling thoughts in his notebook but never quite finishing a sentence. His coffee sat untouched, cooling beside him.

Just as he was about to leave, the café door chimed.

He didn’t have to look up—he felt it. Her presence had a way of shifting the air around him. And there she was, standing with her umbrella in one hand and a small book tucked under her arm.

“I knew you’d be here,” she said, her voice warm and familiar.

Ayan smiled, relief softening his features. “And I knew you’d be late,” he teased gently.

She grinned and slid into the seat across from him. “Fashionably late,” she corrected. “And I brought something for you.”

She handed him the book she’d been carrying. It was a worn copy of “The Little Prince.”

“This is your favorite, right?” he asked, surprised.

Misha nodded. “I’ve read it a hundred times. But this one... this copy is special. Open to chapter 7.”

He did. Tucked between the pages was a folded note. His name was written on the front in her loopy handwriting.

He looked up at her—she just smiled and nodded. So he unfolded it.

Dear Ayan,

Sometimes it’s hard to say things out loud. Maybe it’s the fear of what comes next, or maybe it’s just shyness hiding as silence. But I wanted to tell you... you’ve become my favorite part of the day. The rain, the coffee, the poems—it’s all better with you. I don’t know where this is going, but if you’re willing to turn the next page with me, I’d like to keep reading our story together.

– Misha

Ayan read the note twice, maybe three times, the corners of his mouth lifting with every word. He felt something stir in his chest—not butterflies, but something deeper. A sense of being seen, understood. And cherished.

He looked at Misha, who was now nervously stirring her coffee, pretending to be casual.

Without a word, Ayan reached into his notebook, tore a page gently, and began to write. A few lines—nothing too grand, just enough. He folded it and slid it across the table.

Misha opened it.

You once said love stories don’t have to be loud. I think ours speaks best in silences, in coffee cups, and rain-soaked pages. I’d turn every chapter with you, Misha.

– Ayan

Her eyes sparkled, lips parting in a soft smile that said everything she couldn’t.

And outside the café, it began to rain again.

But this time, they didn’t just watch it—they listened, hand in hand, hearts beginning to speak in the quiet rhythm of falling raindrops.

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