CHAPTER 2- 'THE Rooftop Rewrite"
1116 Words
Midnight Memories
The city was soaked in silence.
For once, Mumbai wasn’t buzzing. No honking cars, no late-night chai vendors shouting, no restless crows — only the hum of electricity trying to come back to life.
And my heartbeat.
It echoed in my ears like a war drum.
11:59 PM.
I stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. Four floors to the rooftop. Four floors between me and whatever the hell was waiting for me with Rivan Singh.
This was either going to be closure…
Or the biggest mistake of my life.
I took the first step.
Each footfall echoed against the concrete walls. It was like walking into my own past, each stair steeped in some memory — whispered conversations, secret glances, stolen kisses.
12:01 AM.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.
Standing in the rain.
Soaked, like me.
Like always.
But this time, he didn’t move closer.
He just stared.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, voice barely above the patter of the rain.
“I didn’t either.”
The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was heavy — full of everything we hadn’t said for eight years.
“I used to dream about this,” he said. “You. Me. This rooftop. A chance to fix things.”
“I used to dream of punching you in the face.”
He laughed. “That sounds about right.”
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What Could’ve Been
He walked to the edge of the rooftop, the city lights twinkling below us like a million tiny ‘what ifs’.
“I’ve replayed our last night a hundred times,” he said. “Sometimes I stayed. Sometimes I wrote to you. Sometimes we ran away together.”
“And sometimes?” I asked.
He looked at me. His eyes were wet — and not just from the rain.
“Sometimes I wonder if I ruined your life.”
I swallowed. “You didn’t.”
Relief flickered across his face.
“You broke my heart,” I added. “But it didn’t stay broken.”
His lips twitched. “I’m glad.”
I stepped closer, breath catching in my throat.
“What about you, Rivan?” I asked. “Did your heart break too?”
He nodded, slow. “Every single day.”
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Almost
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in tissue.
“I kept this,” he said, handing it to me.
I unwrapped it carefully.
It was a tiny paper star. Faded, bent. From the night of our school festival. We used to write dreams on those and leave them in a jar.
I unfolded it.
“Make her mine.”
My breath caught.
“You kept this… all these years?”
“It was the only thing that didn’t feel like a lie.”
We stood in silence again.
The kind of silence that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff — unsure whether to jump or turn back.
And then…
He stepped forward.
“Veera.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not asking you to forget the past.”
I looked up.
He was closer now, rain clinging to his lashes, jaw tense.
“I’m asking if we can… rewrite the ending.”
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A Touch Away
The rain softened, and so did the space between us.
I felt the pull before I realized I was leaning. Just a breath away from him. My heart thudded louder than the thunder rolling in the distance.
He didn’t reach for me. Not yet.
Instead, Rivan looked down, then up, as if memorizing my face all over again.
“I still dream about you,” he said. “I dream of you standing here, in the rain, waiting for me to get it right this time.”
I swallowed. “And do you?”
He took a shaky breath.
“I don’t know. But I want to try.”
Something inside me cracked. But not in the painful way.
In the way something frozen starts to thaw.
He reached out slowly, gave me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
His hand found mine.
Just a touch.
But it felt like lightning.
And then—
My phone rang.
Of course.
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The Call That Shook Everything
I fumbled it out of my pocket, breath catching when I saw the name.
Aarav (Work)
I had forgotten all about the meeting tomorrow. The one that might decide whether I got promoted or stayed stuck writing clickbait for a gossip magazine.
“Sorry,” I whispered to Rivan, stepping away. “I have to take this.”
I walked toward the stairwell.
“Hello?”
“Veera! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying you for hours.”
“Blackout. I was—busy.”
“Listen, we need your edits on the Sinha scandal piece before tomorrow. And your pitch for the charity gala? The editor wants something romantic, viral, and real.”
“Romantic and viral? That’s specific.”
“You’re our best. Don’t mess this up. I promised the editor something huge. Something personal.”
The line clicked.
I stood frozen.
Something romantic. Something real.
My eyes drifted back to the rooftop.
To the boy—no, the man—I hadn’t seen in eight years who just might become both.
Maybe this was more than fate.
Maybe it was a damn story waiting to be written.
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A Proposal (Not That Kind)
When I returned, Rivan was leaning against the railing, staring at the city lights like they were speaking to him.
“I have a proposition,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“What if… I write about this?”
He frowned.
“This. Us. Whatever’s happening. As a feature for work. No names, no identifying details. Just the truth.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“I don't know if I’m ready for the truth to be... published.”
“It won’t be,” I said quickly. “Not really. It’ll just be ours. Disguised. Filtered through fiction. But maybe… it helps me make sense of everything.”
“And what do I get out of this arrangement?”
I smirked. “Maybe redemption. Maybe the girl.”
He laughed. “You always did know how to sell an idea.”
“Writer’s instinct.”
He looked at me again, more seriously this time.
“Alright. Let’s tell the story. Together.”
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The Rooftop Pact
We stood there in silence once more, as if making a vow to the sky.
To begin again.
To unfold each other’s truth one chapter at a time.
- Writer
