Healing Through Scars Short love Story
Coffee, Sarcasm, and a Chance Meeting
The bell at Avni’s Café jingled as a new customer walked in. Avni, mid-yawn, barely looked up from her register.
“Welcome to my overpriced café! How may I rob you today?” she muttered, half-serious.
The man chuckled. “Great service. Do I get sarcasm for free, or is there a hidden price”
Avni looked up properly now—Vikram. Tall, scruffy, carrying a backpack and the air of someone who had just gotten off a long train ride.
“Depends,” she said, pouring him coffee. “If you drink this without complaining, you get a discount. If you say ‘too bitter,’ I charge double.”
He sipped. Winced.
“Damn, is this coffee or liquid regret?”
She smirked. “Complaints noted. That’ll be double.”
They both laughed. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing a deep scar on his wrist. Avni’s eyes flickered to her own shoulder, where an old burn mark peeked through.
For a second, neither spoke.
Scars, Midnight Talks & Bad Jokes
Vikram became a regular, staying in town longer than he planned. Each night, after the café closed, he and Avni sat by the counter, talking about everything—bad customers, worse relationships, and the weirdest travel stories.
One night, he finally asked, “So, how’d you get that?” nodding to her scar.
She took a dramatic pause. “Shark bite.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“No, idiot. Fire accident when I was fifteen. House caught fire while I was making noodles
Vikram laughed. “And you?” she asked, nodding at his wrist.
He hesitated. “Car crash. Lost my fiancée. Kept the scar as a souvenir.”
Silence.
Avni tapped her cup. “Damn, now I feel bad for my noodles joke.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “No, keep it. I could use a bad joke after that story.”
She grinned. “Okay. What did the traffic light say to the car?”
He sighed. “What?”
“Don’t look, I’m changing!”
Vikram groaned. “I regret telling you my trauma.”
She nudged him. “But you smiled.”
For the first time in a long time, he had.
Leaving, Returning, and Something Like Love
One evening, Vikram walked in, looking… off.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said.
Avni scoffed. “What, my jokes finally broke you?”
He smiled but didn’t answer.
She frowned. “You keep running, huh?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You run. From the past. From pain. From your feelings. Let me guess—you’ve changed ten cities in the last year?”
He didn’t reply. That was enough of an answer.
“Vikram,” she said, softer this time, “at some point, you have to stop running and just… live. You can’t keep packing your bags like life’s a damn hotel stay.”
He exhaled. “It’s not that easy.”
She folded her arms. “Neither is drinking my coffee, but you do that every day.”
Vikram left that night.
Two weeks passed.
Then, one day, the café bell jingled.
Avni turned, expecting a customer. Instead, she saw Vikram.
Holding two train tickets.
“If you’re done serving overpriced coffee, let’s go on a trip.”
She smirked. “I have one condition.”
“What?”
“You let me tell bad jokes the whole way.”
He groaned. “Great. Guess I’m running from that now.”
They laughed.
Sometimes, healing isn’t dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just coffee, sarcasm, and the right person beside you.