Chapter 25 – The First Real Fight
They say the first fight always hurts the most.
Not because of what's said, but because it proves something painful—
Even love can bruise.
—
It started with something small.
A missed call.
A text left on read.
A plan forgotten.
Mehar had waited outside the library steps for over 40 minutes, clutching her sketchbook, her eyes constantly scanning the entrance.
Aarav was supposed to walk her to the exhibition hall—her first mini-art showcase.
He had promised.
But when he finally showed up, his hair messy from running, shirt wrinkled from napping in the common room, all he said was—
"Damn, Mehar. I totally forgot. Sorry. Can we just grab a coffee instead?"
Her smile cracked.
—
"You forgot," she repeated, her voice low.
Aarav blinked. "Yeah. I just—today's been chaotic and I—"
"You promised."
"I know, I'm sorry—"
"No, you don't know." Her voice shook now. "You forgot something that mattered to me. And instead of showing up late with flowers or even a decent excuse, you came like it was nothing."
Aarav frowned. "It was a mistake. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"But you did."
The silence between them stretched.
—
"I'm allowed to mess up once in a while, Mehar," he said, a little sharper this time. "It's not like I'm perfect."
"I never asked for perfect," she said, holding back tears. "I just needed you to show up."
—
They walked away from each other that day.
No slammed doors.
No screaming.
Just a space—sudden, cold, unfamiliar.
—
For the next two days, they didn't speak.
No good morning texts.
No late-night voice notes.
Just empty notifications and questions that hurt to type.
Mehar scribbled angrily in her journal.
Aarav paced his room, staring at her contact.
And both of them waited for the other to blink first.
—
It was Tara who knocked sense into Mehar.
"You're angry, sure," she said. "But are you going to lose something beautiful over one bad moment?"
Mehar stayed quiet.
Tara added softly, "He hurt you. But hasn't he also loved you more than anyone else ever has?"
That night, Mehar finally texted.
Mehar: Still mad. Still hurt. But still yours.
Aarav replied within seconds.
Aarav: I'll spend the rest of forever making sure I never forget again.
—
The next day, he waited at her hostel gate.
Holding a sketchbook.
Inside it, he had drawn the library steps.
And two stick figures—one waiting, one running late.
Below it, he wrote:
"I forgot the moment. But I'll never forget the look on your face."
Mehar laughed, even as tears fell.
Forgiveness wasn't about pretending it didn't happen.
It was about healing together.
—
Because love doesn't mean never fighting.
It means fighting and still choosing each other.
Again. And again.
—