The Bench Beneath the Banyan Tree

It was always the same bench. Old, chipped, and tucked beneath a banyan tree at the edge of the city park. The paint had long faded, the metal legs rusted from countless monsoons, and yet — to Meera, it was the most beautiful place in the world.

That’s where she met Aarav, five years ago.

She had been sketching, earbuds in, the city alive around her. He’d been late — as usual — balancing a coffee in each hand, a crooked smile on his face. “Sorry, artist ma’am,” he’d said, laughing as he nearly tripped over a root. “The café line was longer than my life decisions.”

She’d rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but her lips had already curved into a smile. That’s how it began.

Every Sunday, the same bench. Sometimes they talked for hours, sometimes they just sat in silence. Aarav would read aloud from the books he loved — dramatic, poetic lines that he overperformed — and Meera would sketch him when he wasn’t looking.

There were days when the sky was blue and full of sunlight, and others when they shared an umbrella that was too small, their laughter lost in the sound of the rain.

They were never officially anything. No labels, no promises — just two souls who understood each other’s quiet.

Then one day, everything changed.

Aarav got a job offer — one of those “too good to refuse” ones — in another country. He told her gently, almost apologetically. “It’s only for a year,” he said. “Maybe two.”

Meera smiled, but her pencil snapped in her hand.

They met on their last Sunday together. The park was empty except for them. She brought her sketchbook; he brought coffee. Neither said much. The silence was heavy, but not cold — the kind of silence that holds everything words can’t.

Finally, he asked, “Will you wait for me?”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I’ll wait for the right moment,” she said. “And if it’s you, it’ll find me.”

He smiled — that same crooked smile — and pressed a folded paper into her palm. “Then this is for when you miss me,” he said, and walked away before she could open it.

She didn’t unfold it that day. Not that week. Not even that year.

Time did what it always does — it moved. Aarav’s messages grew shorter, the calls fewer. Eventually, they stopped. Meera told herself he was just busy, then maybe he’d moved on, and finally, that maybe she should too.

But she never stopped visiting the bench. It became her quiet ritual — sketching, remembering, forgiving.

Years passed.

Then, one morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched the park, she found a letter taped to the bench. Her breath caught. The handwriting was familiar.

It was from Aarav.

“I came back,” it said. “Didn’t know if you’d still come here. But I had to try. If you find this, I hope you know — I never stopped waiting either.”

She looked around — and there he was. Standing near the banyan tree, older, a little thinner, but smiling that same uneven smile.

She didn’t say a word. She just walked up to him, coffee in hand, and said, “You’re late again.”

He laughed, the years between them melting away.

They sat on the old bench, as if no time had passed at all.

Moral: Love doesn’t always need grand gestures or perfect timing. Sometimes, it simply needs two people who keep showing up — even after the years have tried to pull them apart.

even after the years have tried to pull them apart.