Chapter 4: Meera's Farewell Warning
The rooftop café was nearly empty at this hour, just a few stragglers nursing cold drinks and a waiter who kept checking his phone behind the bar. Savita had chosen it deliberately—far enough from her neighborhood that no one would recognize her, close enough to the sea that the breeze carried something clean and forgiving.
She arrived early. Ordered chai. Watched the city lights flicker to life below like a circuit board coming online.
Meera was late, which was unlike her. Meera was never late. Meera was the kind of person who showed up fifteen minutes early and spent the extra time reorganizing someone else's life.
When she finally appeared at the top of the stairs, Savita felt her stomach drop. Her sister's face was a mask—the same mask she'd worn at their father's funeral, the one that said I am holding everything together by a thread and you will not be the one to break it.
Meera sat down without a word. Didn't order anything. Just folded her hands on the table and looked at Savita like she was a stranger.
"So," she said.
"So."
"How long were you going to wait before telling me?"
Savita wrapped her fingers around her cup. The ceramic was warm, almost too hot. "I was going to tell you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Meera's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Tomorrow you get on a plane. That's not telling me. That's running away."
"I'm not running—"
"You're leaving the country with a man you've known for three weeks." Meera leaned forward, voice dropping low. "Three weeks, Savita. That's not a relationship. That's a vacation."
Savita set her cup down. The chai sloshed over the rim, staining the saucer brown.
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like my little sister has lost her goddamn mind." Meera's eyes were bright—too bright. "Mom called me yesterday. She was crying. Did you know that? She said you were leaving and she didn't know why, and she asked me if I knew anything, and I had to lie to her face."
Savita's throat tightened. "I told her about the job."
"You told her nothing." Meera's voice cracked. "You gave her a story. A good one, I'll admit. But she's not stupid, Savita. She knows something's wrong. She knows you're hiding something."
"I'm not—"
"Don't." Meera held up a hand. "Don't lie to me. I'm the only one who knows the truth, remember? I'm the one who covered for you when you disappeared for entire weekends. I'm the one who told Mom you were staying at my place when you were really at his hotel."
Savita looked away. The city sprawled below them, indifferent and vast.
"I never asked you to cover for me."
"You didn't have to." Meera's voice softened, just slightly. "That's what sisters do."
They sat in silence for a moment. The waiter drifted over, sensed the tension, and drifted away again.
Meera spoke first. "Tell me about him."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." She leaned back, arms crossed. "Start with why."
Savita thought about it. About David. About the rain and the first kiss and the way he'd looked at her like she was something worth keeping.
"He makes me feel like I'm allowed to want things," she said finally. "Like I don't have to apologize for existing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Meera's jaw tightened. "What does he do? For work?"
"He's in software. He was here on a contract."
"Was he married?"
"No." Savita's voice was firm. "He's not married. He's not hiding anything."
"You don't know that."
"I know him."
"You've known him for three weeks."
Savita met her sister's eyes. "I know him."
Something in her voice must have registered, because Meera's expression shifted—just a fraction, just enough to show the fear underneath the anger.
"You really believe that."
"I do."
"And if you're wrong?" Meera's voice was barely a whisper. "What happens then? You're on the other side of the world with no job, no family, no way home. What happens if he turns out to be someone else?"
Savita had asked herself the same question. A hundred times. A thousand.
"Then I come back," she said. "I figure it out. I survive."
"You say that like it's easy."
"It's not." Savita's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the table. "None of this is easy. But staying here, living the life everyone else wants for me—that's not easy either. It's just slower. It's just quieter. It's just a different kind of dying."
Meera flinched.
"That's dramatic."
"Maybe." Savita's voice broke. "But it's true."
The breeze picked up, carrying the distant sound of a Bollywood song from somewhere below—something old, something their mother used to hum while she cooked. Savita felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back.
"I'm not trying to hurt anyone," she said. "I'm not trying to abandon you or Mom or—"
"Then don't."
"I can't stay."
"You can." Meera reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "You can stay. You can find someone here, someone good, someone who understands our culture, our family—"
"I don't want someone who understands." Savita pulled her hand back. "I want someone who sees me. There's a difference."
Meera stared at her.
Then, slowly, something in her face crumbled.
"I don't want to lose you," she whispered.
Savita's heart cracked open. "You won't lose me. I'll call. I'll visit. I'll—"
"It's not the same." Meera's voice was raw. "You know it's not the same. You'll be there, and I'll be here, and every day we'll grow a little further apart until one day we're just—strangers who used to be sisters."
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that."
Savita reached for her sister's hand this time, and Meera let her take it.
"Remember when we were kids?" Savita asked. "When Dad died, and you used to sleep in my room because I was scared of the dark?"
Meera's lips quivered. "You were such a baby."
"I was ten."
"You acted like you were five."
Savita laughed—soft and wet. "You stayed with me for six months. Every night. Even when your friends made fun of you for it."
"Nobody made fun of me."
"Anjali Mehta did. I heard her."
Meera rolled her eyes. "Anjali Mehta was a bitch."
They both laughed then—real laughter, broken and shaky but real. And for a moment, it was like they were kids again, hiding under blankets from a world that was too big and too cruel.
Then Meera's face sobered.
"I can't stop you," she said. "I know that. You've already made up your mind."
Savita didn't deny it.
"But I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
Meera squeezed her hand hard. "If he hurts you—if he's not who you think he is—you call me. Not Mom. Not anyone else. Me. And I'll come get you. I don't care what it costs. I don't care if I have to sell everything I own. I'll come."
Savita's vision blurred. "Meera—"
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Meera pulled her into a hug—fierce and sudden and so tight it knocked the breath from Savita's lungs. She smelled like jasmine and the same talcum powder their mother used. For a moment, Savita was five years old again, safe in her sister's arms.
When they pulled apart, Meera's cheeks were wet.
"You're an idiot," she said. "A complete idiot. I hope you know that."
"I know."
"And if he's ugly, I'm going to be very disappointed."
Savita laughed through her tears. "He's not ugly."
"He better not be." Meera wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I'm serious. I've seen American men. Most of them look like they've never seen the sun."
"He's seen the sun."
"Good. Because if you're going to ruin your life for a man, he should at least be attractive."
Savita shook her head. "You're impossible."
"I'm your sister." Meera stood up, pushing her chair back. "That's the job."
Savita stood too. They faced each other across the small table, two women who had shared a childhood, a loss, a lifetime of small moments that added up to something unbreakable.
"I should go," Meera said. "I told Raj I'd be home by nine."
"Okay."
Neither of them moved.
"Savita."
"Yeah?"
Meera's voice was barely audible. "Be happy."
Savita swallowed hard. "I'll try."
"Don't try." Meera stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Just do it. Life's too short to be miserable. Even if it means being miserable somewhere else."
Then she turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the concrete floor, her back straight and tall and unbroken.
Savita watched her go. The waiter came by and cleared the cups. The city hummed below, indifferent and beautiful. And somewhere in the distance, the Bollywood song ended and another one began.
She stayed on the rooftop for a long time after Meera left, until the chai had gone cold and the stars had disappeared behind the city's glow.
Two days.
Two days until everything changed.
She thought about her mother, asleep in that tiny flat with the flickering TV. She thought about her father, buried in a cemetery she'd visited every week for ten years. She thought about Meera, walking home alone through streets that had always been safe because they'd walked them together.
She thought about David, somewhere in America, waiting.
And she thought about herself—the version of her that had existed before that rainy night, the girl who'd never questioned the life laid out for her like a train schedule. That girl was gone. She'd died somewhere between the first kiss and the last confession, and in her place was someone new. Someone who wanted things. Someone who was willing to burn.
She stood up, left a handful of rupees on the table, and walked down the stairs to the street.
The night air was warm and damp and smelled of spices and sea. She pulled out her phone and texted David.
I'm ready.
The reply came almost instantly.
I've been waiting for you my whole life.
She smiled.
Then she walked home, one step at a time, toward a future she couldn't see but could finally feel.