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**Don’t Say Goodnight Yet**
The first thing Tara told him was a lie.
**Tara27:** I’m only here because I can’t sleep.
On her laptop, the chat window on [StrangersOnline.com](
) waited.Then his reply appeared.
**Aarav29:** Same. Definitely not because I made dinner for two out of habit.
Tara stopped eating noodles from the saucepan.
**Tara27:** What happened to the other person?
**Aarav29:** She kept the good plates. I kept the habit.
Despite herself, Tara smiled.
**Tara27:** I’m eating directly from a saucepan.
**Aarav29:** Finally. A woman with better financial planning than me.
Outside her apartment, rain tapped the windows. Inside, for the first time in weeks, the silence felt comfortable.
They talked until three.
He owned a small bookshop in Dehradun. She worked as a freelance reporter. He loved terrible detective novels; she guessed the murderer by chapter four and read the ending anyway.
Before they disconnected, he asked a question.
**Aarav29:** Same time tomorrow?
She hesitated.
**Tara27:** You ask every stranger that?
**Aarav29:** Only the ones with their own cookware.
—
By the third night, she knew he hummed when he was nervous.
By the second week, he knew she went quiet when something mattered.
They exchanged numbers.
Their first phone call lasted eleven minutes. Their second lasted until his alarm rang.
Sometimes he called while closing the bookshop. She could hear him turning the key, testing the door twice, then walking home.
Sometimes she called while working, and they stayed on the line without speaking.
One night, he asked why she always waited for him to say goodnight.
“My father used to end every call with ‘I’ll call you back,’” she said. “After he died, I kept finding myself waiting.”
Aarav was quiet.
“You don’t have to say something profound,” she added.
“Good. I own a bookshop. People expect far too much.”
She laughed softly.
After that, however late it got, he always said goodnight.
Six weeks after meeting on StrangersOnline.com, they arranged their first date.
Saturday. Eight o’clock. The café opposite his shop.
**Tara27:** What if there’s no chemistry?
**Aarav29:** We’ll blame the lighting.
**Tara27:** What if I’m disappointing in person?
**Aarav29:** Tara. I’ve heard you argue with a pressure cooker. My eyes are open.
She bought a blue dress.
He booked a table, cancelled it because it was beside the washroom, and booked another.
—
At 7:42 on Saturday evening, Aarav was behind the bookshop counter, attempting to fold the sleeves of his shirt evenly.
His phone rang.
“Before you say anything,” he answered, “I’ve already decided you’re allowed to be taller than—”
“Aarav.”
He stopped.
Tara was breathing hard.
“Are you still at the shop?”
“Yes.”
“Can you open the door?”
Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw her.
Blue dress. Wet hair. One hand pressed against her mouth.
He reached the door before she knocked.
She stepped inside, and he turned the lock.
For a moment, neither spoke.
He had imagined this meeting often enough to know precisely how different it was supposed to feel.
There was blood on her lower lip.
“Who hurt you?”
“The men outside.”
Across the road, a grey car stopped with its lights on.
—
Tara had spent three months investigating a factory fire that killed six workers.
That afternoon, a former accountant had offered her records suggesting the emergency exits had been deliberately kept locked. They had met in a busy restaurant, but someone had followed her when she left.
“They tried to take my bag,” she said. “I got away at the crossing.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes. They have my location. I told them I was coming here.”
Aarav pulled out his phone anyway and called to give the shop’s address.
Two men stepped from the car.
“Have you still got the records?” he asked quietly.
“My editor has copies.”
“Good.”
“You should let me out the back. I shouldn’t have brought this here.”
He looked at her trembling hands.
“You came somewhere you knew someone.”
The first knock struck the glass.
Tara flinched.
“Stay away from the front,” Aarav said.
A man stood beneath the narrow awning.
“We just need to speak to the woman.”
Aarav kept the phone against his ear.
“The police are coming.”
The man looked at the phone.
Then he stepped away from the door.
For one foolish second, Aarav thought that had worked.
The next blow came from a metal tool.
Glass splintered across the display of new releases.
—
Aarav caught Tara’s hand.
“This way.”
They ran between the shelves as another blow shook the front door.
Beyond the stockroom was a back exit into a shared courtyard. Across it, a small cinema was showing its late film.
Aarav unlocked the door.
“There’ll be staff inside the cinema,” he whispered.
Behind them, the shop’s front glass gave way.
They crossed the courtyard in the rain.
Tara reached the cinema’s rear entrance and pulled.
Locked.
Aarav hammered on it.
“Hello! Open up!”
Footsteps sounded in the stockroom.
Tara pressed the doorbell beside the frame. Once. Twice. Then held it down.
“Come on,” she whispered.
A light appeared behind the little wired-glass window.
At the same moment, one of the men emerged from the bookshop.
“There you are.”
He moved towards them.
Aarav stepped in front of Tara.
The cinema door opened a few inches.
“What’s all this—”
“Call the police,” Tara said. “Please. He’s following us.”
The attendant looked past her.
The man lunged before the door could open further.
He caught Aarav’s sleeve and pulled him backwards. Aarav slipped on the wet concrete, striking his shoulder against the wall.
Tara grabbed his other arm.
The seam of his shirt tore.
“Inside!” the attendant shouted.
Together, they dragged Aarav through the doorway.
The attendant slammed it shut and dropped the bolt.
A fist struck the other side.
Then another.
Tara stood braced against the wall, still holding a fistful of Aarav’s shirt.
He was staring at her.
“What?” she breathed.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
His voice shook.
“You’re taller than I expected.”
She made a small, broken sound that was almost a laugh.
From somewhere beyond the courtyard came a siren.
—
The next hour arrived in fragments.
Questions. Wet footprints. An officer taking photographs of Tara’s injured lip.
One man had been caught beside the car. Officers were searching for the other.
Tara’s editor arrived and wrapped her in a coat. Aarav’s neighbour came to help secure the broken shopfront.
While a paramedic examined his shoulder, Tara sat beside him.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, looking at his knuckles.
“So are you.”
“I’m sorry about your shop.”
He glanced through the broken window. Rain had reached the books nearest the entrance.
For a while, he said nothing.
Then he looked back at her.
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
She nodded, grateful that he hadn’t pretended it didn’t matter.
“I had a whole speech ready,” she admitted.
“For tonight?”
“Something charming. Effortless.”
“What was it?”
“Hello.”
“Ambitious.”
Her eyes filled before she could stop them.
Aarav moved his uninjured hand across the narrow space between their chairs, leaving it palm-up.
She took it.
—
They had their first date nine days later.
Same café. Same table.
Tara wore the blue dress again. Aarav wore a shirt with both sleeves intact.
For the first few minutes, they were painfully awkward.
Without danger or a screen between them, there was nowhere to hide.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I spent six weeks imagining what you looked like when you smiled.”
“And?”
“You do this thing first.”
“What thing?”
She pointed at the corner of his mouth.
“That.”
He immediately did it again.
“Oh,” she said softly.
The coffee went cold.
They talked about ordinary things: his landlord, her deadlines, whether pineapple belonged on pizza. When a plate broke behind the counter, Tara startled, and Aarav waited until she was ready to continue.
Later, outside, she caught his sleeve.
He looked down at her hand.
“You’ve developed an expensive habit.”
“This shirt’s safe.”
“Good.”
She stepped closer.
“Can I kiss you?”
He forgot whatever clever answer he might once have prepared.
“Yes.”
Her fingers rested lightly against his jaw. He bent towards her, and their first kiss was gentle enough that she smiled halfway through it.
When they drew apart, he was smiling too.
“Worth coming online for?” he asked.
She pretended to consider.
“The conversation was decent.”
“Decent?”
“The man’s growing on me.”
At her cab, he held the door while she climbed inside.
“Text me when you get home?”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Tara.”
She reached for his hand before he could close the door.
“Wait.”
He leaned closer.
She kissed him once more.
“All right,” she whispered. “Now you can say it.”
