Breakup Trip Co short love story

You know how they say every heartbreak adds a little salt to your soul?
Not sugar. Not spice. Salt.
Salt stings. But it also preserves what’s real. It gives flavor to your truth. Turns bland into bold.
Heartbreak doesn’t kill you—it just turns you into a walking jar of emotional pickles. 🥒

Hi. I’m just a fellow traveler—one of those people who collect stories like ticket stubs.
Creased. Torn. Forgotten in coat pockets.
And this one? This is about two strangers, a retreat for the emotionally wrecked, and a week of soul detox in the soggy green lap of Coorg.

🧘‍♀️ It began like most disasters do—

With a laminated itinerary and a shared room no one asked for.

Naina stepped off the van like a woman on a mission.
Her luggage had more tags than a Diwali sale.
Her outfit matched her journal tabs. Her energy screamed: “I have backup highlighters for my feelings.”

She had researched every breakup ritual the retreat offered—
✅ Guided journaling
✅ Anger pottery
✅ “Letting go” forest walks where you were supposed to cry into moss and feel reborn.

She came to fix herself—like heartbreak was a flat tire and she had the emotional toolkit ready.

Ishaan, meanwhile, looked like the human version of a rainy Monday.
Soggy. Sarcastic. And one mild inconvenience away from throwing hands with the universe.

A graphic designer from Delhi, he signed up for the retreat under:

Peer pressure
A poorly timed existential crisis
And a 15% discount

He hadn’t read the fine print that said:
“Congratulations! You’ll be bunking with another emotionally unstable adult.”

💥 So Room 3 became a front-row seat to the World War of the Wounded.

“Please tell me you’re not Room 3,” Naina sighed, eyeing his duffel like it had cooties.
“If you mean the one with the squeaky bunk bed and eucalyptus-scented regret? Yep. That’s me,” Ishaan replied, already halfway through five stages of grief—and a mosquito infestation.

Their chemistry?
Explosive.
In the “please-don’t-sit-next-to-me” kind of way.

She stuck motivational quotes on the mirror.
He wrote “NO” in permanent marker over them.
She scheduled their spa sessions down to the second.
He “accidentally” booked pottery class during her chakra alignment hour.

He called her a productivity spreadsheet in yoga pants.
She called him a walking sarcasm font.

By Day Three, even the staff started handling them like two ticking emotional bombs sharing a fuse box.
➡ Separate schedules
➡ Separate tables
➡ Separate sides of the same eye roll

☔ But Coorg has this way of melting people—

Like butter on hot toast. Slow. Quiet. Inevitable.

One particularly wet night, the power bailed and the bonfire drowned.
The only dry refuge? The common lounge, where a half-empty bottle of local coffee liquor waited by the fireplace like a poorly aged metaphor.

They sat.
Not together. Not apart.
Just close enough for the silence to feel less lonely.

“I’m surprised you came,” Naina muttered, watching the storm chew on the windows.
“I didn’t come for healing,” Ishaan replied. “I came for the refund. Which, by the way, is as mythical as inner peace.”

She smirked. “Classic. Emotional tourist with sarcasm for luggage.“

He shrugged. “You came with a bullet journal and an Excel sheet for feelings.”

Touché.

Then, like rain seeping into concrete, the conversation got real.

“You don’t look like the kind who breaks,” she said eventually, voice soft as wet leaves.

“And yet, I left,” he replied. “Everyone thinks she dumped me. Truth is—I left. I was disappearing. Like sugar in chai. Sweet, but gone.”

She let out a breath. “I don’t leave. I manage. I schedule, I plan, I pre-book the damage.
But maybe people leave because I never let them just… be.”

No dramatic music. No lightning bolt epiphanies.
Just two emotionally soggy adults taking off their emotional raincoats by the fire.

🔄 Over the next few days, the war truce held.

Fights turned into banter.
Silence turned into shared glances.
He stopped mocking the itinerary.
She stopped clinging to it like a GPS for the heartbroken.

They still annoyed each other—like sand in a shoe—but now it was familiar. Oddly comforting.

By the final bonfire, with string lights drooping like tired dreams, Ishaan handed her a tiny sketchbook.

“Trip Log: Dramatic Spa Fights & Passive-Aggressive Poetry.”

She laughed.
The kind of laugh that leaves your ribs sore and your guard down.
Then she teared up. Not because she was sad.
But because sometimes, even a moment of lightness feels like breaking open a dam.

✨ When the retreat ended, they didn’t swap numbers.

No Instagram stalking. No closure playlist.
Just a nod.
A look that said:
“We were real. We just weren’t forever.”

That could’ve been the end.
Neat. Bitter-sweet. Tied with a bow soaked in irony.

💌 But then—Thursday morning. Bangalore. Inbox ping.

Subject: Trip Plan
Attachment: PDF
Title: One Coffee. Two Confessions. Zero Regrets.
➡ Color-coded. With timestamps. And a café location.

Sometimes, all you need is a glitch in your heartbreak GPS to end up somewhere unexpected.
Somewhere warm.
Somewhere worth re-routing for.

☕ So keep your umbrellas open and your sarcasm sharp.

And remember—

A little salt in the soul? That’s just seasoning.