The Empty Park Bench That Knew Too Much Short love story
There it stood — the OG therapist of Connaught Place.
A battered green bench under a gulmohar tree that had seen everything — heartbreaks, half-burnt cigarettes, awkward first dates, and bored uncles scrolling reels on full volume.
But for Aarav, it wasn’t just a bench.
It was his bench — his “mood-swing headquarters.”
Every Sunday, 5 PM sharp, he’d plop down with his cutting chai from Sharma Tea Stall, pretending to “reflect on life” — but really just scrolling memes and wondering why adulthood feels like a group project where everyone else got the answers.
That evening, the park was in peak Delhi drama mode — the sky looked like it couldn’t decide between rain or heartbreak. Street musicians were butchering Pasoori nearby, pigeons were arguing over crumbs, and the smell of bhutta filled the air.
And that’s when she entered —
like a scene-stealer who forgot her cue.
Loose kurta, messy bun, sneakers half-tied, and that oh-so-chaotic-but-cute energy that felt like a warm filter on a dull day.
She scanned the park and made a beeline straight for his bench.
“Arre, seriously?” Aarav muttered. “Fifty benches and she picks mine.”
“Hey, mind if I sit?” she asked, already half-sitting, cheeks flushed from running. “The other side’s all couples either arguing or PDA-ing like there’s a camera crew.”
Aarav blinked. “Uh… yeah, sure. Bench’s emotionally available, I guess.”
She grinned. “Good, ‘cause I’m not.”
He choked on his chai.
“Sorry, what?”
She laughed, that easy, infectious laugh that made even the pigeons pause. “Joking, yaar. I’m Rhea.”
“Aarav,” he replied. “Bench therapist, part-time existential crisis consultant.”
“Nice. Sounds like great.”
They both laughed — the comfortable kind. The kind that said, hmm, maybe I’m not as broken as I thought.
A few Sundays later…
It became their thing.
Same bench, same chai, same sarcastic arguments about everything — from Delhi traffic to why Golgappas are better therapy than meditation.
Rhea would sketch random people — aunties gossiping, dogs sleeping, even Aarav once.
He peeked once and saw himself drawn with huge under-eyes and a coffee cup.
“Bro, why do I look like I haven’t slept in a week?”
She giggled. “Art imitates life, darling.”
He tried to act offended, but couldn’t stop smiling.
They shared roasted peanuts, swapped playlists, . Once, she got chai mustache foam on her lip and didn’t notice — he pointed, laughing.
“Arey, you look like you auditioned for a milk ad.”
She whacked him with her notebook.
“Shut up, ya gadha.”
It was stupid, random, perfect.
And maybe, just maybe, they both knew — that bench wasn’t empty anymore.
One Sunday, Delhi was quiet. A weird, pre-monsoon silence. The kind that makes your chest feel heavy.
Rhea was late. For the first time ever.
When she finally showed up, her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Aarav noticed instantly. “You okay?”
She sat, wordless, tracing circles on the bench with her finger.
“My company’s transferring me to Bangalore,” she finally said.
He froze.
“Wait, what?”
“Next week.”
Her voice cracked slightly. “Temporary, maybe. Maybe not.”
Aarav looked away, trying to joke — but his throat felt tight.
“Oh, nice. So you’ll leave me alone with these pigeons? They already hate me.”
Aarav looked at the pigeons pecking near their feet — one of them tilted its head and stared back at him, almost judgmentally.
He chuckled softly. “Even this pigeon looks like it’s asking, ‘Bro, you talking about me?’”
Rhea smiled weakly, eyes glistening. “They’ll survive.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “They will. Not sure about me, though.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
And just like that, the park — once filled with background chatter and distant laughter — felt heavier. The sky turned a deeper shade of orange, and even the rusted bench beneath them seemed to sigh.
Finally, he whispered, “This bench’s gonna miss you, you know?”
She looked up, confused. “The bench?”
“Yeah. You. Us. The chai, the banter, the… everything. It’s heard too much to just go silent now.”
Rhea smiled through her tears, shaking her head. “You’re such a filmy guy.”
“Delhi ka hoon,” he shrugged with a crooked grin. “Hum log emotions half chai, half drama pe jeete hain.”
That made her laugh — a soft, teary laugh that caught in the middle. “Then promise me you’ll keep coming, hmm? Keep the bench warm. Don’t let it forget us.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “Only if you promise to come back. Or at least send a postcard saying, ‘Bench misses you too.’”
Rhea squeezed his hand — warm, trembling, and heartbreakingly real.
“I’ll do you one better,” she whispered. “Next time I’m here, first chai’s on me.”
He grinned faintly. “Deal. And if someone else tries to sit here?”
Her eyes sparkled through the blur. “I’ll fight them. Bench rights are sacred.”
He laughed quietly. “Bench rights… I like that.”
For a long second, they just sat — no words, just heartbeat-level silence.
The sun dipped, painting the sky a sleepy orange-pink. The pigeons cooed lazily, the chai steam faded, and the city hummed somewhere far away.
Their fingers brushed again — a touch, a pause, a maybe.
And the bench creaked softly beneath them — like it approved.
Weeks later…
Aarav still came.
Same chai, same bench, same stupid pigeons.
Sometimes, he’d talk out loud —
“Bhai, you know what Rhea would’ve said about this pigeon fight? ‘Looks like Twitter, but with feathers.’”
Other times, he’d just sit — smiling faintly at the half-empty space beside him.
He’d look at the marks she’d left — a faint doodle of a chai cup etched into the bench’s side, her messy handwriting that read:
“Don’t let this bench get lonely.”
And somehow, that emptiness didn’t ache anymore.
It just… waited.
Because some benches don’t forget.
They hold laughter in their cracks, love in their silence, and promises in the rust.
Author’s Note 💭
Not every love story ends with grand gestures or epic background scores.
Some just… fade softly into sunsets, chai cups, and an old park bench that remembers everything. ❤️
And maybe — just maybe — that’s what love really is.
A feeling that lingers, long after the footsteps are gone. 🌿