Chai & Matcha Diaries

“If you ever get a good deal, don’t lose it just because of your old habits. Make space for it.”
 That’s what my father told me when I couldn’t decide between basketball and physics.
  I was stuck.
  I liked both—loved both, even.
Physics made me curious. I’d spend hours experimenting—projectile motion, building tiny X-ray machines, rewiring old fans. But I liked basketball too.
  Not because I dreamed of going pro.
  I just… wanted to grow taller.
  Yeah, I wasn’t always this six feet tall.
  Basketball felt like a solution more than a passion, something that would give me what I was looking for.

And that’s when my father said it.
  If it’s a good deal, don’t let it go because of your habits. Make space for it.

I’m thinking of that now, as I sank into the bean bag in my cabin—the one no one touches.
  Not because I ever said it aloud, but because people just… know. Or maybe I’ve just stared them down too hard.

This bean bag faces my desk, the shelf with my trophies, the shelves lined with books that rewired my brain, the vision board pinned just behind the monitor. It’s my reset corner.

My third-person view of my life. 

But Reva?
  She sits here without asking. She never even noticed it was off-limits.

And I never stopped her.
  Not even with that stare.

Would she think I’m weird if I did?
  Maybe.
  But the truth is—I like her too much to care.

I don’t think she realizes how much I liked sharing that space with her.
  And I don’t think she realizes how little I share anything at all.

I leaned back in the bean bag, letting my head rest against the cushion, eyes tracing the outlines of the ceiling tiles.
  The office was silent. Everyone had left. The hum of the server cabinet outside was the only sound left in the space.
It was the kind of quiet that made you hear your own breathing. The kind where thoughts get louder—too loud.

My gaze dropped to my desk.

A single sticky note still clung to the corner. “Don’t forget lunch, boss!”

Just a scribbled reminder in her handwriting. I know she was really concerned about me. Even when I drowned in deadlines and forgot to reply, she remembered to care.

And now?

 We’d grown distant. Like the wind that once kissed the river—stirring its surface into chaos—only to drift away, each pulled in a different direction.

I reached for my phone—not even sure why. Habit, maybe.
  No unread messages. No missed calls.

Just the weight of everything unsaid between us.

I unlocked it anyway.

Instagram.
 A lazy scroll. Reels. Memes.
  And then—
  There she was.

Posted a story at 10:54 PM.
  At some party. Wearing that dress she once said made her feel too dressed up.
  She looked gorgeous.

But that wasn’t what struck me.
  It was the hour. 10:54 PM.

It was late. Too late.
  And she hadn’t messaged me.

No message from her.

No “I’m heading out,”

No “reaching home late,”

No “text me if you’re awake.”

And suddenly, the silence wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was loud.

Where is she staying?
  Back home drunk? At a colleague’s place? In a cab alone at midnight?

I don’t know how girls handle drama with a guy—but safety always comes first.
  Even if she’s mad at me.
  Even if I’m mad at her.

I ran a hand over my face and I tried to reason with myself.

 Maybe I’m overthinking.

Maybe I’ve made her feel like she can’t reach out.

Or maybe she just doesn’t need me.

But I needed to know. Not to control her—just to know she’s safe.

That she knows I’d show up if she asked.

I tapped her name. Pressed Call.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Voicemail.

No answer.

I sat there for a moment, phone still in my hand.
  Then typed:

“Hi.”

Simple. Neutral.
  Just a way to say I see you. I’m here.

No reply.

Time passed like slow-moving syrup. I glanced at the clock.
  11:26 PM.
 Still nothing.
I came back home, and sleep felt impossible. My body ached from exhaustion but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. Restlessness gnawed at me, not because I was tired, but because I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t reach her.

Just tell me where you are. That’s all.

But then again, she wasn’t a stranger to late-night parties before she met me, so why this sudden suffocation? Why this worry tearing through my chest.

My thoughts looped in that damn cycle until I dozed off.

2:08 a.m.

Eyes snapped open. Like I never even slept. My hand reached for the phone even before my brain could catch up.

 Still no reply.

The message sat there, read already.
  Still active 30 minutes ago.

Is she safe? Just say that much.

I scrolled through her tagged stories. Laughing with friends, drinks in hand. She looked fine. Happy, even. Still, not a single word to me. Not even a “Hey.”

Whatever. I fell asleep again. And when I woke that morning, finally—a text

“You called?”

Simple. Clean. Cold.

What do I even say now? That I saw your story and it messed me up?  If I told her it was because of her story, I’d sound obsessive. I typed, just wanted to check on you, then deleted it.

“Yeah, called by mistake.”
  …what the hell am I doing? Am I really that afraid to just say I care?

I stared at the blinking cursor.

Then erased it all.

So I sent just one word: “Yeah.”

She read it.

And I watched three dots blink for a moment—like she was typing.

Then nothing.

She stopped. Didn’t send.

I waited—minutes, hours. Silence. I sat at my desk, tried to drink my coffee. Bitter as hell. But I needed it.

My office was buzzing. People walking past my glass wall. Projects on screens. Conversations humming. Everyone looked… present. Alive… and me? Just staring at a phone like a fool.

Reva, how can you not see what this silence is doing to me?

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.

No. This isn’t how I operate. This isn’t me. I fix things. I face things.

So I typed: “I want to meet you.” No build-up. I hadn’t texted her since she walked out of my office that day. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t. But I needed to explain. She wouldn’t understand my silence, wouldn’t understand the deadlines, the pressure, the chaos in my head—but she had to know this: I’m not letting her go.

One damn Insta story of her and I’m spinning like this. If someone—has that much power to shake me like this… it means it’s real.

And I’ve never run from anything real in my life.

The day dragged. Meetings, pitches, people talking. I nodded when I had to. Spoke when expected. But my mind? It was still hovering somewhere around her last read message.

Even while eating dinner—cutlery clinking against my untouched plate—my phone buzzed.

Her.

“What happened?”

Finally. I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath all day.

I wrote: “What happened to you, texting at this hour?”

She replied: “Thought you’d be busy during the day.”

Exactly. Wasn’t that what I’d been screaming inside my head for weeks? Wanting her to understand that I was drowning in work, not disinterest?

so why did her message sting?

“I just want to talk, Reva. Please.” I couldn’t lie.

“Okay” she replied. One word. That was all.

But I felt it. That little opening. That little shift.

Maybe I had been too harsh. Maybe I pushed her away. Maybe I wasn’t wrong, but I had to show I cared.

So that night, I started small.

“Good night.”

And the next morning, I sent “Morning, Reva ☕” — with a pic of my coffee, pitch black like my mood without her.

Every day, I’d send something.

A sticky note of hers stuck on my desk: Take lunch today, boss. I’d send a snap of that with a checkmark.

She’d reply sometimes. A laugh. A thumbs-up. An emoji. Not much, but something. Warmth returned in tiny degrees.

But we could not meet soon as I flew to Dubai. It was everything—lavish and breathtaking—but even the skyline reminded me of her. She would have loved this view from the top floor.

And before flying back, I finally asked again: “Can we meet?”
 She said yes.

I kept picturing her. So I shopped for her.

I picked a pair of drop earrings—elegant, understated, with a hidden sparkle of real diamond. She wouldn’t take it if she knew.

So I won’t tell her. But I could already see them on her. Radiant.

–

The Day I Landed Back in India

 I landed in Delhi past dusk. The sky was a warm smoggy grey, and the air held that heavy stillness before a storm—or maybe it was just my chest.

“Texted home I’ll be late,” I said as I stepped out of the airport. The 6-hour drive to my hometown could wait.

I was going to see Reva first.

I brought her flowers. Every chocolate she once said she loved. A silly bag filled with things I knew she’d smile at. A heart a little too hopeful.

Texted her: “I’ve landed.”

She replied five minutes later:
  “Sorry, running a little late.”

Okay, I told myself. Meetings. Traffic. She’ll be here.
 But twenty-five minutes passed. Still no sign of her.

I stared at the arrivals screen just to keep my eyes somewhere.
  “All okay? I’m at the airport lounge.” I texted.

“Got caught in a client call. So sorry. Will take more time.”

I stared at her text.
So… she wasn’t coming now?

And… why tell me after I checked in again?

 The irritation crept in like a tide I didn’t want but couldn’t stop.

I stood and walked out. Sat down at a quiet restaurant in Aerocity. Watched the seconds tick by on my watch like they were daring me to lose patience.

Forty-five minutes since landing.
  An hour since I first texted her.
  And still waiting.

My phone buzzed. A team member:
  “Client’s pushing for a response. Can you join?”

I clenched my jaw. Typed back:
  “Handle it for now. loop in Hari. Brief me later.”

God. I didn’t want to be on a call when she arrived. She’d get upset. I tried to plan around her. I always planned around her.

Another text from me to my teammate:
  “You really should’ve rescheduled when I told you.”

I wasn’t angry at work though.

I was angry at her absence.

1.5 hours.

Finally, I dialed. She picked up.

“I’m really sorry, Jace. I’m five minutes away.”

Her voice was rushed. Breathless. Like she knew she was wrong. But even then… I was boiling. I’d waited too long, and the moment I was looking forward to? Gone.

“Okay,” I managed, though my throat felt tight.

Five minutes turned into twenty.

And then she walked in.

Reva.

Too late for me to pretend it didn’t hurt.

She smiled. Guilt in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Jace. I just couldn’t leave the meeting mid-way—”

“You could’ve scheduled better,” I snapped. Quiet. Bitter. Just enough to crack her smile.

“I’m sorry!?” she blinked.

“You knew I was coming. And still—”

“The meeting was planned for 30 minutes! It got stretched. What could I do?”

She was explaining. But I was done listening.

“I had calls too. I cancelled them all because I wanted to sit with you. To talk.”

“Well then talk! I’m here now!”

“You ruined it.” I whispered and turned away.

She picked up her phone and started scrolling.

The rage simmered. “Seriously? You don’t have anything to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”  Flat.

I exploded.

“This matters, Reva. I don’t have time—I came here only to meet you.”
  My voice had risen. Heads turned. I lowered it but the sharpness stayed.

“ I waited two hours to watch you scroll your phone?”

“Well then go,” she snapped. “Go if your time is so damn important.”

I leaned forward, gritting my teeth. “Do you have any idea the meetings I cancelled to be here?”

She stared. Not even a blink.

I stood, shaking, picked up the bouquet and the bag, and pushed them across the table.

“This. This is what I brought all the way from Dubai. For you.” I was fuming but i controlled.

“You really don’t understand how important is my time-”

“No,” she cut me off, voice tight. “And maybe I don’t need to.”

She stood too.

Took the bag. And without a word, tossed them right back at me.

The bouquet hit my chest. The bag slid off the table and fell with a thud.

I blinked. Stunned.

“If your time is important, then so is mine! I had urgent calls too, things you expect me to understand. Why can’t you give me that same respect?”

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again. If your time is so valuable, keep it. I never asked for it.”

And with that, she turned. Walked out.
  The door closed behind her with a sharp click.

The silence that followed was deafening. I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

All I saw was the bouquet, now wilted on the table.
  The earrings glinting slightly from the opened gift bag.
  And every single thing I wanted to say, now stuck inside my throat.