The Delhi winter carried a faint chill, the kind that made you pull your shawl closer without really shivering. Sana stood at the metro station, her dupatta fluttering lightly in the breeze, her eyes scanning the crowd absentmindedly. She was late for a meeting—a small event planning gig she’d taken up after quitting her corporate job. The jasmine flowers pinned to her hair were wilting, their fragrance fading into the diesel-scented air. She didn’t notice the man watching her from across the platform until he waved.

“Sana?” His voice cut through the hum of the crowd, tentative yet familiar.

She turned, her breath catching. It was Arjun. Five years had passed since they’d last spoken, yet there he was—taller, sharper around the edges, but with the same quiet smile that had once made her heart race. He wore a navy sweater, hands tucked into his jeans, looking like he’d stepped out of a memory she’d buried deep.

“Arjun? What… what are you doing here?” Her words stumbled, mirroring her thoughts. “I’m in Delhi for a conference. Just passing through. I didn’t expect…” He trailed off, gesturing toward her with a sheepish grin. “You look the same.”

She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you’ve grown a beard. It suits you.”

The metro arrived, and they boarded together, an unspoken agreement pulling them into the same compartment. The ride was short—just three stops—but it stretched into something timeless as they caught up. He was an architect now, based in Bangalore, designing homes for people who could afford his dreams. She told him about her event planning, how she’d traded spreadsheets for fairy lights and chaos. They didn’t mention the past—not yet.

Back then, in college, they’d been inseparable. Long walks by the Yamuna, stolen glances during lectures, and nights spent debating poetry over chai. He’d given her a jasmine flower once, tucking it into her braid, saying it reminded him of her—simple yet unforgettable. But then came the drift—his job offer in another city, her stubborn pride, and a breakup neither had wanted but neither had fought.

When they stepped off the metro, Arjun hesitated. “Coffee? For old times’ sake?”

Sana nodded, though her meeting loomed. They found a small café near Khan Market, its wooden tables bathed in soft yellow light. Over cappuccinos, the conversation deepened. He asked about her life, her dreams. She asked about his. And then, inevitably, the past crept in.

“I thought about calling you,” he admitted, stirring his coffee longer than necessary. “After I moved. But I didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

“I waited,” she said softly, her eyes on the foam dissolving in her cup. “For a while.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with what-ifs. She remembered the letters she’d written and never sent, the nights she’d replayed their last fight—his insistence on chasing his career, her refusal to follow. He’d asked her to wait; she’d asked him to stay. Neither had bent.

But now, sitting across from him, Sana felt the old warmth stir. His laugh was the same—low and unhurried. His eyes still lingered on her the way they used to. When he reached for the sugar and their fingers brushed, she didn’t pull away.

“I’m engaged,” she blurted suddenly, as if testing the words. “To Vikram. He’s a doctor. We’re getting married in March.”

Arjun’s smile faltered, then steadied. “That’s… good. Congratulations, Sana.”

She nodded, but her chest tightened. Vikram was steady, kind, everything she’d told herself she needed after the uncertainty of Arjun. He didn’t write poetry or gift her flowers, but he was there—reliable in a way Arjun never had been. Yet here, with Arjun, the air felt electric, alive with a nostalgia she couldn’t shake.

“And you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“No one,” he said simply. “I guess I never found the right person after… well, you know.”

The confession hung between them. Sana’s phone buzzed—Vikram, asking how her day was going. She silenced it, guilt prickling her skin. Arjun noticed but said nothing.

They walked out into the evening, the sky bruising into dusk. At the corner of the street, he stopped. “I’m glad I saw you, Sana. You’re still…” He paused, searching for the right word. “You.”

She smiled, though her throat ached. “Take care, Arjun.” He nodded, then reached into his bag and pulled out a small packet of dried jasmine flowers. “Saw these at the conference stall. Thought of you.”

She took it, the scent flooding her senses, pulling her back to that riverside moment years ago. Before she could speak, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

That night, Sana sat on her balcony, the packet of jasmine in her lap. Vikram called, his voice warm and steady, talking about their wedding invitations. She listened, responded, smiled into the phone. But when she hung up, her fingers traced the dried petals, and her mind wandered to a man she’d once loved—a man who’d walked away again, leaving her with nothing but a fragrance and a question she couldn’t answer.