LANGUAGE OF LOVE PART 25

The days felt like they were blending together, each one rolling into the next as I juggled my delivery jobs for Flipkart and Amazon. My body ached, my feet sore from endless trips up and down the stairs of apartment complexes, but I didn’t mind. Supporting Chippi gave me a purpose. She was still at home most of the day, preparing for her upcoming internship, but our lives had synced up in this strange, chaotic rhythm.


Whenever we met in the evenings, it was like a small slice of normalcy amidst the whirlwind. We’d laugh, talk about the weird things we encountered in our day, and share stories that seemed to lighten the load. But Chippi wasn’t one to sit idly by, even when she had the time. She was always trying to contribute, experimenting with small online jobs, writing articles for pennies. 


“Guess what,” she said one evening, holding up her phone as if it were a trophy. “I just got paid for my first content writing gig!” Her grin was contagious, and I couldn't help but feel proud of her. 


“Oh? How much did we rake in?” I asked with a raised brow, pretending to be a CEO interested in the company's financials.

“Wait for it... a whopping ₹300!” she declared, her eyes wide with mock amazement.

I laughed. “That’s enough for two cups of chai and a samosa! We’re rich, Chippi. RICH!”

She giggled and shoved me playfully. “It’s a start, okay? Just wait. I’ll be writing bestsellers while you’re still delivering packages.”

“Can’t wait for that day,” I teased, pulling her into a quick hug. “But hey, at least you’re doing better than your first attempt at cooking…”


Her smile faltered as she winced, dramatically clutching her chest. “Low blow, Shinu. That was a culinary adventure, not a failure!”

“Oh yeah, an adventure straight to the burn unit,” I snickered, picturing the chaos that had unfolded in our tiny kitchen.

The night she first cooked, I walked into the apartment after a long shift, tired but hopeful for a hot meal. Instead, I was greeted by the sight of thick, black smoke billowing out of the kitchen. I rushed in, half expecting to see the stove on fire, only to find Chippi standing in the middle of it, holding a wooden spoon like a warrior’s sword, her hair slightly singed and a pot of something entirely unidentifiable on the stove.


“Dinner is served!” she announced triumphantly, though the smell told a different story.


I raised an eyebrow. “Did we… burn the house down or just dinner?”


“Dinner!” she replied, a little too cheerfully, stirring the pot with the confidence of someone who had no idea what they were doing. “I think the rice might be a little overcooked.”


I peeked over her shoulder. The rice wasn’t just overcooked—it was practically charcoal. The vegetables were shriveled and clinging to life, floating in some sort of sauce that might have been curry in a past life.


“Chippi, this is... umm… creative.”


She laughed, scrunching her nose. “Okay, okay. So I’m no MasterChef. But we have biscuits and tea. How bad can that be?”


That night, we sat on the floor with a plate of biscuits and cups of overly sweetened tea, cracking jokes about the disaster she called a meal. We couldn't stop laughing, the kind that made your stomach hurt, tears rolling down our cheeks. I poked fun at her for the smoke alarms going off and how the neighbors probably thought we’d started a bonfire in the middle of the apartment.


From then on, cooking became this inside joke between us. She kept trying, determined to get it right, and each time, I was right there, offering sarcastic commentary.


One day, she served up what looked like a perfectly good curry. As I took a bite, I raised my eyebrows, genuinely impressed. “Okay, now this is good. Are you sure you did that?”


“Shut up,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been practicing!”


“Oh, I can tell. Maybe you’ll be the one making deliveries soon—to five-star restaurants,” I joked.

We’d laugh about it, and slowly, she got better. Her cooking became something I looked forward to after long days. She'd call me from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready, unless you want another biscuit feast!” and I’d rush in, more than happy to see what she'd cooked. 


One evening, she was stirring a pot while singing off-key to a random song on the radio. I leaned against the doorway, watching her with a grin. 


“I think I’m falling for the chef,” I teased.

She turned around, spoon in hand, pretending to point it at me like a sword. “Careful, I might burn your food on purpose next time.”

“You mean, like the first fifty times?” I shot back with a wink, ducking as she threw a dishwasher at me.


Those moments, filled with laughter, playful teasing, and warmth, made everything we were going through seem easier. Sure, the money was tight, and the days were long, but we were making the most of it. Chippi’s quirky optimism and our shared sense of humor kept us afloat. Every little victory—whether it was a few extra bucks from content writing or a meal that didn’t set off the smoke alarm—was worth celebrating.


It was in those fun, messy moments that I realized how much she meant to me. We might have been scraping by, but we were doing it together, laughing our way through the chaos. And that, in itself, made everything feel like an adventure.

Days passed, and finally, she secured an internship. We barely saw each other with my work and her new schedule, and on top of it all, I was struggling to manage the page I’d started. Content creation for extra money was not as easy as it sounded, but Chippi supported me every step of the way. She’d proofread, suggest ideas, even push me to make videos when I felt too tired.

Then, one day, her call came. There was something in her voice—something urgent.


“Shinu, can you come meet me? I need to talk,” she said, her tone catching me off guard.


My heart skipped a beat, and a thousand scenarios ran through my head, none of them good. When I met her at our usual spot, her expression was serious. The words that followed shook me.


“I’ve joined Médecins sans frontières,” she said, her eyes not meeting mine immediately. "It's a disaster management organization."


I blinked, trying to process. “Médecins sans frontières? Chippi, that’s... That’s dangerous work!”


She sighed, taking a seat beside me. “I know. But after seeing the news from Gaza... the suffering, the devastation... I can’t just sit here anymore. I need to do something.”


My stomach twisted. “But your life will be in danger, Chippi! You’re talking about going into places where there are wars, natural disasters, places that might not even be safe for you.”


“I know, I’ve thought about it. But I want to help, Shinu. I can’t turn my back on this.” Her voice wavered, and for a moment, I saw the weight she was carrying—the overwhelming need to make a difference, to find meaning in the chaos she saw in the world.


We argued. A long, heated exchange. I wanted her safe. I wanted her here. But she was determined. In the end, she convinced me, and I reluctantly agreed, though my worry clung to me like a second skin.


That evening, we roamed the streets together. Despite the heaviness in the air between us, we tried to savor the moment. The familiar sights of the city—the old tea shops, the narrow streets bustling with life—became our backdrop as we walked. We laughed at silly things, shared memories of simpler times, and stopped for chai at a small stall we used to visit often. The shopkeeper recognized us and smiled, and for a moment, everything felt like it used to, like we weren’t standing on the edge of something unknown.


A light misty rain began to fall, softening the lights of the city. As we neared the bus stop, Chippi checked the time and then glanced at me, her expression soft but unreadable. She was about to leave.

I’ll be back before you even realize it,” she teased, though we both knew the gravity of her decision.


The bus arrived, and she stood there for a moment, looking at me with that gentle smile, the kind that always calmed me. I stood seated, watching her board the bus, my heart heavy. And then, as it pulled away, she turned to look at me one last time through the window, her face lit up by the dim streetlights, her smile the only thing I could focus on.


That image of her—the mist in the air, her soft smile, the quiet strength in her eyes—I captured it in my heart. And I knew I would hold on to it, no matter where she was or how far away she went.

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