The weeks that followed tested their resolve. Arjun left for Chandigarh, and Radha felt his absence like a missing pulse. But true to his word, he called every night, his voice crackling through the line, telling her about the city’s chaos and his tiny rented room. Letters arrived, scrawled with poems and sketches of Hisar’s lake, reminding her of their roots. On weekends, he’d take the early bus back, meeting her under the banyan, where they’d talk until the stars faded

The dusty lanes of Hisar shimmered under the July sun, but a restless breeze hinted at the monsoon’s approach. Radha adjusted her dupatta, her bangles clinking softly as she hurried toward the old banyan tree near the Blue Bird Lake. It was their spot—hers and Arjun’s—where they’d carved their initials into the bark three summers ago, back when love felt like a secret only the stars knew.

Radha, a schoolteacher with eyes that held stories, had grown up in Hisar’s modest neighborhoods. Arjun, a mechanic with calloused hands and a poet’s heart, was her opposite yet her mirror. They’d met at a local fair, where he’d won her a bangle by tossing rings with uncanny precision. “For you,” he’d said, his shy smile making her heart stumble. Since then, they’d woven a quiet love, meeting under the banyan tree to share dreams, laughter, and stolen glances.

Today, though, Radha’s steps faltered. Arjun had been distant lately, his messages sparse. He’d spoken of a job offer in Chandigarh, a chance to escape Hisar’s smallness. “It’s for us,” he’d said, but his eyes hadn’t met hers. Radha feared the city would pull him away, unraveling their fragile thread.

As she reached the tree, she saw him leaning against its trunk, his kurta slightly wrinkled, his gaze fixed on the lake’s rippling surface. The air smelled of earth and impending rain. “You’re late,” he teased, but his voice lacked its usual warmth.

“I had to finish grading papers,” Radha replied, sitting on the stone bench beside him. She smoothed her salwar, avoiding his eyes. “What’s wrong, Arjun? You’re… different.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The job. They want me to start next week. It’s good money, Radha. Enough to build something real.”

Her chest tightened. “And what about us? Will I just wait here, teaching kids while you chase a life I’m not part of?”

Arjun’s jaw clenched. “I’m doing this for us. You think I want to leave? Hisar’s home, but it’s also a cage. I want to give you more than this.” He gestured at the dusty horizon, the lake’s faded beauty.

Radha’s eyes stung. “I don’t need more. I need you. Here. With me.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, watching a pair of mynas flutter across the lake.

Silence hung between them, heavy as the clouds gathering overhead. Then, Arjun reached for her hand, his rough fingers tracing her palm. “Radha, I’m scared too. Scared I’ll fail you if I stay. Scared I’ll lose you if I go.”

She met his gaze, seeing the boy who’d once recited a half-written poem for her, blushing under the banyan’s shade. “Then don’t go,” she whispered. “Or take me with you.”

He shook his head. “Chandigarh’s not ready for us yet. You love teaching here. Your kids need you. I can’t ask you to leave that.”

The first raindrop fell, cool against her cheek. Radha stood, pulling her hand away. “So what? We just end? Like we never mattered?”

Arjun rose too, stepping closer. “We matter. You’re my home, Radha. Always will be.” His voice broke, and before she could reply, the sky opened, rain pouring in sheets. They ran under the banyan’s canopy, breathless and soaked.

Laughing despite herself, Radha pushed wet strands from her face. Arjun’s eyes softened, and he cupped her cheeks, his thumbs brushing raindrops away. “I’m not giving up on us,” he said. “I’ll go, but I’ll come back. Every weekend, every holiday. I’ll write you letters, call you every night. We’ll make it work.”

Radha’s heart wavered. “Promises are easy, Arjun. Keeping them isn’t.”

“Then let me prove it.” He pulled a small silver ring from his pocket, simple but etched with a tiny lotus. “It’s not much, but it’s my promise. I’m yours, Radha. No distance will change that.”

Her breath caught. She let him slip the ring onto her finger, its weight grounding her. “You better keep this promise, Arjun Sharma,” she said, her voice trembling but fierce.

He grinned, pulling her into his arms. The rain drummed around them, but under the banyan, it was just them—two hearts refusing to break. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, soft and sure, tasting of rain and hope.

The weeks that followed tested their resolve. Arjun left for Chandigarh, and Radha felt his absence like a missing pulse. But true to his word, he called every night, his voice crackling through the line, telling her about the city’s chaos and his tiny rented room. Letters arrived, scrawled with poems and sketches of Hisar’s lake, reminding her of their roots. On weekends, he’d take the early bus back, meeting her under the banyan, where they’d talk until the stars faded.

One monsoon evening, a year later, Radha waited by the lake, her ring glinting under the drizzle. Arjun had hinted at a surprise, and her heart raced with possibilities. When he arrived, his eyes sparkled with something new. “I got a transfer,” he said, pulling her close. “A garage in Hisar. I’m coming home.”

Radha’s laugh mingled with the rain. “You kept your promise.”

“Always will,” he murmured, kissing her as the banyan tree stood witness, its roots deep and unyielding, like their love.