Ramapuram afternoons were ruthless.

The sun hung low and heavy, pressing down on the fields like a challenge. Raju stood near the irrigation canal, trousers folded till his knees, directing workers with hand gestures more than words. Water flowed in disciplined lines, just the way he liked it—controlled, purposeful.

His phone vibrated.

Once.

He ignored it.

Again.

He ignored it.

The third vibration came stubbornly, as if the phone itself had decided not to back down.

Raju sighed, irritation tightening his jaw. He wiped his hands on his towel and glanced at the screen.

Mahalakshmi – New York

He frowned.

He rejected the call.

The phone buzzed again almost immediately.

Raju exhaled sharply and answered.

Raju: "Em kavali?"
(What do you want?)

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then her voice—steady, calm, not apologetic.

Lucky: "Meeru call cut chestaarani telusu. Anduke malli chesaanu."
(I knew you'd cut the call. That's why I called again.)

Raju blinked, taken aback by the lack of hesitation.

Raju: "Meeru evaru ani cheppaanu kada."
(I already told you who I am.)

Lucky: "Kaadu. Meeru 'wrong number' annaru. But Nenu wrong kaadu."
(No. You said, 'wrong number'. But I'm not wrong.)

For a moment, the sounds of Ramapuram faded—the water, the workers, the wind.

This girl... argued without raising her voice.

Raju: "Busy ga unnanu."
(I'm busy.)

Lucky: "Meeru busy ga unnarani telusu. Mee paper chadivina vaallaki ade telustundi."
(I know you're busy. Anyone who read your paper would know that.)

Raju closed his eyes briefly.

This was not a call he could end easily.

Raju: "Mee problem enti?"
(What is your problem?)

Lucky smiled on the other side of the ocean.

Lucky: "Problem kaadu. Appreciation."
(Not a problem. Appreciation.)

Silence.

That word sat strangely between them.

No one ever called him for appreciation.

They called for help. For advice. For solutions.

Never appreciation.

Raju: "Paper gurinchi adugadaaniki NY nunchi call chesaara?"
(You're calling from New York just to talk about a paper?)

Lucky: "Mee paper kaadu. Mee thought process."
(Not your paper. Your way of thinking.)

Raju leaned against a neem tree, eyes scanning the fields automatically.

Raju: "MSW student ani cheppaaru. Social work ki farming enduku?"
(You said you're an MSW student. Why farming for social work?)

Lucky didn't answer immediately.

Lucky: "Endukante... farming lekapothe society ledu."
(Because without farming, there is no society.)

Something shifted.

It was subtle. Almost invisible.

But Raju felt it.

Raju: "Mee peru Mahalakshmi a..?"
(Your name is Mahalakshmi?)

Her smile widened.

Lucky: "Avunu. But andaru Lucky ani pilustaaru."
(Yes. But everyone calls me Lucky.)

Raju: "Andaru pilavachu."
(Everyone can call you that.)

There was a pause.

Then—

Lucky: "Meeru pilavakoodada?"
(You can't?)

Raju straightened.

Raju: "Meeru stranger."
(You're a stranger.)

Lucky's tone softened, not offended.

Lucky: "Ippudu. Kaani forever kaadu."
(Now. But not forever.)

The audacity.

The confidence.

The call ended a minute later—short, clipped, unfinished.

Raju told himself it was the last.

It wasn't.

Lucky called every alternate day.

Sometimes he answered.

Sometimes he didn't.

When he did, the calls were short.

She never wasted words.

She asked about crops. About water problems. About farmer suicides. About mental health in villages.

Raju answered despite himself.

He never asked about her.

Yet somehow, he knew.

That she lived with her family.
That she drank too much coffee.
That she smiled when she listened.

One evening, she laughed softly at something he said unintentionally.

Raju paused mid-sentence.

Raju: "Navvadam enduku?"
(Why are you laughing?)

Lucky: "Meeru cheppindi funny kabatti."
(Because what you said was funny.)

Raju: "Funny kaadu."
(It wasn't.)

Lucky: "Mee face serious ga untundi kani Words ala kaadu."
(Your face is serious, but Your words aren't.)

No one had ever said that to him.

That night, Anand peeked into his room.

Raju was on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the stars.

Anand froze.

Raju... talking?

Weeks passed.

Calls became longer.

Silences became comfortable.

One night, Lucky spoke first.

"Mee peru nenu pilavacha?"
(Can I call you by your name?)

Raju hesitated.

Names mattered to him.

Raju: "Ela?"
(How?)

"Veera."

His breath hitched.

No one called him that.

Not even his mother.

"Evariki cheppakudadhu. only I will call u with that"
(Don't say it to anyone.)

Lucky smiled, eyes shining.

He nodded unconsciously.

"Maha."

She froze.

"Meeru...nannu ippude pilichaara?"
(Did you just call me that?)

Raju: "Mee peru chala pedda ga undi."
(Your name is very long.)

She laughed, heart racing.

"Maha ane peru... naaku chala nachindhi."
(I really like 'Maha'.)

That night, something became theirs.

Just theirs.

Months rolled by.

Video calls started.

Raju avoided them initially.

Raju: "Face chupinchadam avasaram ledu."
(There's no need to show faces.)

Lucky raised an eyebrow.

"Meeru na matalu vintunnaru. Nenu mimmalni choodalani unda?"
(You can hear me. Don't I deserve to see you?)

The first video call lasted exactly ten seconds.

Raju stared.

Tall. Calm. Eyes deeper than she imagined.

Lucky didn't speak.

She just smiled.

After that, video calls became rare—but precious.

Then one night, after a particularly long conversation about loneliness, Lucky said softly—

"Veera... nenu mimmalni premistunnanu."
(Veera... I love you.)

The line went silent.

Raju's grip tightened around the phone.

Minutes passed.

Lucky didn't panic.

She waited.

Finally—

Raju: "Nenu navvadam marchipoyaanu."
(I forgot how to laugh.)

Her heart clenched.

"Meeru navvadam nerchukuntaru."
(You'll learn again.)

Another pause.

Raju: "Maha... nenu kuda."
(Maha... I do too.)

No music played.

No fireworks exploded.

But somewhere in Ramapuram, a man smiled at the dark.

For the first time in years.

They made rules.

Never sleep angry.
Never involve a third voice.
Never lie.

And they followed them—religiously.

When misunderstandings crept in, they spoke.

When jealousy knocked, they laughed it away.

Miles didn't weaken them.

They sharpened them.

Far away, Leela watched Raju laugh at his phone one evening.

Her smile faded.

Love had begun.

And with it—inevitable storms.