The Colours Of Us - Chapter Eight
Where the Mountains Remember
Chapter Eight: Letters Never Sent
"Distance is not measured in miles. It is measured in the moments we forget to share."
The city welcomed them with familiar noise.
Car horns echoed through crowded streets.
Vendors called out from busy markets.
Traffic lights blinked impatiently while people hurried from one place to another.
Everything moved so fast.
Too fast.
Meher rested her forehead against the car window as the city skyline came into view.
Just two days ago, she had fallen asleep listening to the gentle waves of Rainbow Lake.
Now, the sound of engines replaced birdsong.
She smiled to herself.
The mountains already felt like another lifetime.
The following morning, life resumed exactly where it had paused.
Emails filled Ayaan's inbox before breakfast.
Meetings stretched from morning until evening.
His phone never stopped ringing.
Meanwhile, Meher returned to her own routine.
She organized photographs from the trip, watered the plants on her balcony, and placed a smooth stone from Rainbow Lake beside her favorite books.
Whenever she looked at it, she smiled.
Some souvenirs weren't bought in gift shops.
They were quietly picked up along the way.
Their messages became shorter.
Good morning.
Have a productive day.
Did you eat?
Sleep well.
The affection was still there.
But something was missing.
One evening, Meher stared at their conversation.
She typed a long message.
Do you ever miss the mountains the way I do?
She deleted it.
Instead, she wrote:
"Hope your meeting went well."
She pressed send.
Across the city, Ayaan sat alone in his office.
The lights from nearby buildings reflected against the window.
His laptop remained open, but his attention drifted elsewhere.
He opened his phone.
Typed a message.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
Deleted that too.
Finally, he smiled and locked the screen.
Some feelings seemed too large to fit inside a text message.
Days turned into weeks.
One rainy afternoon, Meher opened her journal.
Tucked between its pages was the envelope Ayaan had given her on their last evening at Rainbow Lake.
She had completely forgotten about it.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She carefully unfolded the letter.
Inside, written in neat handwriting, were only a few lines.
Dear Meher,
If you're reading this, it means we've returned to ordinary life.
I hope the city hasn't made you forget how peaceful you looked beside Rainbow Lake.
Whenever life becomes too loud, close your eyes for a moment.
Imagine the sound of the lake.
Imagine the scent of the pine trees.
Imagine the warmth of tea shared without hurry.
And remember this...
Peace isn't something we left behind.
We carried it home.
—Ayaan
By the time she reached the final line, tears had gathered in her eyes.
Not tears of sadness.
Tears of gratitude.
The next morning, instead of sending a text message, Meher walked to a small stationery shop.
She bought cream-colored writing paper, matching envelopes, and a fountain pen.
That evening, she wrote her first letter.
Dear Ayaan,
You were right.
The city is loud.
But every now and then, I catch the scent of rain on the pavement, and for a moment, I remember the mountains.
I still drink my evening tea from the enamel mug we used on our trip.
It reminds me that some of the happiest moments of my life were wonderfully ordinary.
Thank you for teaching me that.
Until our next adventure...
Meher
She folded the letter carefully.
Instead of sending a photograph...
Instead of sending a voice note...
She mailed it.
Three days later, Ayaan found the envelope waiting on his desk.
He smiled before even opening it.
The handwriting was unmistakably hers.
He read every word slowly.
Then he read it again.
Some letters deserved to be savored.
That evening, he placed the letter inside the drawer of his desk.
Not hidden away.
Protected.
Certain words become treasures.
Over the following months, a quiet tradition began.
Every Sunday, they wrote to each other.
Not because they had to.
Because they wanted to.
Sometimes the letters were long.
Sometimes they filled only a single page.
One spoke about watching the first monsoon rain from a café window.
Another described a sunset that reminded them of Rainbow Lake.
One letter contained nothing but a pressed wildflower and the words:
"For the day we return."
The letters became more than conversations.
They became little pieces of each other's lives.
One evening, after finishing another letter, Meher looked out at the city lights.
The mountains were hundreds of miles away.
Yet somehow...
She no longer missed them with the same ache.
Because she had realized something beautiful.
Rainbow Lake had never only been a place.
It had become a way of seeing the world.
Finding peace in ordinary mornings.
Finding beauty in shared cups of tea.
Finding love in handwritten words.
And perhaps...
The strongest relationships were not built during extraordinary adventures.
They were built in ordinary days...
When two people continued choosing each other, again and again.
Far away, on a quiet mountain overlooking Rainbow Lake, colorful ribbons still danced beneath the branches of the Wishing Tree.
Waiting patiently.
As if they already knew...
This story was far from over.
End of Chapter Eight
To be continued...
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