Nothing New, Just February

The snow along the lake had crusted, thin and brittle. Aarav stepped carefully, observing how muted silver light brushed the surface. The water moved quietly at the centre, edges turning pale and fragile, reminding him of mirrors left hanging in empty houses—still reflecting, but only silence.

He hadn’t meant to walk this far. The path curved along the lake as he remembered, past the wooden sign, up the rise. He walked without purpose, only the cold air and quiet urging him forward.

Near the footbridge, someone shifted. Holding a camera, facing the water. A bright scarf—patterned orange—fluttered slightly, setting her apart from the lake’s muted shades.

Meera.

She stood motionless, camera steady despite a twisted strap. Her hair stirred faintly, and she squinted as if confirming something already known.

He paused—not quite surprised, just a subtle catch in his breath.

She turned.

“Aarav?”

Her voice held the same familiar texture.

“Meera.” He spoke her name as if it had never left him, known like a street from their childhood.

She stepped forward briefly, then hesitated, remembering something mid-step.

—

She tilted her head. “Still underdressing for the weather?”

He shrugged. “Still chasing early light?”

“Here for another conference? Economics in the snow? Still carrying the same responsibilities?”

“Something like that.”

She shifted slightly, pushing back hair that needed no adjustment. Silence settled easily between them.

“I didn’t think you travelled this season anymore,” she said.

“I usually don’t.”

“Yet here you are.”

He glanced towards the lake, where a boy threw twigs onto the ice, watching them vanish.

“And you?” he asked. “Still seeking the light?”

“Professionally.”

“Otherwise?”

“Sometimes.”

He almost mentioned how long it had been since he’d seen photos she took only for herself. But the moment didn’t ask for more.

Their silence felt easy, familiar, shaped from years of habit.

She adjusted the strap again, reflexively. The lens hood had fogged, and she quickly cleared it with her scarf.

“I’m usually here in February,” she said softly. “For the clarity. It’s harsh but honest. Nothing fake.”

He nodded gently. “Right.”

She hesitated, not fully meeting his eyes. “Still in Delhi?”

“Yes.”

It was enough.

—

They stood quietly, watching a crow hop along the lake’s icy rim, wing lowered awkwardly, unused to the cold.

“Well,” she said finally, “the light’s turning harsh.”

“You dislike strong contrasts?”

“I always have.”

She adjusted her strap again, then gave up. The breeze shifted slightly, changing something subtle, perhaps her expression.

“Your conference starts tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

She turned partly, paused, and glanced toward his boots, then the lake, then beyond.

“I’m usually around,” she said simply.

She walked off along the path. Aarav watched the empty space left behind.

* * *

The ice was thicker on the lake this time, confident in the cold. Aarav couldn’t recall deciding to walk here again, but his boots sounded familiar on the path, and the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke.

The café wasn’t busy—it never was.

Inside, Aarav shrugged off his coat, snow melting quickly from his shoulders. He shook it near the door, glancing subtly around.

She was already there, near the window, a cup warming her hands, saffron scarf draped casually over her chair. She glanced once toward the door before looking out, then back to her reflection — like someone not sure whether they were early or just hoping.

He approached after a brief hesitation.

“You’re early,” she said, not turning.

“So are you.”

“That’s not how this is supposed to go.” She smiled — not teasing, but not serious either. “You used to say early arrivals meant you were losing your edge.”

She smiled privately, reaching for a spoon she didn’t use.

“Did you doubt I’d come?” he asked, sitting carefully.

“I didn’t want to be the only one who remembered.” Her voice was soft, but not uncertain.

“You always remembered anniversaries.”

“Only the important ones.”

The snow thickened, pressing gently against the windowsill. Neither spoke immediately, the air between them patient, suspended.

“Still staying at the guesthouse?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You could choose someplace warmer.”

“I like the view.”

“The lectures?”

“The lake.”

Her eyes found his for a moment, registering something unsaid.

—

They walked the lake’s curve without hurry. Snow had softened, their footprints deeper now. Meera held the camera case loosely, familiar and effortless.

She stopped abruptly, turning the display toward him. “Yesterday.”

A tree bent sharply over the ice, its stark branches appearing older than he’d noticed.

“You always find better angles,” he said.

“I wait longer.”

“True.”

“It resembles that spot behind your old house,” he said without thinking.

She didn’t respond, just tucked hair behind her ear—a gesture he remembered from their university days.

They walked in quiet. Snow absorbed their steps, creating the silence of something large, listening.

“You still teach?” she asked.

“When they let me. More pressure now—research, conferences, endless panels.”

“You always said that.”

They rounded past the footbridge, café receding behind.

“My sister’s having a baby,” he offered suddenly.

“Really?”

“End of March.”

“You’ll be a serious uncle.”

“I was a serious brother.”

She smiled fondly, as though holding an image from the past.

Their hands nearly touched—unplanned, unnoticed almost—but neither adjusted their pace.

“It’s warmer this year,” she remarked.

“It is.”

They paused at a clearing, lake widening ahead. Her camera rested beneath her coat, guarded from the cold. Clouds dimmed the daylight slowly.

“I almost didn’t come this year,” she confessed quietly.

He watched a crow, maybe the same as before, cross the frozen lake awkwardly.

“But you did.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I.”

She nodded gently, accepting the honesty.

Wind gusted abruptly, lifting her scarf; he reached instinctively, then stopped short.

“I should go,” she said softly.

“Tomorrow?”

She regarded him briefly, her smile ambiguous.

“Maybe.”

—

Returning slowly, snow powdered their coats, almost invisibly. Café windows had already fogged with warmth.

She hesitated near the entrance, turning slightly.

“You’ve got evening sessions?”

“Panels repeating published words.”

She smiled faintly. “That too, I’ve heard you say.”

“Still true.”

Neither moved—calm, unhurried. Behind her, the path curved away; behind him, the hill rose toward the guesthouse.

“Thanks for the walk,” she finally said.

“Thanks for the photo.”

“That wasn’t the best one.”

“No?”

She paused. “You’ll have to come back.”

Silence settled gently, shaped by something familiar yet cautious.

“We don’t have to wait until February, you know,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

She didn’t push further, just left the suggestion between them.

“Goodnight, Aarav.”

“Goodnight, Meera.”

She stepped inside, disappearing behind the blurred warmth of the café window.

* * *

Snow was late that year, dusting lightly on bare branches. The café windows were still fogged, the bench near the footbridge still caught the morning sun. Aarav hesitated less this time, but still paused briefly outside, uncertain.

The wind felt sharper, cutting precise lines across the lake. Aarav stood by the café entrance, one glove off, checking his phone. Afternoon light had begun fading early, casting everything in distant shades of winter blue.

She hadn’t come—or perhaps she’d already left. He couldn’t be sure.

He nearly turned away, but instead entered, spotting her immediately by the window. Her camera case rested neatly beside her, tea half-finished, gaze lifted as the bell chimed softly.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Panel trouble?”

“My brother called. He rarely does.”

“Everything alright?”

“As alright as things get these days.”

She didn’t press, fingers tapping lightly against her mug, patient but restless. Aarav removed his coat, joining her quietly. Her cup had gone cold. She didn’t sip it. Just held it, as if the warmth might return if she waited long enough.

“You’ve walked already?” he asked.

“This morning. I thought…” She hesitated, lifting her cup. “Maybe you wouldn’t come.”

His eyes drifted outside, lake empty, no birds in sight.

“I always come,” he said softly.

“So far.”

Her faint smile lacked its usual certainty. Silence lingered between them, deeper now.

“Want to walk?” he asked.

“Now?”

“Or later.”

She nodded cautiously. “We’ll see.”

—

They went eventually, despite the deepening cold pressing into their bones. Side by side, they moved slowly, familiar with each other’s pace.

Meera paused briefly, camera emerging quickly from beneath her coat, shielding it instinctively with her vivid teal scarf.

“There’s a line in the lake today,” she said, focusing carefully. “The wind split it.”

He looked but saw nothing—at least not as she did, through glass, colour, habit.

“You see things before they exist,” he murmured.

She didn’t reply, walking quietly for a moment.

“I almost skipped coming this year,” she finally said, looking ahead. “It’s been hard. Lebanon, then Moldova. Good work, but exhausting.” She paused. “I think I keep returning here to remember something simpler.”

He hesitated, unsure what to ask. Instead, he said softly, “You carry it well.”

“Not all of it.” She turned slowly, eyes clear and steady. “Do you ever think—” she began, then stopped. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They reached the familiar bend where the lake widened. Facing the water, she spoke quietly again.

“We were almost something once. Sometimes I wonder if this ritual is all we have left. If we’re here because it never finished properly.”

He took a moment, wind scattering ice dust between them.

“I think of many things,” he finally said. “But I’m not sure I’d be good at them. Not the way I needed to be good as a son. Or a brother.”

—

They walked back silently—not the comfortable quiet of past years, but one filled with what remained unsaid. Her hands stayed in her pockets, camera forgotten behind her. Aarav matched her pace, though unsure if it helped anything.

At the café, she stopped.

“You should get inside. It’s colder than you think.”

“I’ll stay out a bit longer.”

She looked at him carefully. He wasn’t sure what she found.

“I didn’t mean to ask,” she said gently.

“You didn’t really ask.”

“Still.”

He offered a faint, careful smile, the kind that held back uncertainty.

“You’ve always been careful,” she murmured, “even when you didn’t want to be.”

She didn’t say goodbye. Just nodded quietly and turned, the café door catching softly behind her.

Aarav faced the lake, watching darkness fall slowly, piece by piece.

* * *

This February began quietly—no birds, no skaters. Aarav stood on the rise above the path, watching the spot where Meera had first turned toward him, just in case.

The wind felt sharper now.

Even the café, always postcard-perfect, seemed smaller, dimmer. Aarav arrived early, uncertain if it mattered. He ordered tea, sitting by the window, watching the stillness outside.

She came minutes later, coat dusted lightly with snow, unhurried.

“You beat me here,” she said, unwinding her scarf slowly.

“Barely.”

She removed her gloves deliberately, brushing snow from her sleeves. He gestured to the tea.

“Still warm.”

“Thanks.”

She sat differently now—not settling comfortably, just accepting the seat. Outside, a solitary skater traced impossible loops on the distant ice.

“You’ve been busy?” she asked.

“Yes. Deadlines, papers endlessly returned for revisions.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is.”

Silence drifted briefly between them.

“Your sister’s baby?” she finally asked.

“Healthy, loud. Nina.”

“A good name.”

She smiled faintly, politely distant.

—

They left the café quietly, walking the familiar path in deeper snow, footsteps softening as they passed.

Meera spoke first, voice careful.

“It’s strange how long we pretend something’s fine just because it’s familiar.”

Aarav remained silent.

“I thought this would always be enough. Maybe for a while it was.”

“And now?”

“Now I wonder if I’m just repeating it because it once made me feel less alone.”

Ice crackled beneath their boots as they walked, slower now.

“Meera—”

“No,” she said gently. “I’m not asking.”

“You could.”

“That’s not it.” She faced the lake, voice steady. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

“We care about each other.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s all I know to say without hurting something.”

She nodded, acknowledging rather than agreeing.

“I wondered if you’d ever say it,” she said quietly.

—

They stood facing the lake, neither moving. Her camera hung unused at her side, snow collecting lightly on the strap.

“Maybe five winters is all we get,” she murmured, not looking at him.

“This is the fourth.”

“I know.”

He kept his hands still, unsure where they belonged.

She reached into her pocket, holding out a small envelope.

“Just prints,” she said softly. “From the first year, last year, a few in between.”

He took it gently, corners worn soft from handling.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep them.”

“I will.”

The fading sun touched the treetops briefly before clouds reclaimed the sky.

“You’ll still come next year?” he asked, voice cautious.

She offered a small, unreadable smile.

“Who knows.”

Then she turned away—not hurt, simply accepting—and walked back toward the café, not looking back.

* * *

By the fifth year, Aarav no longer felt surprised by the cold. He packed the same coat, booked the same guesthouse. The lake’s silence seemed different now—not heavier, just older. It didn’t wait for him, nor did he expect it to. Still, he walked.

He didn’t expect her.

No café visit this time. No envelope in his pocket, no glances at the door. He walked the lake path alone, hands deep in his pockets, the wind pulling gently, urging him back.

The lake was quieter—frozen further inward. No children at its edges, no lone skater carving circles at its centre.

Still, he walked.

Snow yielded softly underfoot as he paused near the familiar bend where they’d always stopped. There was no reason to pause.

Yet he did.

The trees stood as they always had—older perhaps, or less certain. He passed the spot where she’d photographed the bent tree. The snow lay deeper now, unmarked. No flash of colour, no scarf lifted by the breeze. Aarav gazed across the lake, watching fine snow blow off the surface in pale, drifting swirls.

He stayed until daylight slipped away.

Then he turned back toward the café, footsteps muffled, the path familiar yet strangely altered without her presence. The dim windows blurred gently in the fading light, warmth glowing faintly inside.

He paused once more outside, breath clouding the air. There was no expectation now—just habit, an echo of past winters.

Then, quietly, he moved onward, climbing the hill toward the guesthouse, snow lightly dusting his shoulders.

He wasn’t sure what had changed, only that something in him had gone quiet too.

He paused once at the top, turning toward the lake. Nothing moved.

Then he went inside, not lonely, not quite.