That night, she changed her ringtone to the sound of waves at Marine Drive—Rohan’s favorite.

Then she stepped off the train, walked to Rohan, and let the rain wash away the last note of a song that had kept her waiting for a stranger who never truly came home.

She had nodded, not trusting her voice. The train left. The ringtone became their invisible thread.

For a year, it worked. The melody would pierce her lonely nights, and she’d smile. Then the calls grew sparse. The ringtone became a taunt— Pardesi pardesi... he was already gone. One evening, she answered to a woman’s voice. Kabir’s new wife. Meera hung up, deleted his number, but kept the ringtone. Some habits are harder to kill than love.

Six years ago, she’d stood at this very spot, clutching the same Nokia brick phone. Kabir, her then-boyfriend, was leaving for a software job in Toronto. The train to the airport had hissed at the platform, impatient.

Now, six years later, she was an architect with a greying strand in her hair. Engaged to a solid, homegrown man named Rohan who didn’t believe in leaving.

When it plays, know that I’m thinking of you.