The coffee shop fell silent except for the rain and the faint Tamil rap playing from the speakers—a song about a girl from Madurai and a boy from London.
“But the storylines we crave are still the same,” Anjali said softly, her eyes on the rain. “We just update the setting.”
“No,” Anjali shook her head. “I mean the real storyline. The one we tell ourselves at 2 AM.”
“We never said it,” Anjali whispered. “We have a thousand unsaid things. Like the time he drove two hours to get me mysore pak from that specific shop when I was sick. Or how I re-watched Vinnaithaandi Varuvaayaa with him and we both cried at different parts—he cried for Jessie’s father’s pain, I cried for the phone booth scene. We are the perfect romantic storyline, you see. The childhood friends, the mutual pining, the family pressure.”