Saturday afternoon brought a light breeze and a familiar café patio. Masti arrived five minutes early, fidgeting with her sunglasses, scanning the menu without reading it.

Then came Tara—grinning, arms open, the same way she’d always been.

“Maaaasti!” she sang as she dropped into the chair across from her. “You look good! Less corporate-robot than usual.”

Masti laughed, already relaxing. “I wore jeans for you. You’re welcome.”

They ordered—Tara, a chickpea salad; Masti, her usual spicy paneer wrap—and slipped into their usual banter: neighborhood gossip, old crushes, the weird smell in Tara’s apartment plumbing.

Then, as the food arrived, Tara leaned in, eyes warm.

“So… what’s this maybe something new?”

Masti hesitated, the words caught in her throat.

But Tara just waited, like she always had.

“I’ve been thinking about writing,” Masti said slowly. “Again. Seriously this time. Like… not just fanfics or journal entries, but creating a blog. Sharing stories. Maybe building toward something more.”

Tara’s eyes widened. “Masti. That’s AMAZING.”

“I don’t know where it’s going,” she added quickly. “I mean, I still need my job, obviously. But I’ve been watching videos on YouTube—about character arcs, plot structure, screenwriting… it lights me up in a way work hasn’t in years.”

“Good,” Tara said, smiling. “It’s about damn time you lit up again.”

Masti blinked, surprised by the tears stinging her eyes.

“I just… I always thought writing was a hobby. A thing I do after the serious stuff. But maybe… it’s the serious thing. The thing I actually care about.”

Tara reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“So make it real. Start the blog. Put your stories out there. You’re not quitting your job today. You’re just beginning something.”

Masti nodded, heart thudding in her chest—not from fear, but energy. Pure energy.

“I already have a name in mind,” she said, grinning. “Something cheesy like… ‘Letters in the Moonlight.’ Inspired by that drama I binged last week.”

Tara snorted. “Perfect. It’s dramatic. It’s romantic. It’s so you.”

They spent the rest of the meal sketching out a simple plan—topics she could start with, a weekly post goal, a “no pressure” writing routine. Tara promised to be her first subscriber, her hype squad, her editor if needed.

As they hugged goodbye, Masti felt lighter. Clearer.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t running away from her life.
She was walking toward something.