Umakanth Kodi’s- Aaromale

COPYRIGHT PAGE

Aaromale

© 2026 by Umakanth Kodi

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or stored in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or critical articles.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead

Author’s Note

This story began quietly.

Not with certainty.

Not with a full outline.

Just a feeling I couldn’t ignore.

Before Aaromale had a title, before Saanvi and Advay had names, there were people who believed in this story long before it had a shape.

My deepest gratitude and blessings from my mother, Bharathi, whose strength and unwavering faith have always been my foundation. Amma, your love is the first home I ever knew.

To my brother Laxmikanth Kodi and my sister-in-law Deepthi, thank you for your constant encouragement and quiet confidence in me. Your belief steadied me more than you realize.

To my dear friends Madhavan, Sravanthi, Tejaswi, Chandrakanth, Kiran, Harish, Ankush Bhai, Vivek, Sruthi, Saikrishna, Sudheer, and Suma thank you for believing in this story long before it had a structure or direction. For listening when I rambled about scenes. For encouraging me when self-doubt grew louder than the words on the page. For questioning, pushing, laughing, and reminding me why I started. Your support mattered more than you know.

To my beloved ones, near and far thank you for your patience, your understanding, and your quiet faith while I disappeared into this world. Every conversation, every late reply, every “how’s the writing going?” found its way into these pages in one form or another.

This may be my debut novel, but it is not mine alone.

It carries pieces of every person who stood beside me while it was being written. It carries shared laughter, difficult days, late-night clarity, and moments of doubt that were softened by someone else’s belief.

If this story moved you, comforted you, or reminded you of someone you love then it has done its job.

I hope Aaromale finds a home with you, the reader, just as writing it found one with the people who made it possible.

With gratitude,

Umakanth Kodi

SYNOPSIS

Advay and Saanvi have shared years of effortless companionship colleagues, neighbours, and family friends whose lives intertwine in the everyday rhythm of Hyderabad. Their mornings begin on the company bus with familiar banter; their days end with the quiet comfort of knowing the other is always there.

But while Saanvi speaks her heart freely, Advay has mastered the art of saying the safe things.

Quiet, observant, and emotionally reserved, he loves her deeply yet fear of rejection keeps him silent. Saanvi, expressive and intuitive, notices the pauses in him the almost-confessions, the unfinished sentences, the way he looks at her when he thinks she isn’t watching. When Advay asks her to meet for coffee outside their usual routine, she believes he is finally ready to speak.

He doesn’t.

Interrupted at the worst moment and retreating into caution, Advay lets the confession slip into something ordinary. Hurt and humiliated, Saanvi walks away realizing that silence can wound more deeply than harsh words.

What follows isn’t dramatic separation, but something quieter and more dangerous: distance between two people who were never strangers.

As Advay confronts the pattern of his hesitation with the help of his childhood friend Arjun, and Saanvi slowly recognizes that her anger stems from hope rather than ego, both begin to understand a painful truth love cannot survive on familiarity alone.

During a Christmas retreat in Ananthagiri Hills, surrounded by fog, firelight, and old memories, honesty finally replaces fear. They choose to begin again not perfectly, but truthfully.

Just as their bond deepens, life intervenes. Advay is offered a two-year assignment in New York. The impending separation forces what silence once prevented. At the airport, he finally confesses his love not cautiously, not carefully, but completely. Saanvi reveals she has already secured her own transfer, waiting to see if he would choose her without being prompted.

Distance tests them, but it also transforms them. Snowfall in New Jersey, long late-night conversations, and growing independence shift their love from tentative to intentional. A year later, beneath the New York skyline, Advay proposes not out of urgency, but certainty.

They return to Hyderabad to celebrate where it all began. Surrounded by family, teasing rituals, and the warmth of home, they marry not as two people who found perfect timing, but as two who learned to choose each other before it was too late.

Aaromale is a heartfelt story about courage in love, the danger of silence, and the quiet power of speaking when it matters most.

December Mornings

December arrived without asking permission.

It slipped into Hyderabad quietly, like an unwelcome thought that refused to leave, settling into corners of the city people weren’t prepared to examine. The mornings grew sharper, the air thinner, the kind of cold that didn’t hurt outright but lingered long enough to irritate. It was the sort of weather that made blankets feel heavier and alarms feel crueler.

Advay discovered this at exactly 6:12 a.m., when his phone vibrated against the wooden side table for the third time.

He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. He lay still, face half-buried into the pillow, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint city sounds drifting in through the balcony door he had forgotten to close the night before. Somewhere outside, a milk packet hit the ground. A scooter coughed awake. The city was already moving.

He wasn’t.

Another vibration. The alarm gave up and went silent, defeated.

Advay exhaled slowly, the breath fogging briefly in the cold air before disappearing. December had a way of making even breathing feel like effort.

He had slept at two-thirty. A late-night deployment that had refused to cooperate, lines of code blurring into one another until his eyes burned and his thoughts dulled. The kind of night that left behind a familiar residue exhaustion mixed with a vague dissatisfaction he never quite knew how to explain.

Getting up felt like negotiating with gravity.

He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The fan spun lazily above him, casting moving shadows that felt oddly hypnotic. His phone lay just out of reach, face down, as if it, too, had decided to disengage from responsibility.

December mornings always did this to him.

They stripped things down. Routine softened. Defenses weakened. Thoughts that stayed buried during louder months had room to stretch and surface. Advay had never liked that. He preferred days that demanded attention deadlines, distractions, anything that kept him from sitting too long with his own head.

Eventually, practicality won.

He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows resting on his knees, hair a mess, eyes half-open. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He hissed softly, more annoyed than surprised.

“Fantastic,” he muttered.

The apartment was quiet. His parents were already awake in the next room, moving gently, mindful of his schedule. From the kitchen came the faint clink of steel tumblers and the low murmur of morning television news. The smell of filter coffee drifted in, comforting and familiar.

Advay stood, stretched, and reached for the hoodie draped over the back of the chair. He pulled it on without thinking, muscle memory guiding him through the motions of brushing his teeth, washing his face, tying his shoelaces.

By the time he stepped out of the apartment, his body was awake. His mind lagged behind.

Outside, BSL East County was already alive. Children in oversized sweaters waited sleepily for school buses. Morning walkers moved in steady loops around the inner road, earbuds in, determined expressions fixed firmly in place. Security guards exchanged nods at the gate.

Advay adjusted the strap of his laptop bag and checked the time.

7:58 a.m.

He had exactly seven minutes.

The company bus was a strange ecosystem.

It functioned on unspoken rules who sat where, who spoke to whom, who slept without being disturbed. Over time, seats became territories. Habits hardened into tradition. People boarded and exited with the precision of a ritual no one had officially acknowledged.

Advay’s seat was third row from the back, window side.

He didn’t remember when he’d started choosing it. Only that one day, months ago, he had sat there once and never moved again. The window vibrated faintly as the engine idled, a steady hum that lulled him into a comfortable half-consciousness every morning.

It was a good seat. Removed, but not isolated. Close enough to observe, far enough to avoid conversation.

Safe.

The bus hissed to a stop at the apartment gate. Rangayya, the driver, leaned slightly forward, peering through the windshield like he did every morning, checking the time with mild irritation.

Advay climbed aboard, nodded once in greeting, and slipped into his seat. He leaned his head against the glass almost immediately, eyes closing as if on command.

The city passed by in fragments tea stalls setting up, fruit vendors arranging oranges into neat pyramids, stray dogs curled tightly against the cold. The sun hovered low, deceptively gentle, promising warmth it would later weaponize.

Advay drifted.

Not into proper sleep, but into that familiar in-between state where thoughts loosened their grip and the world softened around the edges. It was the only part of the day where he allowed himself not to be alert.

He liked it that way.

The bus slowed.

Barely perceptible at first. Then more noticeably.

Something tugged at his awareness. A shift in rhythm. A pause.

Through the driver’s side mirror, a reflection flickered.

Movement.

Advay’s eyes opened.

She was running.

Not frantically, not dramatically just fast enough to suggest she had misjudged time and refused to be embarrassed by it. Her bag bounced against her side, hair tied back, strands escaping as she moved. She waved one hand, already calling out Rangayya’s name, her voice cutting cleanly through the morning air.

Rangayya didn’t notice.

Advay did.

He leaned forward before he realized he was doing it, one hand lifting instinctively.

“Rangayya,” he called, sharper than usual. “Stop.”

The bus hissed again, brakes protesting, coming to a halt just as she reached the door.

She climbed in, breathless, immediately launching into a complaint about punctuality and basic human decency, and the driver responded with a practiced shrug that suggested he had heard it all before.

Advay leaned back into his seat, heart settling.

Only then did he realize what he’d done.

He closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep.

He had been doing that for two years.

The first time he’d noticed her, it hadn’t felt important.

Advay thought he knew Sanvi from a lifetime ago.

Not the kind of knowing that came from introductions or first impressions, but the deeper, messier kind the kind formed by shared corridors, shared scoldings, and the unavoidable closeness of growing up in the same space.

They had lived in the same government apartments since school.

Both their parents were government employees. Transfers came and went, but this building remained constant. Doors stayed open. Boundaries were thin. Everyone knew everything. Especially children.

Sanvi and Advay had been inseparable once.

Best friends, according to their mothers. Enemies, according to themselves.

They fought about everything cricket, homework, who sat where during evening tuition. Their arguments were loud, dramatic, and frequent enough that the neighbors had learned to ignore them entirely. And yet, somehow, by evening, they would always be found together again on the staircase, on the terrace, plotting something unnecessary.

Until one day, Advay crossed a line he hadn’t known existed.

Sanvi had been talking to a boy near the cycle stand. Nothing scandalous. Just laughter, a little too loud, a little too free for a place where windows were always watching.

Advay saw them.

And instead of walking away, instead of minding his business like a sensible human being, he went straight home and told Sanvi’s mother.

He didn’t exaggerate. He didn’t need to.

Belief came easily.

That evening, Sanvi didn’t come out to play.

The next day, she did but quieter. Her laughter missing. Her eyes sharp with something Advay didn’t yet have the maturity to recognize as betrayal.

She didn’t speak to him for days.

Then one afternoon, she smiled.

“Come,” she said casually. “Let’s eat pani puri.”

Advay agreed without hesitation.

That was the thing about Sanvi. Even when they fought, even when she was angry, he trusted her. Trusted that whatever she was planning couldn’t be too bad.

They stood near the cart, the steel plates stacked high, the smell of spicy water hanging thick in the air. Sanvi watched him eat, unusually quiet, unusually patient.

Just as Advay reached for what he assumed would be his last pani puri, he turned slightly

And she was gone.

At first, he thought she was joking. Hiding somewhere nearby.

Then the pani puri seller cleared his throat.

“Your friend said you’ll work,” the man said. “Cleaning. Until payment.”

Advay laughed. Then stopped.

The man did not laugh back.

By the time Advay reached home, hands sore and smelling of tamarind water, his father was already waiting.

The explanation didn’t help.

The slap came fast. Then another.

From across the open space between buildings, Sanvi watched.

She laughed.

Not softly. Not guiltily.

She laughed like a victory had finally settled into place.

On the bus, years later, Advay opened his eyes.

The memory faded slowly, like the last notes of a song you didn’t realize had been playing.

Ahead of him, Sanvi adjusted her bag and stared out of the window, expression unreadable.

Advay leaned back against the glass, exhaling.

December mornings had a way of dragging old things to the surface.

Some grudges never really left.

They just waited for quieter days to return.

Sanvi knew when Advay was pretending to sleep.

She always had.

It was in the stillness too deliberate, too practiced. The way his head leaned against the window at the same angle every morning, as if he’d measured it once and committed to muscle memory. The way his shoulders stayed tense even when the bus jolted over potholes.

Sleeping people surrendered to motion.

Advay never did.

She adjusted her bag on her lap and looked out the window, pretending she hadn’t noticed him opening his eyes exactly when the bus slowed near her stop.

Some habits refused to die.

Two years.

That’s how long it had been since she’d started taking this bus. Long enough for routines to settle. Long enough for faces to turn familiar without becoming friendly.

Long enough for Advay to still sit in the same seat.

Third row from the back. Window side. Like he was trying to keep half his life at arm’s length.

Of course he’d noticed her running today.

He always did.

Sanvi smiled faintly to herself, remembering the way he’d called out to Rangayya sharp, urgent, unmistakably him. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just action.

Typical.

Even now, he reacted before he thought.

She wondered if he knew how obvious he was.

She doubted it.

Advay had always been like that painfully sincere in his concern, painfully bad at expressing it in ways that didn’t sound like instructions or warnings.

Growing up, it had infuriated her.

Now… it was strangely familiar.

Comforting, in a way she wasn’t ready to admit.

She glanced back, catching his reflection in the glass.

His eyes were open now, unfocused, staring at the city as if it were an equation he couldn’t quite solve. There were faint shadows under them, the kind that came from late nights and too much responsibility.

He looked older.

So did she.

Life had sanded down some edges, sharpened others. The anger she’d carried for years had quieted into something smaller, less sharp but not gone.

She remembered the pani puri day without trying.

She always did.

Not the laughter. Not even the satisfaction.

What stayed was the look on his face when he realized she’d left him there.

Confusion first. Then hurt.

She had told herself he deserved it.

Maybe he had.

But watching him now sitting stiffly on a crowded bus, still stepping in when he didn’t have to she wondered if punishment had lasted longer than the crime.

The bus slowed again, traffic thickening.

Sanvi stood, gripping the pole as the vehicle swayed.

For a moment, she considered saying something.

Anything.

A greeting. A comment about the cold. A complaint about Rangayya.

Normal things adults said.

But when she opened her mouth, Advay spoke first.

“You should’ve left earlier,” he said, without turning around.

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m glad you made it.

Just logistics.

Sanvi blinked.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough to let him hear it.

“Good morning to you too, Advay.”

He turned then, startled, as if he’d forgotten she could respond.

For a split second, their eyes met.

And in that moment between December air and bus fumes and years of unfinished conversations Sanvi realized something quietly, undeniably true.

This wasn’t over.

Not the anger.

Not the friendship.

Not whatever strange, unfinished thing still lived between them.

She stepped off the bus, the doors closing behind her.

And for the first time in a long while, she looked forward to the next morning.

The bus lurched as it turned onto the main road, a familiar shudder that rippled through the aisle.

Advay adjusted his bag on his lap, then immediately regretted the movement. It drew attention. Or at least, it felt like it did.

Beside him, Saanvi shifted slightly, steadying herself with the pole overhead.

“Your bus always does that,” she said, not looking at him.

Advay blinked.

He glanced at her, then back ahead. “The suspension’s uneven. Left side more than the right.”

There it was.

She turned then, eyebrow lifting. “Good morning to you too.”

He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

A pause settled between them not uncomfortable exactly, but alert. Like both of them were waiting to see who would misstep first.

“You don’t usually talk,” she said.

He frowned. “You don’t usually sit here.”

“Fair.”

Another silence. The city slid past the windows in blurred fragments.

“You called out to Rangayya today,” she continued. “For me.”

“It was… time,” he said. “He was going to leave.”

“I know.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Still.”

Advay nodded, unsure what to do with the gratitude implied in the word. He chose the safest response.

“You should leave earlier,” he said. “This bus isn’t reliable.”

Saanvi stared at him for a full second.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly just enough to surprise him.

“I almost said thank you,” she replied. “But that would’ve ruined the moment.”

He winced. “I wasn’t”

“I know,” she said gently. “You’re not great at the feelings part.”

He looked at her then, really looked.

“How do you”

“We’ve known each other forever,” she said, like it was obvious. “Even when we pretended we didn’t.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Advay opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Your name,” he said finally. “It’s Saanvi. Right?”

She tilted her head. “Took you long enough.”

“I knew it,” he added quickly. “I just hadn’t… confirmed.”

“Of course,” she said. “Very on-brand.”

The bus slowed as it approached her stop.

She stood, adjusting her bag, then paused, looking down at him.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m not always late.”

He considered this. “Statistically, that tracks.”

She smiled, soft and unexpected.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Advay.”

She stepped off the bus before he could respond.

The doors closed with a pneumatic sigh.

Advay stayed where he was, heart beating a little faster than necessary, replaying the conversation with the precision of someone searching for a bug in unfamiliar code.

He wasn’t sure what he’d done right.

But for the first time in a long while, he was certain of one thing.

Tomorrow mattered.

“Wake up, Nibba.”

He winced, more from the word than the punch.

“It’s eight twenty,” he said, eyes still closed. “That’s not morning. That’s a design flaw.”

She snorted. “You tech people think the world should come with a snooze button.”

“It should,” he replied. “Ideally with legal backing.”

She shifted in her seat beside him, crossing one leg over the other. The bus lurched forward and she steadied herself automatically, palm pressing briefly against his arm before she pulled back, unbothered.

“You’re late today,” she said.

“So are you.”

“I’m always late,” she said cheerfully. “You’re supposed to be consistent.”

He cracked one eye open. “Disappointing expectations is also consistent.”

She laughed, loud enough that the man across the aisle glanced over. She didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

That was another thing.

Silence didn’t intimidate her. Neither did attention.

“You were sleeping,” she said. “I thought you’d miss the office stand-up.”

“I don’t miss it,” he said. “I attend reluctantly.”

“That explains your face.”

He opened his eyes properly now and looked at her. She was already looking at him, chin resting on her hand, expression curious in a way that felt mildly invasive.

“What?” he asked.

“You look different today.”

He stiffened/jobbed. “I changed nothing.”

“Exactly.”

He frowned. “That’s not”

She waved him off. “Don’t worry. It’s not a bad thing.”

That somehow made it worse.

The bus slowed near a signal, the familiar jerking motion pulling them both forward. This time, he was the one who steadied her, fingers curling briefly around her wrist before he let go.

Neither of them commented on it.

“Do you ever listen to music?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“I listen,” he said. “Just not loudly.”

She leaned over, peering at his phone screen. “You don’t even have earphones plugged in.”

“I prefer ambient noise.”

“You prefer being grumpy.”

He considered correcting her. Decided against it.

Ahead, Rangayya braked hard and someone cursed loudly from the back.

Saanvi sighed. “We’re definitely going to be late.”

Advay checked the time. “Three minutes.”

She looked at him. “You track this too closely.”

“Someone has to.”

She smiled at that, softer than before, like she’d stumbled onto something accidentally sincere.

“Well,” she said, standing as the bus approached her stop, “if we’re late, I’m blaming you.”

“That’s unfair.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Get used to it.”

Then she hesitated. Just briefly.

“Oh—and Advay?”

“Yes?”

“Good morning,” she said again, slower this time.

He watched her step off the bus before replying, too late for her to hear.

“Good morning.”

And for reasons he didn’t immediately question, it didn’t feel like a lie anymore.

She grinned, entirely unapologetic.

“Excuses,” she said. “You just hate mornings.”

“I hate vulnerability,” he corrected, closing his eyes again.

She laughed, unbothered.

And just like that, December felt a little less cruel.

The bus rumbled forward, tires rolling over uneven patches of road. Outside, the city was still shaking itself awake shops half-open, tea stalls exhaling steam, people moving with the practiced resignation of routine.

Saanvi leaned back in her seat, stretching her arms above her head.

“You know,” she said, “most people fake enthusiasm in the morning.”

“I don’t fake things,” Advay replied. “I opt out.”

She turned toward him, studying his face with open curiosity. “Is that why you always look like you’re bracing for impact?”

He opened his eyes again, resigned. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Conversation,” she said lightly. “There’s a difference.”

“I’m not convinced.”

She smiled at that, pleased, like she’d won a small, private victory.

For a while, they rode in silence. Not the awkward kind just the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Saanvi tapped her foot softly in time with something only she could hear. Advay watched the reflection of passing buildings slide across the window.

“This seat,” she said suddenly, “it’s growing on me.”

He glanced at her. “You can have it.”

She scoffed. “I don’t want it. I just like borrowing it.”

“That’s inefficient.”

“Life is inefficient,” she said. “You should try it sometime.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

The bus slowed near a signal, jolting them forward. Saanvi grabbed the seat in front of her instinctively. Advay steadied himself, then realized his hand had landed against hers.

Neither of them pulled away immediately.

“See?” she said quietly. “Awake now.”

He withdrew his hand, clearing his throat. “Temporarily.”

She laughed again, softer this time, and turned to look out the window.

When her stop approached, she gathered her bag and stood, pausing just long enough to look down at him.

“Don’t sleep through tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be offended.”

“I make no promises,” he replied.

She smiled anyway.

As she stepped off the bus, Advay leaned his head back against the glass, eyes closing once more.

But this time, he didn’t sleep.

He just listened to the city, to the bus, to the faint echo of her laughter lingering longer than it had any right to.

December, he decided, wasn’t so bad after all.

Wake.

Bus.

Banter.

It was a small thing, really. Harmless. The kind of routine that didn’t announce itself as important until it already was.

“You know,” Saanvi said, stretching her arms overhead, “most people would’ve asked why I’m late.”

“I didn’t say you were late,” Advay replied. “I stated a condition.”

She turned to look at him. “That’s worse.”

“It’s accurate.”

She shook her head, amused. “You reduce everything to facts.”

“Facts are efficient.”

“Feelings are more fun.”

He considered this. “Debatable.”

She laughed softly, then leaned back into her seat, eyes following the city outside. For a moment, her foot stopped bouncing. The stillness felt deliberate, like she’d paused herself.

Advay noticed.

He always did.

“You’re thinking,” he said before he could stop himself.

She glanced at him, surprised. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only when you stop moving.”

“Huh,” she murmured. “I didn’t know that.”

Neither did he, really. The knowledge had arrived quietly, like most things between them.

The bus slowed at a signal. A vendor walked between lanes selling newspapers, the headlines shouting urgency neither of them felt. Morning traffic pressed in around them, impatient and loud.

Saanvi shifted her bag slightly, nudging it closer to her feet. The space between them opened up, unremarkable but present.

Advay adjusted his posture without thinking, filling it just a little.

“You ever get tired of this?” she asked suddenly.

He frowned. “Of what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Same bus. Same seat. Same conversation.”

“No,” he said immediately.

The speed of his answer surprised them both.

She studied him for a second longer than necessary, something thoughtful flickering across her face.

“Good,” she said finally. “I don’t either.”

The bus picked up speed again, the moment dissolving as easily as it had formed.

A few minutes later, as her stop approached, Saanvi stood and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Try not to sleep through tomorrow,” she said lightly.

“I don’t sleep,” he replied. “I rest my eyes.”

She smiled down at him. “Whatever helps you cope.”

She stepped off the bus, blending quickly into the morning crowd.

Advay stayed where he was, eyes following the space she’d occupied rather than her retreating figure.

The seat beside him felt larger now.

Emptier.

He leaned his head against the window, watching the city continue on without pause.

The bus slowed abruptly, jerking them forward.

Saanvi swore under her breath. Advay reached out instinctively, steadying her elbow before realizing what he was doing.

Neither of them commented on it.

Then the bus stopped.

Not the usual slow crawl to a signal. A full stop. The kind that came with the unmistakable hiss of protest from the engine.

Rangayya muttered something that sounded deeply personal and entirely unrepeatable.

A collective groan rippled through the bus.

“What now?” Saanvi asked.

Advay leaned slightly to look past the aisle. “Looks like a breakdown.”

She brightened. “Of course it is.”

“This bus hasn’t broken down in months.”

“Clearly,” she said, “it was overdue.”

Rangayya stood, turned, and announced, “Five minutes.”

Someone laughed. Someone else argued. No one believed him.

Saanvi sighed theatrically and shifted closer to Advay as people began standing, calling relatives, checking watches. The bus suddenly felt smaller, louder.

“Congratulations,” she said. “We’re trapped.”

He glanced down. Their shoulders were pressed together now, unavoidable.

“Statistically,” he said, “this increases our chances of being late.”

She tilted her head toward him. “You don’t say.”

A woman with an enormous handbag squeezed into the seat behind them, knocking Saanvi forward slightly. She stumbled and this time, Advay didn’t think. He caught her properly, arm braced around her back.

“Whoa,” she said, breathless.

“Sorry,” he said at the same time.

They froze.

Too close.

He could smell her soap again. Feel the warmth through her sweater. Her hand rested briefly against his chest, fingers curling reflexively before she pulled away.

“I’m okay,” she said, a little too quickly.

“Good,” he replied. “That was… efficient.”

She laughed. “You really know how to ruin a moment.”

“I was preventing injury.”

“Heroic,” she said. “Truly.”

The bus doors opened with a wheeze. Cold air rushed in, along with a vendor trying to sell peanuts.

Chaos followed.

“Do you want some?” Saanvi asked, already reaching for her wallet.

“No.”

“Live a little.”

“I am,” he said. “I’m seated.”

She rolled her eyes and bought peanuts anyway, handing him a packet.

“Insurance,” she said. “In case this turns into a long-term situation.”

He stared at it. “You didn’t ask.”

“You’d have said no.”

“That’s accurate.”

She grinned.

The bus jolted again as Rangayya restarted the engine, victorious. Applause broke out sarcastically.

As the bus lurched forward, peanuts spilled everywhere.

Saanvi gasped. “Oh no.”

They both bent down at the same time.

Heads collided lightly.

“Ow,” she said.

“Sorry.”

They laughed actually laughed drawing a few glances from nearby passengers.

Saanvi looked at him then, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from cold and chaos.

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the mess, the bus, them, “is why mornings are interesting.”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “They weren’t before.”

Something shifted.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But enough.

The bus picked up speed, routine reasserting itself, but the space between them felt… different now. Charged. A little unsteady.

When her stop arrived, Saanvi stood, hesitated, then looked back at him.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded. “Assuming the bus survives.”

She smiled. “I’ll take those odds.”

As she stepped off, Advay realized two things at once.

One his heart was beating faster than it needed to.

Two routine had officially stopped being safe.

And that thought stayed with him long after the bus moved on.

Advay let his head fall back against the glass again, eyes half-closed, listening to her talk about something inconsequential an office rumor, a show she’d started and abandoned, a neighbor’s dog that barked like it was personally offended by existence.

He responded at the right moments. Hummed agreement. Threw in sarcasm where expected.

It was choreography.

What he didn’t say was that he liked listening to her more than he liked sleeping. That her voice anchored him to the present in a way nothing else quite managed.

He didn’t say that some mornings, the idea of missing the bus felt worse than missing work.

Instead, he stayed quiet.

Saanvi glanced at him sideways. “You’re unusually silent today.”

He smiled faintly. “Observant.”

“Suspicious,” she corrected. “You usually insult me at least twice before Nagole.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “Survival.”

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded.

Advay felt it settle somewhere in his chest, warm and inconvenient.

There were things about Saanvi that everyone noticed.

Her confidence. Her ease with people. The way she spoke without hesitation, as if the world were generally inclined to listen. She didn’t shrink herself. Didn’t edit her enthusiasm.

What fewer people noticed what Advay noticed were the pauses.

The way she slowed when something mattered. The way she watched reactions carefully, storing them away. The way her humor softened when she was uncertain.

She was emotionally intelligent in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable.

Because emotional intelligence demanded response.

And response required risk.

The bus slowed near a signal, traffic compressing around them. A billboard flashed past the window something loud and motivational neither of them believed in.

Saanvi tilted her head, studying him.

“You’re thinking again,” she said.

He sighed. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“It is,” she said cheerfully. “Thinking ruins perfectly good mornings.”

“I disagree.”

“Of course you do.” She smiled, then leaned back, gaze drifting ahead. “You know, most people talk more when they’re nervous.”

He frowned. “I’m not nervous.”

She glanced at him. “You haven’t insulted me in ten minutes.”

“That’s restraint.”

“That’s avoidance.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

That pause was answer enough.

Saanvi’s smile softened. “Relax,” she said. “I’m not asking you to explain yourself.”

He exhaled, tension easing despite himself.

“Good,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t.”

She laughed. “I know.”

That landed strangely comforting and unsettling at the same time.

The bus hit a bump and she shifted closer, shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move away. Didn’t move closer either. Just stayed.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, brightening. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I might be late tomorrow too.”

He winced. “You say that like a threat.”

“It is,” she grinned. “Keeps you alert.”

“I’m alert regardless.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were asleep five minutes ago.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever helps you cope.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t feel empty. Outside, the city thickened—offices, signals, the quiet urgency of people heading into their days.

Saanvi checked the time and sighed. “Ugh. I have a meeting first thing.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For you or for me?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, gathering her bag as the bus approached her stop.

Before standing, she hesitated. Just a fraction.

“You know,” she said casually, “if you ever actually want to say something… you can.”

He met her gaze.

“I know,” he said.

And he did.

She stepped off the bus, disappearing into the morning crowd.

Advay leaned back against the window, eyes closing again but this time, sleep didn’t come.

Instead, he replayed the moment. The almost. The unsaid.

He didn’t like risk.

But lately, mornings had started to feel like invitations.

And the problem was he was no longer sure how much longer he could keep refusing them.

Saanvi noticed when Advay held himself back.

It wasn’t in the obvious ways. Not in silence alone, or in the way he sometimes stared out the window like the city required deciphering. It was subtler than that.

It was in the half-smiles he didn’t finish.

The replies he softened at the last second.

The jokes he swallowed and replaced with something safer.

She caught it most clearly when he almost said something real.

Like now.

She had been talking about nothing in particular, really. A show she couldn’t decide whether she hated or loved. A colleague who took meetings too seriously. Small things, offered casually, without expectation.

Advay listened.

Not passively. Actively. Like each word had weight, like he was storing it somewhere instead of letting it pass through.

At one point, she paused deliberately, leaving space.

He glanced at her. Opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

Changed course.

“Your stop is coming up,” he said instead.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She knew that move.

She’d grown up around people who’d learned to stay contained who believed emotions were liabilities and restraint was maturity. People who mistook composure for safety.

Advay wasn’t distant. That was the difference.

He was careful.

The bus slowed, traffic bunching around them. Outside, a vendor laughed loudly at something someone had said. Life went on, unbothered by the small tension sitting between two people who didn’t know how close they already were.

“You do that a lot,” she said lightly.

He stiffened. “Do what?”

“Redirect,” she replied. “It’s impressive, honestly.”

He frowned. “I’m just… practical.”

“I know.” She turned to look at him fully now. “You don’t avoid things because you don’t feel them. You avoid them because you do.”

The words hung there not accusing, not demanding. Just true.

For a moment, he didn’t respond.

She watched him sit with it, shoulders tense, gaze fixed ahead.

That restraint again.

She softened her tone. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“Taking your time.”

He looked at her then, surprised.

She smiled small, reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The bus came to a stop. The doors opened.

Saanvi stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” she said, as casually as she could manage, “try not to disappear inside your own head too much.”

He nodded. “I’ll try.”

She believed him.

As she stepped off the bus, Saanvi felt something settle not certainty, not impatience.

Understanding.

Advay wasn’t closed off.

He was protecting something.

And for the first time, she wondered what it would take for him to trust her with it.

There were other moments.

The time she’d offered him half her breakfast without asking, peeling the wrapper back and holding it out like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d hesitated long enough for her to raise an eyebrow.

“Don’t overthink it,” she’d said. “It’s food, not a contract.”

He’d taken it anyway.

And later, inexplicably, he’d kept the wrapper folded in his bag all day.

The afternoon she’d found him alone in the office pantry, staring at the coffee machine like it had personally betrayed him.

“Don’t tell me,” she’d said. “It’s out of milk.”

“It’s out of purpose,” he’d replied.

She’d laughed, loud and unguarded, and then without ceremony had taken over, fixing the machine with the confidence of someone who believed problems were temporary by default.

“You look calmer now,” she’d observed afterward.

“I didn’t panic,” he’d said.

“You absolutely did,” she’d replied. “Internally.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

The morning it rained unexpectedly, the sky turning without warning, catching everyone unprepared. She’d boarded the bus soaked through, hair damp, sweater clinging uncomfortably.

“You’re dripping,” he’d said, handing her a handkerchief before thinking it through.

She’d blinked. “You carry those?”

“For emergencies.”

She’d smiled, slower this time. Softer.

“I’ll return it,” she’d said.

She hadn’t.

But she kept it.

Advay noticed that too.

He noticed when she grew quieter around certain people. When her laughter shifted registers still present, but guarded. When she made jokes faster, like she was trying to stay ahead of something.

He noticed because he did the same thing.

Once, during a crowded morning, someone had mistaken them for a couple.

They’d been standing close, the bus packed tight, her hand curled lightly around the strap of his bag for balance.

“Excuse me,” the man had said, impatient. “Are you two getting off?”

Saanvi had answered without thinking. “No.”

Advay hadn’t corrected the two part.

The realization had come later, settling uncomfortably in his chest.

He could have said something.

At any point, really.

He could have named the familiarity. Questioned the ease. Acknowledged the way mornings rearranged themselves around her presence.

Instead, he catalogued moments like these and told himself they were harmless.

That noticing was not the same as wanting.

That closeness didn’t have to mean intention.

But two years had a way of eroding denial.

Because habits didn’t form without desire.

And restraint real restraint was never effortless. It was active. Exhausting.

Advay leaned his head back against the glass, eyes closing, listening to the bus hum beneath him.

Somewhere beside him, Saanvi shifted, her bag brushing his knee.

He didn’t move away.

He didn’t move closer.

And that he was beginning to understand was the problem.

The misunderstanding began, as most things did, with incomplete information.

They were standing near the bus stop one evening, later than usual. Overtime. Deadlines. The sky already darkening, the air cooler than it had any right to be. The bus was crowded, everyone tired in the specific way that came from long days and longer commutes.

Saanvi was talking animatedly about something—some office story, some exaggerated injustice when a voice cut in.

“Hey.”

A man stepped up beside her, tall, confident, smiling in a way that suggested familiarity. He said her name easily, like it belonged in his mouth.

Saanvi turned, surprised then smiled.

“Oh. Hi.”

Advay felt it before he understood it.

The shift.

The way her body angled slightly away from him. The way her attention reorganized itself around someone else.

“Long day?” the man asked.

“You have no idea,” she said, laughing. “I thought this bus would never come.”

Advay stared straight ahead.

This was fine, he told himself. Normal. People had lives outside shared routines. He had known that. Accepted it.

The man glanced at Advay. “You work with her?”

“Yes,” Advay replied automatically.

“That’s Advay,” Saanvi said. “We”

She paused. Just for a second.

“—take the same bus.”

The man grinned. “Ah. Bus buddies.”

Advay nodded. Bus buddies. Accurate enough.

The bus arrived then, saving him from having to say anything else.

They boarded. The man followed, sitting beside Saanvi without hesitation.

Advay took his usual seat.

Third row from the back. Window side.

Safe.

From his peripheral vision, he could see them talking. Laughing. Leaning slightly toward each other to be heard over the noise. He caught fragments plans, inside jokes he didn’t recognize, a shared memory that landed with easy familiarity.

At one point, Saanvi laughed loudly.

It sounded different.

He told himself that was his imagination.

Halfway through the ride, the man glanced back at Advay again.

“So,” he said casually, “how long have you two been…?”

Saanvi choked slightly. “What?”

“Together,” the man clarified.

Advay froze.

She laughed immediately. “Oh no. God, no.”

The words came fast. Too fast.

“We’re just friends,” she continued, waving it off. “Barely even that. He just tolerates me in the mornings.”

The man chuckled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She smiled. “I’m very persuasive.”

Advay smiled too.

It felt wrong on his face.

The rest of the ride passed in a blur. When the man got off at his stop, he waved cheerfully.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she said easily. “Text me.”

The doors closed.

Silence rushed in to fill the space he’d left behind.

Saanvi slid back into her usual seat beside Advay, stretching her legs out.

“Sorry about that,” she said lightly. “Didn’t mean to hijack your peace.”

“It’s fine,” Advay replied. “You didn’t.”

She studied him for a moment. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Too immediate.

She hesitated, then nodded, turning to look out the window.

They rode the rest of the way in quiet.

Later much later Advay would realize what hurt wasn’t the just friends part.

It was the barely even that.

The casualness of it.

The ease.

He had spent two years cataloguing moments, protecting space, honoring restraint.

And in the end, he hadn’t even qualified as something that needed explanation.

The bus stopped at his apartment.

He stood, adjusted his bag.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she replied.

Their voices sounded normal.

That was the worst part.

Because some misunderstandings didn’t explode.

They just settled quietly right where everything else had once felt safe.

Late-night messages about work that drifted into jokes. Shared lunches that lasted longer than intended. Elevator rides that stretched awkwardly when no one else got in.

Once, during a power outage at the office, they’d sat on the staircase together, phones lighting up the dark, talking about childhood memories.

She’d asked him then, casually, “Why don’t you ever talk about relationships?”

He’d shrugged. “Nothing interesting to say.”

She’d studied him for a second too long. “That’s hard to believe.”

He hadn’t answered.

Two years of almosts stacked quietly between them, unaddressed and unnamed.

Saanvi watched him now with that same careful attention.

She had learned his tells without trying.

The way his fingers hovered above his phone when he was distracted. The way his jaw tightened when something bothered him. The way he leaned back slightly when he wanted distance.

Right now, he was relaxed. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

She liked sitting beside him. Liked the ease of it. Liked that he didn’t try to impress her.

What unsettled her were the moments when his attention sharpened unexpectedly. When he noticed things others didn’t. When he stepped in without being asked.

Like just now.

She had seen him signal the driver. Had seen the instinctive way he’d reacted.

It wasn’t casual.

It was care.

And care, when left unspoken, had a way of becoming confusing.

Saanvi looked away first.

She told herself it was nothing. A habit, maybe. Advay had always been like this alert when it mattered, precise when action was required. It didn’t have to mean more than that.

Except it kept happening.

The way he noticed when she skipped lunch. The way he asked about her day without asking, phrasing concern as observation. The way he remembered details she forgot she’d shared.

He never framed it as interest.

Which somehow made it harder to dismiss.

The bus moved steadily now, traffic thinning as they crossed a familiar stretch of road. Saanvi shifted in her seat, adjusting her bag, creating space she didn’t strictly need.

Advay didn’t react.

That, too, unsettled her.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said finally.

He glanced at her. “So have you.”

“Temporary,” she replied. “I’m thinking.”

He nodded, accepting that explanation without pressing.

She wished he would press.

That was the problem, she realized. Not his silence, but his restraint. The way he always stopped just short of asking for anything. The way he made room for her without stepping into it himself.

She turned to look at him again, properly this time.

“You know,” she said lightly, “most people would’ve made a bigger deal about today.”

“About what?”

“Stopping the bus,” she said. “Playing hero.”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I did the obvious thing.”

She smiled faintly. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Care,” she said. Then, quickly, before he could react: “Practically.”

He stiffened. Just a fraction.

She saw it.

There it was he lean back, the almost-invisible retreat.

“I don’t” he began, then stopped. “It wasn’t a big thing.”

“I know,” she said. “I didn’t say it was.”

They sat in silence again, but this one felt different. Charged. Watchful.

Saanvi exhaled slowly.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even hurt.

She was… uncertain.

Two years of almosts had taught her patience. But patience had limits. And familiarity, unchecked, could turn into something that looked a lot like intimacy without ever being named.

That was dangerous territory.

Because she didn’t know how to protect herself from something that refused to declare itself.

The bus slowed near her stop.

She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, then paused.

“Hey, Advay?”

“Yes?”

She hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice.

“Sometimes,” she said carefully, “you don’t have to wait for the perfect moment.”

His gaze met hers, steady but guarded.

“I know,” he said.

She wasn’t sure he did.

She stepped off the bus, the doors closing behind her with a soft hiss.

As it pulled away, Saanvi stood there for a moment longer than usual, watching it disappear into traffic.

Care was easy.

Clarity was not.

And she had the unsettling feeling that if one of them didn’t speak soon, the silence would start making decisions for them.

“You look thoughtful,” Saanvi said.

“I’m waiting,” Advay replied. “There’s a difference.”

She glanced at the machine. “It’s broken.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why are you still hopeful?”

“Denial is a coping mechanism.”

She laughed, leaning her weight onto one hip as the line stalled. Someone ahead of them sighed dramatically, as if volume might fix technology.

“You always do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t care,” she said. “While standing in line anyway.”

“I care selectively.”

“About coffee.”

“And deadlines.”

She tilted her head. “And?”

He hesitated. Just a beat too long.

She noticed.

“Nothing else?” she prompted, tone light, eyes sharp.

He shrugged. “That’s an extensive list.”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Right,” she said. “Silly question.”

The machine chose that moment to whirr back to life, victorious. The line surged forward.

When it was their turn, Saanvi ordered first. “One cappuccino. Extra strong. No sugar.”

Advay blinked. “Since when?”

She glanced at him. “Since always.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” she said easily. “You just don’t notice everything.”

The words landed softer than accusation, but they landed.

He didn’t respond immediately. Paid for both coffees instead, because that was simpler than unpacking the moment.

They moved aside, waiting.

“You know,” she said, after a pause, “most people would’ve asked why I changed my order.”

“I assumed there was a reason.”

“Like?”

“Preference,” he said. “Mood. Lack of sleep.”

She smiled faintly. “You make people sound like algorithms.”

“It’s efficient.”

She looked at him then really looked.

“And what about feelings?” she asked. “Where do those fit?”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“They don’t,” he said. “Not here.”

“Hmm.” She accepted her coffee, fingers wrapping around the cup. “That explains a lot.”

He took his own cup, the heat grounding, familiar.

“Does it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, sipping. “You’re very good at noticing. Not so great at naming.”

“That’s not true.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Name something.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Changed course.

“You’re going to burn your tongue,” he said instead.

She laughed, sharp and surprised. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The dodge,” she said. “You always do that.”

He frowned. “I was being helpful.”

“I know,” she said gently. “You always are.”

That was the problem.

They stood there for a moment, coffee cooling between their hands, the noise of the cafeteria swelling around them.

Saanvi took another sip, then exhaled slowly.

“Come on,” she said, turning toward the floor. “We’ll be late.”

Again.

As they walked back, Advay felt it that quiet shift, subtle but undeniable. Like something had been named without being spoken. Like a line had been drawn neither of them remembered agreeing to.

He followed her to his desk, sat down, stared at his screen without seeing it.

Across the aisle, Saanvi set her coffee down, fingers lingering on the rim.

She hadn’t meant to push.

But she was beginning to wonder how long she could keep pretending that his silence didn’t answer questions she hadn’t asked out loud.

And Advay—watching lines of code scroll past, untouched wondered when exactly caution had started to feel so much like cowardice.

The day moved on.

But something had shifted.

And this time, work didn’t quite manage to hide it.

“That realization unsettled him.”

Anurag laughed, a little uncertainly. “I’ll, uh, grab my coffee.”

“Bold,” Advay said. “Very on brand.”

Saanvi groaned. “Please stop talking.”

“I can’t,” Advay replied. “I’ve already started.”

The machine beeped triumphantly. Saanvi’s cup slid out first. She reached for it instinctively—and Anurag reached at the same time.

Their fingers brushed.

“Oh—sorry,” Anurag said.

“No, it’s fine,” Saanvi replied, smiling. “Go ahead.”

Advay watched the exchange like it was happening behind glass.

“Actually,” Anurag said, glancing at her cup, “I was wondering if you’re free for lunch today.”

The words were casual. Easy. As if they’d been rehearsed in advance.

Saanvi blinked. Just once.

Advay felt the moment stretch.

“I mean,” Anurag continued quickly, “only if you don’t already have plans.”

She hesitated.

Not long. But long enough.

Advay stared at the machine, willing it to dispense his coffee faster, slower—anything but now.

“I might,” she said finally. “But I’m not sure yet.”

Anurag smiled, encouraged. “Let me know?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

That was it.

Nothing dramatic. No declaration. No obvious rejection.

Just possibility.

Advay’s coffee slid out then. He grabbed it without looking, the heat biting into his fingers.

“Careful,” Saanvi said automatically. “It’s hot.”

“I know,” he replied.

His voice came out sharper than intended.

She glanced at him, something flickering across her expression—surprise, maybe concern—but Anurag was still there, talking, filling space easily.

“I’ll see you later,” Anurag said to her. Then, to Advay, “Nice seeing you.”

“Likewise,” Advay replied, polite, distant.

Anurag walked away.

The space he left behind felt louder than when he’d been standing there.

They stood side by side, coffee cups in hand, the hum of the cafeteria pressing in around them.

“Well,” Saanvi said lightly, after a beat, “that was… a lot.”

“Was it?” Advay asked.

She turned to him. “You’re in a mood.”

“No,” he said. “I’m caffeinated.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He took a sip of coffee that was still too hot and didn’t flinch.

“You didn’t answer him,” he said, too casually.

“I said I’d let him know.”

“That’s an answer.”

She studied him now, more carefully. “Why do you care?”

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t accusing.

It was curious.

And that somehow made it worse.

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I was just… observing.”

“Right,” she said slowly.

They started walking back toward their floor.

“You know,” she added, “people ask other people to lunch all the time.”

“I’m aware.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

She stopped walking.

He took two steps before realizing she hadn’t followed.

Advay turned back.

Saanvi was looking at him with that same careful attention she’d had on the staircase during the power outage. The kind that didn’t miss much.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

“Doing what?”

“Pulling back,” she replied. “Acting like this doesn’t affect you.”

“It doesn’t,” he said.

The lie sat between them, obvious and awkward.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

That was all she said.

But something in her tone changed—not hurt exactly, but resolved.

She walked ahead, leaving him half a step behind for the first time all morning.

Advay followed, chest tight, replaying the conversation in fragments.

He told himself it shouldn’t matter. That it didn’t change anything.

But the truth settled uncomfortably, refusing to be ignored.

He hadn’t lost anything.

He hadn’t claimed anything either.

And somehow, that felt worse.

Because this time, the misunderstanding wasn’t about what she felt.

It was about what she thought he didn’t.

This felt like awareness.

And awareness changed things.

Saanvi took another sip of her coffee, eyes still on her screen, watching him only through reflection. Advay hadn’t gone back to typing. His posture was familiar—upright, contained—but there was tension in it now, like a held breath.

He was listening.

Not to her.

To the room.

To where Anurag’s voice surfaced and disappeared again.

That, more than anything else, unsettled her.

Because Advay didn’t usually track people who didn’t matter.

She set her cup down carefully, the ceramic making a soft, deliberate sound. He flinched at it. Just barely.

Interesting.

For two years, she’d grown used to his steadiness. To the way he showed up without fuss. To the fact that he never competed for attention, never marked territory, never asked questions that came with expectations attached.

She’d liked that about him.

It felt safe.

But safety, she was realizing, could blur into avoidance if left alone too long.

Her phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. A meeting in ten minutes. She dismissed it without looking.

“You’re going to burn that coffee,” she said lightly.

He blinked, as if surfacing. “It’s fine.”

“You say that about everything.”

“It usually is.”

She turned in her chair to face him properly now. Not teasing. Not casual.

Observant.

“Is it?” she asked.

He met her gaze, startled by the directness.

“Yes,” he said after a second. Then, softer, “It should be.”

There it was again.

That careful phrasing.

That distance disguised as reason.

Saanvi nodded slowly, like she accepted the answer.

But inside, something clicked into place.

She wasn’t misreading him.

And if she was going to keep sitting beside him every morning—if she was going to keep sharing silences and jokes and late coffees—then pretending this was nothing was starting to feel dishonest.

Not to him.

To herself.

She turned back to her desk, fingers moving over the keyboard as if nothing had shifted.

But her mind was already a step ahead, testing possibilities, imagining small changes. Questions asked differently. Silences not rescued.

If Advay needed perfect timing, she wouldn’t force a confession.

But she could stop cushioning the space for him.

She could let the quiet stretch.

Across the aisle, Advay finally started typing again. The sound of keys filled the space between them, steady and familiar.

Saanvi listened to it with new attention.

Awareness, she thought, wasn’t dangerous on its own.

What came after it was.

And this time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be the only one pretending not to notice.

Because it made silence feel like a choice.

And choices, once visible, demanded accountability.

The lobby was louder than the elevator had been. Security beeps. Phones ringing. People leaving in tired clusters, already halfway out of their work personas.

Saanvi slowed near the glass doors, checking something on her phone that Advay suspected she wasn’t actually reading.

He stopped beside her.

Neither spoke.

Outside, December evening light had softened into that brief golden hour Hyderabad sometimes allowed before surrendering to traffic and dust and headlights.

“You heading straight home?” she asked, still looking at her screen.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

That sound again. Neutral on the surface. Thoughtful underneath.

They stepped outside together, the cool air settling between them like a third presence.

The company bus hadn’t arrived yet. A small crowd had already gathered near the stop, conversations overlapping in tired, familiar rhythms.

Saanvi moved slightly ahead, then stopped, turning back just enough that he had to close the distance.

“Advay.”

He looked up.

“You know you don’t have to… manage everything, right?”

He blinked. “I don’t.”

“You do,” she said gently. “People. Situations. Yourself.”

“That’s called being functional.”

“That’s called being careful,” she corrected.

The word sat between them.

Careful.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Not uninterested.

Careful.

“I like being careful,” he said finally.

“I know,” she replied.

That was the problem again.

She always knew.

The bus headlights turned the corner, scattering long shadows across the pavement.

People shifted forward automatically.

Saanvi adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then said too casually:

“Someone asked me to lunch today.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

He swallowed. “You didn’t say no either.”

She studied his face, searching not for reaction, but for truth.

“Do you want me to?” she asked.

The world didn’t stop.

No dramatic silence.

No cinematic pause.

Just traffic. Horns. People boarding the bus.

But for Advay, the moment narrowed sharply.

Cleanly.

Dangerously.

He could say:

It’s your choice.

Why would it matter?

Do what you want.

Safe answers.

Expected answers.

Careful answers.

Instead, he said nothing.

And the absence of words felt louder than anything he could have chosen.

Saanvi held his gaze for one more second.

Then she nodded, once.

“Okay,” she said softly.

They boarded the bus in silence.

Not the old silence.

Not comfortable.

Not familiar.

New.

Fragile.

And as Advay slid into his usual seat third row from the back, window side he understood something that unsettled him far more than attraction ever had.

Silence didn’t protect things.

Sometimes, it decided them.

The rain started without warning.

One minute, the evening was heavy with heat and dust. The next, the sky opened like it had been waiting all day.

People scattered under awnings, bags over heads, phones hidden inside shirts. The office entrance turned into controlled chaos.

Saanvi stood under the glass canopy, watching the sheets of rain bounce off the pavement.

Advay stopped beside her, slightly out of breath from jogging across the parking lot.

“You’re drenched,” she said.

“You’re stating the obvious.”

“You hate getting wet.”

“I hate unpredictability,” he corrected.

She smiled faintly.

The rain got heavier. Loud enough that conversation required effort. Close enough that silence felt intentional.

Across the driveway, someone ran toward them through the rain.

Anurag.

Of course.

He skidded slightly as he reached the canopy, shaking water from his hair, laughing breathlessly.

“This is insane,” he said. “Road’s already flooding.”

Saanvi laughed. Easy. Natural. Familiar.

Advay felt something tighten in his chest.

“You heading to the bus?” Anurag asked her.

“Yeah,” she said. “Unless I learn teleportation in the next five minutes.”

“I brought my car,” he said, casual but deliberate. “I can drop you.”

The rain got louder.

Or maybe Advay’s pulse did.

“That’s okay,” Saanvi said automatically. “Bus is fine.”

“It’s pouring,” Anurag said. “And traffic’s going to be a nightmare. It’s literally on my way.”

Advay stared straight ahead.

This was reasonable. Logical. Sensible.

Safe.

“Come on,” Anurag said gently. “It’s just a ride.”

Saanvi hesitated.

Not long.

But long enough.

Then she glanced sideways.

At Advay.

Just once.

“What do you think?” she asked.

The question hit like impact.

He could say:

Yeah, go. Makes sense.

Safer than the bus.

Why are you asking me?

Instead, his mouth went dry.

“You don’t need my opinion,” he said.

The rain filled the silence.

Saanvi watched him for a second longer.

Then nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Anurag smiled, relieved. “Cool. Let’s go before it gets worse.”

They stepped out into the rain.

Advay didn’t move.

He watched Saanvi run toward the car beside Anurag, her hair coming loose, laughter lost under thunder.

The passenger door opened.

She got in.

The car lights turned on.

And just like that—

Routine broke.

Later That Night- Bus Stop Shelter

The rain hadn’t stopped.

The bus was delayed.

Advay stood under a flickering streetlight, water dripping steadily from the edge of the shelter roof.

By the time Saanvi ran toward him, she was half soaked again.

He looked up, stunned.

“You didn’t go home?” he asked.

“Traffic,” she said, breathless. “Complete mess. I got out halfway.”

“With him?”

“Yes.”

The word sat between them.

The rain softened slightly, turning from downpour to steady fall.

They stood too close under the narrow shelter.

“Why did you get down?” he asked.

She looked at him like the question annoyed her.

“Because I wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She stepped closer.

“It is if you understand it.”

He swallowed.

Water dripped from his hair onto his collar. He didn’t move.

“You asked me what I thought,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t answer.”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

The rain seemed to pause.

Saanvi’s expression changed. Softer. Careful.

“Advay,” she said, “you’re allowed to—”

“I notice things,” he said suddenly. “I notice when you laugh differently with different people. I notice when you’re tired but pretend you’re not. I notice when you choose the aisle seat when you’re overwhelmed.”

She didn’t move.

“I notice when someone else stands too close,” he finished.

The words hung there.

Dangerous.

Real.

Unprotected.

Her voice was very quiet when she spoke.

“Why?”

He opened his mouth.

This was it.

The moment.

Two years of almosts balancing on one sentence.

“Because—”

Headlights cut across them.

The bus.

Brakes screeching. Doors opening. People rushing forward.

Reality flooding back in.

Advay stepped back first.

The spell broke.

Saanvi exhaled slowly.

“Come on,” she said softly.

They boarded.

Sat beside each other.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

But something had shifted.

Irreversibly.

The next evening, the rain was gone.

The city had reset itself like nothing had happened. Roads dry. Sky clear. People back to routine.

Advay found Saanvi near the exit gate, scrolling through her phone.

“Bus?” he asked.

“Hmm,” she said, not looking up.

They walked side by side.

Not touching.

Not joking.

Not quite strangers.

Halfway to the bus stop, he said, “You could’ve just gone home.”

She stopped walking.

“What?”

“Yesterday,” he said. “You didn’t have to get down from the car.”

She stared at him. “I told you. I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t explain why.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Why does it matter to you now?” she asked.

“Because—”

He stopped.

Because what?

Because he noticed?

Because he cared?

Because the thought of her in someone else’s car had sat in his chest like something heavy and permanent?

“I just think,” he said instead, “you complicate things unnecessarily.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew.

Too late.

Her expression went still.

“Unnecessarily,” she repeated.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” she said quietly.

People moved around them, noise swelling, life continuing like nothing had cracked open.

“You know what, Advay?” she said. “Not everything is a system you can optimize.”

“I know that.”

“No,” she said. “You don’t.”

The bus pulled up behind them.

Neither moved.

“For two years,” she said, voice low, steady, “I’ve been meeting you halfway. On your pace. On your comfort level. On your silence.”

He blinked, stunned.

“And yesterday,” she continued, “I thought maybe you were finally going to say something real.”

The words hit like impact.

“But you didn’t,” she finished.

The bus doors opened.

She walked in first.

Didn’t look back.

The next few days were… normal.

Painfully normal.

She still sat beside him.

Still said good morning.

Still shared coffee runs.

But she stopped filling silence for him.

Stopped asking questions that opened doors.

Stopped waiting for him to step through.

Advay felt it immediately.

The distance.

Not physical.

Emotional.

Like someone had turned down the volume on something he hadn’t realized he depended on.

She laughed with others more.

Talked longer with Anurag.

Left meetings without waiting for him.

It wasn’t dramatic.

That was the worst part.

The bus ride felt longer.

Saanvi scrolled through her phone.

Advay stared out the window.

At one point, their hands brushed when the bus turned.

She moved hers away first.

“Sorry,” she said.

They had never apologized for that before.

That hurt more than it should have.

Halfway through the ride, he said quietly:

“Are you… okay?”

“Yes,” she said.

And he knew.

That was the problem.

It happened three nights later.

Late.

Office mostly empty.

Saanvi stood near the elevator, bag slung over one shoulder.

“I’m heading out,” she said.

He nodded.

She pressed the button.

Doors opened.

They stepped inside.

Silence.

Then—

“I don’t like it,” he said.

She frowned. “What?”

“You,” he said. “Being… different with me.”

The elevator hummed downward.

“That’s because I stopped pretending,” she said.

His chest tightened.

“I notice you,” he said suddenly.

She froze.

“I always have,” he continued. “I notice when you’re tired. When you fake being okay. When you laugh just a second too late at jokes you don’t like.”

Her eyes softened.

“And I hate,” he said quietly, “that I didn’t say anything before someone else got to stand next to you like it was normal.”

Silence.

Heavy. Real. Terrifying.

The elevator dinged.

Doors opened.

People stepped in.

Colleagues. Noise. Laughter. Normal life.

Saanvi stepped out without looking at him.

“Advay,” she said quietly, back still turned, “you should’ve said that before.”

And then she walked away.

That was the problem.

Because it meant Advay couldn’t dismiss him.

There was nothing obvious to push against. No arrogance. No insecurity. No performative charm he could privately roll his eyes at and move on.

Just competence.

Clarity.

Ease.

Advay focused on his plate, chewing slower than necessary.

Saanvi continued talking, but he noticed the shift in her too—not toward Anurag, not away from him. Just… open. Engaged. Unfiltered in a way she hadn’t been with him lately.

She laughed at something Anurag said. Not louder. Not softer.

Just natural.

That word again.

Natural.

Advay hated that too.

“You coming for the trek?” Anurag asked, halfway through his meal.

Saanvi shrugged. “Still deciding.”

“It’s a good route,” he said. “Not too crowded. Decent climb without being brutal.”

She nodded, interested. “You’ve been?”

“Couple of times.”

Advay sipped water he didn’t need.

“You should come,” Anurag added casually. “Good reset from work.”

The invitation wasn’t exclusive. It wasn’t even pointed.

It was just… open.

Advay knew that.

And still—

“I’m not a trekking person,” he said before he could stop himself.

Neither of them had asked him.

Anurag nodded easily. “Fair.”

No push. No persuasion. No subtle judgment.

Just acceptance.

Advay felt irrationally irritated by how reasonable that was.

Lunch ended without incident. Chairs scraped. People drifted back toward work.

Saanvi walked beside him toward the elevators.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, not looking at him.

“Yes.”

She hummed. The sound carried more doubt than agreement.

“He’s good,” she said after a moment.

Advay knew who she meant.

“Yes,” he said.

“He’s… easy to talk to.”

“I noticed.”

She glanced at him then, measuring something.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said.

“I didn’t say it did.”

The elevator dinged open.

They stepped in.

Silence.

Then—

“You don’t have to compete,” she said, very quietly.

He stiffened.

“I’m not.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what worries me.”

He looked at her sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said carefully, “you disappear instead of stepping forward.”

The doors opened to their floor.

She stepped out first.

Advay followed, chest tight, words stuck somewhere between pride and fear.

That was the problem.

Because it meant Advay couldn’t dismiss him.

There was nothing obvious to push against. No arrogance. No insecurity. No performative charm he could privately roll his eyes at and move on.

Just competence.

Clarity.

Ease.

Advay focused on his plate, chewing slower than necessary.

Saanvi continued talking, but he noticed the shift in her too—not toward Anurag, not away from him. Just… open. Engaged. Unfiltered in a way she hadn’t been with him lately.

She laughed at something Anurag said. Not louder. Not softer.

Just natural.

That word again.

Natural.

Advay hated that too.

“You coming for the trek?” Anurag asked, halfway through his meal.

Saanvi shrugged. “Still deciding.”

“It’s a good route,” he said. “Not too crowded. Decent climb without being brutal.”

She nodded, interested. “You’ve been?”

“Couple of times.”

Advay sipped water he didn’t need.

“You should come,” Anurag added casually. “Good reset from work.”

The invitation wasn’t exclusive. It wasn’t even pointed.

It was just… open.

Advay knew that.

And still—

“I’m not a trekking person,” he said before he could stop himself.

Neither of them had asked him.

Anurag nodded easily. “Fair.”

No push. No persuasion. No subtle judgment.

Just acceptance.

Advay felt irrationally irritated by how reasonable that was.

Lunch ended without incident. Chairs scraped. People drifted back toward work.

Saanvi walked beside him toward the elevators.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, not looking at him.

“Yes.”

She hummed. The sound carried more doubt than agreement.

“He’s good,” she said after a moment.

Advay knew who she meant.

“Yes,” he said.

“He’s… easy to talk to.”

“I noticed.”

She glanced at him then, measuring something.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said.

“I didn’t say it did.”

The elevator dinged open.

They stepped in.

Silence.

Then—

“You don’t have to compete,” she said, very quietly.

He stiffened.

“I’m not.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what worries me.”

He looked at her sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said carefully, “you disappear instead of stepping forward.”

The doors opened to their floor.

She stepped out first.

Advay followed, chest tight, words stuck somewhere between pride and fear.

Friday evening arrived heavy with end-of-week exhaustion.

Not dramatic exhaustion. Not burnout.

Just the quiet kind — the kind that made emotional ambiguity feel heavier than it should.

The team was packing up early. Someone mentioned drinks. Someone else escaped before plans formed.

Saanvi stood near her desk, replying to messages she wasn’t fully reading.

“Heading out?”

She looked up.

Anurag stood beside her desk, hands in pockets, posture easy as always.

“Yeah,” she said.

He nodded once. Then — carefully, like he’d thought about this —

“I was going to grab dinner. Nothing fancy. There’s a place near Jubilee Hills.”

Not pushy.

Not performative.

Just… offered.

“You can say no,” he added. “I just thought I’d ask properly.”

Properly.

The word settled strangely.

Saanvi glanced across the floor.

Advay’s chair was empty.

Her chest tightened — not sharply. Just… tired.

Two years of almosts had weight.

Unsaid things had weight.

Waiting had weight.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

Anurag blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she repeated. “Dinner sounds… nice.”

Relief crossed his face. Not victory. Just relief.

“Okay,” he said. “Text me when you leave?”

She nodded.

He walked away.

Saanvi sat down slowly.

Not excited.

Not guilty.

Just… tired of standing in emotional doorways that never opened.

Advay didn’t know why he called.

It was 11:48 PM.

The number rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hello?”

Her voice was softer at night. Less filtered. More real.

He swallowed. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she said. “I was awake.”

Silence.

He almost hung up right then.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Another lie.

“I heard,” he said. “About dinner.”

She didn’t ask how.

“Okay,” she said.

More silence.

The kind that used to be comfortable.

Not anymore.

“You should go,” he said.

“I know.”

“That’s not—” He stopped. Started again. “You deserve… clarity.”

Her breath caught slightly.

“Advay…”

“I notice you,” he said suddenly.

There it was.

Raw. Unbuffered.

“I always have,” he continued, voice low. “I notice when you’re tired. When you pretend you’re not waiting for something you won’t ask for.”

Her breathing changed.

“Saanvi, I—”

He stopped.

Because this was it.

The sentence that would change everything.

He imagined saying it.

I don’t want you to go with him.

I don’t want to be just routine to you.

I think I—

Fear moved faster than courage.

“I just wanted to make sure you got home safe,” he finished instead.

The silence that followed was different.

Not soft.

Not patient.

Just… quiet.

“Thanks,” she said.

Polite. Careful. Distant.

“I should sleep,” she added.

“Yeah,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Advay.”

Call ended.

Advay stared at his phone long after the screen went dark.

Across the city, Saanvi sat on her bed, phone still in her hand.

And for the first time in two years, she let herself consider something she’d been avoiding.

Maybe he wouldn’t say it.

Maybe he couldn’t.

And maybe she couldn’t keep waiting for a sentence that might never arrive.

He was simply willing to risk a clear answer.

Advay stared at the closed elevator doors until his reflection blurred into the brushed steel.

Careful kept things intact.

Intact kept things… suspended.

Unbroken.

Unspoken.

Unclaimed.

He pushed the thought away, grabbed his bag, and walked toward the stairs instead of waiting for the next elevator.

The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and floor cleaner. Quiet. Echoing. Honest in a way the office floor wasn’t.

By the time he reached the ground floor, his pulse had steadied—but the thought hadn’t left.

Risk a clear answer.

Outside, the night air felt cooler than it had any right to be for the city. Traffic noise filled the gaps where his thoughts tried to settle into something comfortable.

They didn’t.

Later — His Room

His phone lit up once.

Slack notification.

Another.

Then

A message from Saanvi.

Home?

One word.

No emoji.

No softness buffer.

Yeah, he typed.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Came back.

Okay. Good.

That was it.

He stared at the chat window longer than necessary.

Two years ago, that would’ve been enough. Routine check-in. Familiar. Safe.

Now it felt like standing at the edge of something that required movement.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He typed:

Did you have dinner?

Deleted it.

Typed:

Are you okay?

Deleted it.

Typed:

Are you going tomorrow?

Stopped.

The trek.

The thing he’d already decided he wasn’t part of.

He locked his phone instead.

Careful.

Next Morning- Bus Stop

She was already there.

Standing slightly apart from the main group, earbuds in but not playing anything—he could tell. She did that when she didn’t want to be approached but didn’t want to look closed off either.

He stopped a few feet away.

For a second, he considered leaving it at that.

Routine.

Safe.

Intact.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

And something in her expression softened—not relief, not excitement.

Recognition.

“Morning,” she said, pulling one earbud out.

“Morning.”

They stood side by side, not touching.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Lie.

She nodded like she knew.

The bus arrived.

They boarded.

Sat in their usual seats.

But the choreography felt… off.

Like muscle memory performing steps that no longer matched the music.

Halfway through the ride, she said quietly:

“Anurag’s nice.”

Advay nodded.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to dinner with him tonight.”

There it was.

Not dramatic.

Not testing.

Just information.

“Okay,” he said.

His voice didn’t break.

That almost hurt more.

She studied him for a second.

Then nodded once.

And turned toward the window.

The city blurred past.

Advay stared at the reflection of both of them in the glass.

Careful keeps things intact.

But intact didn’t mean chosen.

And for the first time, he understood something with uncomfortable clarity.

If he kept choosing safety, someone else would eventually choose her.

Not maliciously.

Not competitively.

Just… clearly.

And clarity, he was beginning to understand, was its own kind of courage.

Dinner Scene- Something Is Missing

The restaurant was warm in a way that felt intentional.

Low lights. Quiet music. The kind of place designed to make conversations feel easier than they were.

Saanvi sat across from Anurag, menu open but unread.

“So,” he said, easy as always, “work crisis finally over?”

“For now,” she said.

He smiled. “That usually means until Monday.”

She laughed. Natural. Comfortable.

Anurag was good company.

He asked questions.

He listened to answers.

He didn’t interrupt or overfill silence.

The food arrived quickly.

She tried to focus on taste. Texture. The way steam curled off her plate.

Instead, she noticed small things.

The way he sat forward when she spoke.

The way he made space for her words.

The way he wasn’t trying to impress her.

It was… healthy.

And yet

“Where’d you disappear to?” he asked gently.

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“You zoned out.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Just tired.”

He nodded. Accepted that answer.

Didn’t push.

And suddenly she missed being pushed.

Missed someone noticing the difference between tired and quiet and avoiding.

Missed someone who watched reactions instead of just listening to words.

Advay would’ve noticed by now, she thought.

The realization landed without warning.

She set her fork down.

“You okay?” Anurag asked.

“Yes,” she said quickly.

Lie.

The rest of dinner passed pleasantly.

Politely.

Easily.

And on the cab ride home, Saanvi stared out the window and understood something with uncomfortable clarity:

Good wasn’t always enough.

Advay Makes One Risky Move

Advay stood outside the trek registration desk Saturday morning.

He hated everything about this.

The noise.

The unpredictability.

The fact that he had no plan beyond show up.

He almost left twice.

Then he saw her.

Saanvi stood near the sign-in table, hair tied back, backpack slung over one shoulder, laughing at something someone said.

She looked… alive.

The word hit him hard.

Then she saw him.

Her laughter stopped mid-breath.

“Advay?”

He nodded once.

“Hi.”

She walked toward him slowly.

“What are you doing here?”

He swallowed.

“Trying something inefficient,” he said.

Her eyes searched his face.

“You hate trekking.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then

“Why are you here?” she asked softly.

Because I can’t keep watching you walk into other lives like I’m just background.

Instead, he said:

“I didn’t want to be the reason I didn’t come.”

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was honest.

And for Advay — that was risk.

Rain Callback Scene — Parallel Almost Confession

Halfway through the trek, rain started.

Light at first.

Then heavier.

People scattered toward tree cover and rock ledges.

Saanvi and Advay ended up under a narrow outcrop, rain hitting stone around them in steady sheets.

“Full circle,” she said quietly.

He knew what she meant.

Last rain.

Last almost confession.

Water dripped from his hair. He didn’t care.

“I almost said something that night,” he said.

She looked at him.

“I know.”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

Her expression softened. Broke slightly.

“You were,” she said. “You always were.”

The rain got louder.

Closer.

“I’m not good at… this,” he said. “Saying things when they matter.”

“I know.”

“But I’m worse at not saying them now.”

Her breath caught.

This was it.

Again.

The same cliff edge.

But this time

“I don’t like the idea of you building a life where I’m just… background,” he said.

Silence.

Rain. Wind. Breath.

“Advay…” she whispered.

“I’m not asking you to stop living,” he said quickly. “I just”

He stopped.

Fear again.

But smaller now.

“I want to be someone you consider,” he finished.

Not a confession.

But not safe either.

She stepped closer.

Rain mist cooling the space between them.

“You always were,” she said quietly.

And somehow that hurt.

Because it meant he’d been the one standing outside the door.

Advay gathered his things slowly.

Not because he needed to.

Because movement felt like decision, and decision felt like commitment, and he wasn’t sure yet what he was committing to.

Around him, the conference room emptied in the usual sequence—chairs pushed in half-heartedly, abandoned markers rolling slowly toward the edge of the whiteboard tray, laptops snapping shut like punctuation marks at the end of conversations no one would remember by Monday.

Saanvi was still seated.

Not working.

Not distracted.

Just… present.

She flipped her pen once between her fingers, then capped it with a quiet click. The sound felt louder than it should have.

“You zoning out,” she said, not looking at him.

It wasn’t a question.

Advay slid his notebook into his bag. “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she said mildly.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

They stood at the same time, an old choreography neither of them acknowledged anymore.

Two years of shared exits.

Two years of walking out of rooms together without deciding to.

In the hallway, fluorescent lights hummed with institutional indifference. People moved past them in small clusters, voices lowered into post-meeting decompression.

Saanvi walked beside him, not touching, not distant. The familiar middle space.

“You didn’t say much,” she said.

“It was covered.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He knew.

He didn’t answer anyway.

They reached the glass doors that separated meeting rooms from the open floor. For a second, their reflections overlapped—two shapes moving in practiced parallel.

Advay pushed the door open.

Saanvi walked through first.

He watched the way she moved—efficient, grounded, unhurried even when she was busy. Like she trusted space to exist for her.

He wondered when he’d started noticing that.

Or when he’d started admitting he did.

Across the Floor

Back at their desks, routine resumed like muscle memory.

Monitors woke. Keyboards resumed their quiet percussion. Someone laughed too loudly at something only vaguely funny.

Advay sat down.

Opened code he’d already reviewed twice.

Scrolled.

Stopped.

Scrolled back.

Across the aisle, Saanvi leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head before settling forward again, fingers moving quickly across her keyboard.

She was focused.

Grounded.

Present.

He used to like that.

He still did.

That was the problem.

His phone buzzed.

Slack message.

Then another.

Then—

A calendar reminder for something he didn’t care about.

He dismissed it.

His attention drifted anyway.

Toward her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It felt like a magnet he didn’t remember installing.

4:37 PM

By late afternoon, the office energy shifted into something looser. End-of-day restlessness. The collective permission to think about life outside fluorescent lighting.

Saanvi stood, grabbing her mug.

“Coffee,” she announced to no one in particular.

She didn’t look at him.

But she slowed just enough near his desk that he could join if he wanted.

Old pattern.

Old invitation.

Advay stared at his screen for two seconds longer than necessary.

Then stood.

They walked to the cafeteria in silence.

Not awkward.

Not easy either.

Just… aware.

Cafeteria Line

The machine was working today.

Small mercy.

Saanvi stood ahead of him, scrolling through her phone with one hand, tapping her cup against the counter with the other.

“You going home this weekend?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“Probably is vague.”

“I like vague.”

She hummed.

“I might go out tomorrow,” she said.

Neutral tone.

Information, not announcement.

“With?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She turned slightly.

“Friends.”

Pause.

“And Anurag,” she added.

The coffee machine hissed loudly.

Advay nodded.

“Okay.”

She studied him for half a second longer than necessary.

Then turned back to the counter.

They collected coffee.

Moved aside.

Stood shoulder to shoulder.

Not touching.

Not moving away either.

6:12 PM — The Walk Out

They left together.

Again.

Habit was a dangerous architect.

Outside, the sky was already dimming, city lights flickering awake in uneven constellations.

“You ever think,” Saanvi said suddenly, “we got too comfortable?”

He swallowed.

“With routine?” he asked.

“With not asking questions,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

Traffic roared past them.

Somewhere nearby, someone argued into a phone.

Normal city noise.

Abnormal moment.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that patience meant care.”

He looked at her.

“And now?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Now I think patience can just be fear with better PR.”

The words landed softly.

Direct hit anyway.

That Night — Parallel Loneliness

Later—

Advay lay in bed, staring at the outline of the window again.

What if silence wasn’t kindness?

What if it was just… refusal?

Across the city—

Saanvi sat cross-legged on her bed, phone face down beside her.

She thought about dinner conversations that were easy.

About laughter that required no translation.

About comfort that asked nothing.

And about the one person who made comfort feel like risk.

Emotional Thread Deepening

Familiarity had built them a house.

Routine had furnished it.

Silence had locked the doors.

And now

Both of them were standing inside, realizing neither had ever asked if the other wanted to stay

Or maybe, they just need better timing.

She stepped out into the lobby light without waiting to see if he followed.

Advay did.

Of course he did.

The lobby was nearly empty just security guards switching shifts, a cleaning cart parked near the glass doors, the faint smell of disinfectant mixing with evening air that slipped in each time someone left.

They walked toward the exit together.

Not touching.

Not distant.

Just… calibrated.

Outside, the sky had turned that dull purple-grey that came before full night in the city. Traffic lights blinked red-green-red in patient cycles. Horns layered into background noise.

Saanvi stopped near the bus stop railing, resting her hand lightly against the metal.

“You know,” she said, not looking at him, “timing is funny.”

“How?” he asked.

“People think it’s about when something starts,” she said. “But most of the time it’s about when someone’s ready to hear it.”

He swallowed.

A bus roared past, not theirs.

He watched the taillights disappear instead of looking at her.

“And if they’re never ready?” he asked.

She smiled faintly.

“Then eventually,” she said, “someone stops waiting.”

The words weren’t sharp.

They didn’t need to be.

The Bus Ride

They boarded.

Their usual seats were empty.

Of course they were.

Habit was efficient like that.

Saanvi slid into the window seat today.

Advay hesitated for half a second before sitting beside her.

A small shift.

A noticeable one.

The bus pulled away from the curb, engine humming under the floor, city lights sliding past in long reflections across the glass.

For a while, neither spoke.

Saanvi watched the city.

Advay watched their reflections.

They looked like people who knew each other well.

They looked like people who didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

Halfway through the ride, she said quietly

“Anurag asked if I was free Sunday.”

The words landed gently.

But they landed.

Advay nodded once.

“Okay.”

She waited.

For something else.

It didn’t come.

She turned back toward the window.

Night- Separate Rooms, Same Thought

Later

Advay sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, unlocked chat window glowing softly in the dark.

He typed:

Are you going?

Deleted it.

Typed:

You don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Deleted it.

Typed nothing.

Across the city

Saanvi lay on her back, staring at her ceiling fan turning slow circles.

She replayed the elevator conversation.

Circling something.

Better timing.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Her phone buzzed.

Anurag:

Sunday still good?

She stared at the message.

Not excited.

Not unhappy.

Just… aware.

She typed:

Yeah. I think so.

Sent.

Locked her phone.

Closed her eyes.

And tried not to think about a man who noticed everything except the moment he was supposed to speak.

Emotional Undercurrent (Subtle, But Deep)

Timing wasn’t just about confession.

Timing was about courage.

And both of them were starting to understand something dangerous:

Silence protected feelings.

But it didn’t protect chances.

Rain Callback Part 2 — This Time No One Steps Back

The rain started slower this time.

Not a sudden downpour.

Not dramatic.

Just a steady curtain falling over the city like something inevitable finally arriving.

Advay stepped out of the office building just as it thickened.

People rushed for autos. Umbrellas bloomed everywhere.

He didn’t move.

Across the driveway, Saanvi stood under the canopy, phone in hand, watching the rain instead of avoiding it.

For a moment, neither noticed the other.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

Something settled. Not surprise. Not tension.

Recognition.

He walked toward her.

Not fast. Not hesitant.

Just… decided.

“You don’t have an umbrella,” she said.

“Neither do you.”

“I’m under shelter.”

He stepped fully under the canopy beside her.

Closer than usual.

Close enough that he could hear her breathing under the rain noise.

Last time it rained like this, he had stepped back.

Given space.

Given silence.

Given safety.

This time—

He stayed.

“You said something,” he said.

“When?” she asked quietly.

“Elevator,” he said. “About circling things.”

She didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I think…” He swallowed. “I think I know what we’re circling.”

The rain got louder.

Traffic blurred into background noise.

She turned fully toward him now.

“And?” she asked.

He didn’t step closer.

But he didn’t step back either.

“I don’t think I want to keep pretending I don’t notice you,” he said.

The words hung there.

Not a confession.

Not safe either.

Her eyes softened.

But before she could speak

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced down.

Anurag.

She locked the screen immediately.

Looked back at Advay.

The moment cracked slightly.

Not broken.

But shifted.

“Advay…” she started.

“I know,” he said quickly. “Bad timing.”

She shook her head slightly.

“No,” she said. “Just… complicated timing.”

The rain kept falling.

Neither moved.

But neither stepped back.

And that was new.

Sunday Scene- Easy vs Real

Sunday afternoon was bright, dry, uncomplicated.

Saanvi met Anurag at a café with too much sunlight and plants that were probably fake.

He smiled when he saw her.

Easy smile. Warm. No expectation attached.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

They ordered food. Sat near the window.

Conversation flowed.

Work stories.

Travel.

Music.

Family jokes.

He listened.

Really listened.

Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush her thoughts.

When she laughed, he laughed.

When she went quiet, he let the quiet exist.

It was… easy.

Halfway through lunch, he said:

“I like talking to you.”

Simple. Clean. Honest.

No subtext maze.

She smiled.

“Me too,” she said.

And she meant it.

That was the problem.

Because nothing was missing here.

Except—

Sharpness.

Uncertainty.

The feeling that every word mattered more than it should.

Advay would have noticed when she zoned out for three seconds while stirring coffee.

Anurag just asked if she wanted dessert.

And she suddenly missed being seen too much.

Later, walking to the parking lot—

“You don’t have to decide anything,” Anurag said.

She looked at him.

“I know.”

“I just didn’t want to not try,” he added.

And she respected that deeply.

Because he had done what Advay hadn’t.

He had risked clarity.

Advay Says Something — Wrong Time

Monday.

Office cafeteria.

Loud. Busy. Normal.

Saanvi stood near the coffee machine.

Advay walked straight to her.

No buffer conversation.

No warm-up sarcasm.

“Saanvi,” he said.

She turned.

He looked… tired.

And decided.

“I don’t like the idea of you choosing a life where I don’t exist in it,” he said.

Too direct.

Too sudden.

Too public.

People moved around them, unaware they were standing in a moment that should’ve happened somewhere quieter.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“Advay—”

“I should’ve said something earlier,” he continued. “I know that. I know I waited too long.”

Her chest tightened.

“But I can’t keep pretending I don’t…” He stopped. Restarted. “That you don’t matter differently.”

The words landed heavy. Imperfect. True.

And too late for safety.

The coffee machine beeped loudly.

Someone squeezed between them to grab sugar packets.

Reality intruded.

She exhaled slowly.

“Why now?” she asked.

Honest question.

Not angry.

He swallowed.

“Because I realized silence isn’t neutral,” he said. “It’s just… fear.”

Her eyes softened.

But something else lived there too.

Fatigue.

Two years of almosts didn’t disappear because one sentence finally arrived.

“I needed this,” she said quietly.

His chest lifted.

Then—

“Before I learned how to live without it,” she finished.

And that—

That hurt.

Not cruel.

Just true.

She picked up her coffee.

“Advay…” she said softly. “I’m not angry.”

Which somehow felt worse.

Then she walked away.

And this time—

He didn’t follow.

Because he finally understood something brutal:

Timing didn’t just decide moments.

It decided versions of people.

And he might have missed the version of her that had been waiting.

But clarity, he was beginning to understand, didn’t arrive.

It was made.

Uncomfortably. Imperfectly. Usually too late to feel graceful.

Advay stared at the same block of code for five minutes before realizing he hadn’t read a single line.

The cursor blinked steadily, patient, indifferent.

Waiting.

He almost laughed.

His phone remained face-up beside his laptop, screen dark, silent, accusatory in its stillness.

Two years ago, this would have been normal.

Routine.

Comfortable.

Now it felt like absence had texture. Weight. Shape.

He reached for the phone. Didn’t unlock it. Just held it, thumb resting against the edge.

Better to know.

The words replayed in his head, stripped of Anurag’s voice, stripped of context, left behind as something simpler. Cleaner. Harder to ignore.

Better to know.

Even if knowing hurt.

Even if knowing meant losing something before he ever technically had it.

He set the phone back down.

Stood.

Walked to the window.

Outside, the city moved without hesitation. Bikes weaving through traffic. Street vendors packing up for the night. A stray dog crossing the road with more confidence than he’d felt all week.

Life didn’t pause for indecision.

Life filled space.

He pressed his forehead briefly against the cool glass.

For two years, he had treated silence like a form of respect.

Like giving someone room to choose.

But room, he was starting to realize, could also look like distance.

Like disinterest.

Like absence.

And absence had consequences.

Across the City

Saanvi sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, an episode of something playing without sound.

She wasn’t watching it.

Her phone lay beside her, screen locked, Anurag’s name buried one notification down from the top.

He had texted earlier.

Something light. Easy. A meme. A follow-up joke from Sunday.

She had replied.

Because it was easy.

Because it required no translation.

Because it didn’t ask her to sit in emotional doorways wondering if someone would eventually open them.

And still

Her mind drifted back to the cafeteria.

To Advay standing too straight. Speaking too fast. Saying something he clearly hadn’t rehearsed properly.

Timing didn’t fix meaning.

But timing did change impact.

She exhaled slowly.

She wasn’t angry.

That would have been easier.

Anger was clean.

This was messier.

This was grief for something that had never technically existed but had still shaped two years of her life.

Back In His Room

Advay sat back down on his bed.

Opened the chat window.

Scrolled.

Two years of messages.

Lunch plans.

Code jokes.

Bus timing complaints.

Random photos of bad office snacks.

Normal.

So aggressively normal.

He stopped on one message from months ago:

Don’t miss the bus. I’ll be bored.

He stared at it longer than necessary.

He typed:

Are you awake?

Stopped.

Deleted.

Typed:

I should have said something earlier.

Stopped.

Deleted.

Typed nothing.

Because clarity didn’t arrive.

Clarity had to be chosen.

And choosing meant risk.

And risk meant

Possibly finding out he was already too late.

He locked his phone again.

Lay back.

Stared at the ceiling.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel like something that would eventually sort itself out if he just stayed patient.

It felt like something that required participation.

And participation required courage he was only now learning how to find.

Somewhere Between Realization and Decision

Neither of them slept well that night.

Not because of heartbreak.

Not because of drama.

Because awareness had replaced comfort.

And awareness was loud.

Even in silence.

That made him uneasy.

Alert meant expectation.

Expectation meant possibility.

And possibility meant loss, if he handled it wrong.

Advay held his own gaze in the mirror for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to confirm he was still himself and not someone who made impulsive decisions before breakfast.

Nothing looked different.

But everything felt… calibrated differently.

He exhaled slowly, grabbed his laptop bag, then paused — reaching instead for his wallet and phone, leaving the bag on the chair.

Coffee.

Not work.

Not routine.

That alone felt like stepping onto a slightly unfamiliar version of his own life.

The Walk Out

The morning air was cooler than expected.

December had a way of doing that pretending gentleness before settling into something sharper.

The apartment complex was already alive in quiet ways. Milk packets stacked near doorways. A newspaper boy arguing softly into his phone. A woman watering plants on a balcony two floors above him.

Normal.

He clung to that.

Normal meant control.

But even as he stepped out through the gate, he checked his phone again.

No new messages.

Good.

Also… strangely disappointing.

The Ride

He didn’t take the bus.

The auto ride felt longer without the predictable hum of shared space and half-sleeping strangers.

Every signal felt like delay.

Every turn felt like recalibration.

By the time the office building came into view, his pulse had already climbed to something uncomfortably close to adrenaline.

He paid the driver, stepped out, and immediately noticed the absence.

No morning rush crowd yet.

No clusters of employees smoking near the gate.

The office at this hour felt… neutral.

Unclaimed.

Outside the Office

She was already there.

Standing near the small coffee cart that technically wasn’t supposed to be there but had survived three management attempts to remove it.

Saanvi leaned against the metal railing, takeaway cup in hand, hair pulled back loosely, jacket sleeves pushed to her elbows like she hadn’t bothered adjusting them properly.

Not office Saanvi.

Not bus Saanvi.

Just… Saanvi.

She saw him immediately.

Noticed him in the way she always did — fast, precise, complete.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Then she held out a second cup.

“I guessed your order,” she said.

He took it carefully, fingers brushing hers for half a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Risky,” he said.

She shrugged. “You’re predictable about some things.”

He took a sip.

Exactly right.

Of course it was.

The Space Between Them

They stood side by side, facing the parking lot, watching early employees trickle in like a tide that hadn’t decided how strong it wanted to be yet.

“This is weird,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Bad weird?”

He considered.

“No,” he said finally. “Just… new.”

She nodded.

“That tracks.”

A scooter backfired somewhere across the road.

Someone laughed loudly near the security booth.

Life continued, aggressively uninterested in their moment.

The Conversation Begins

“I almost cancelled,” she said suddenly.

He turned to her.

“Why?”

She stared into her coffee.

“Because this felt like… forcing something.”

His chest tightened.

“And?” he asked.

“And I’m tired of waiting for moments that never happen unless someone makes them,” she said.

Honest.

Direct.

Terrifying.

“I’m not good at… making moments,” he said.

“I know,” she said gently. “That’s why I did.”

He swallowed.

The coffee suddenly felt too hot.

The Truth Beneath The Coffee

“You said something Monday,” she continued. “In the cafeteria.”

He nodded.

“Was that…” She searched for the word. “Panic?”

He almost said no.

Then stopped himself.

“Partly,” he said.

She nodded, like she appreciated the honesty more than she liked the answer.

“And partly?” she asked.

He stared out at the road.

“At some point,” he said slowly, “I realized I was waiting for a version of certainty that doesn’t exist.”

Silence.

Not heavy.

Focused.

“And?” she asked again.

“And I don’t like the idea of losing something because I never actually stepped into it,” he said.

Not a confession.

Not safe either.

The Emotional Ground Shifts

She turned toward him fully now.

“Advay,” she said quietly, “I’m not asking you to be certain.”

He met her eyes.

“I’m asking if you’re willing to be honest,” she said.

The morning light caught in her hair, in her eyes, in the space between them.

For a second, everything felt… balanced.

Precarious.

Real.

“I think I’m learning how,” he said.

And for the first time, that felt like enough to say.

Not everything.

But something he couldn’t take back.

The Moment Before Work Returns

People started arriving in larger groups now.

The world began reclaiming them.

Saanvi finished her coffee.

“So,” she said, softer now. “No bus today.”

“No bus,” he agreed.

She nodded.

Then — small, almost casual —

“Walk in with me?”

“Yes,” he said.

Immediate.

Unfiltered.

And that, more than anything else that morning, felt like the real interruption.

Waiting gave thoughts room to wander.

And wandering thoughts had been particularly unkind to him lately.

Advay pushed open the glass door and stepped inside, the soft chime announcing his arrival with unnecessary cheerfulness. Warm air wrapped around him immediately — roasted coffee, baked sugar, faint cinnamon. Comfort engineered into atmosphere.

He hated how easily his shoulders relaxed anyway.

The café was only half full. A couple near the window sharing headphones. Two college students bent over a laptop, arguing quietly about something that probably felt world-ending to them. A man in business formals typing aggressively into his phone like it owed him an apology.

Normal life.

He ordered without thinking. Americano. No sugar.

Predictable.

Safe.

He chose a table near the glass wall, where he could see the street without feeling like he was on display. Old habit — exits visible, surroundings mapped, variables controlled.

He checked the time.

8:42.

Eight minutes early.

Of course.

He set his phone face-down on the table.

Then flipped it over again almost immediately.

No messages.

Good.

Also not good.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping once against the ceramic cup when it arrived. The heat grounded him. Present moment. Physical sensation. Something real to hold onto.

Waiting gave thoughts room to wander.

And his thoughts, unhelpfully, wandered straight to her.

Not dramatic memories. Not cinematic ones.

Small things.

The way she stood when she was thinking weight on one foot, thumb hooked into her pocket.

The way she paused before asking serious questions, like she gave people one last chance to volunteer honesty.

The way she had looked at him outside the office that morning not hopeful, not guarded. Just… ready.

Ready for an answer.

He wasn’t sure he had one yet.

That was the part that terrified him.

Outside- Footsteps, Approaching

The door chimed again.

He didn’t look up immediately.

Reflex. Control. Composure.

Then he did.

And the air in his chest shifted.

Saanvi stood near the entrance, scanning the room, hair loose today, jacket open, expression alert but not tense.

Not office Saanvi.

Not bus Saanvi.

Just… her.

She saw him.

Of course she did.

She always did.

She walked over, sliding into the chair opposite him without ceremony, like this wasn’t the first time they’d occupied a table across from each other, even though it technically was.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re not late,” he replied.

Her mouth twitched.

Progress.

The Cafe Becomes A Conversation Space

She set her phone down beside her cup.

Not face down.

Not hidden.

Present.

“I almost changed the location,” she said.

“Why?”

She traced the rim of her cup with one finger.

“Because this feels like a place where people have conversations they can’t undo.”

He swallowed.

“That’s accurate,” he said.

She nodded, like she appreciated the honesty more than the comfort.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The espresso machine hissed behind the counter, steam rising in sharp white bursts. Someone laughed too loudly near the register. Cutlery clinked.

Life continued, aggressively indifferent to the fact that two people were sitting at a table built entirely out of two years of almosts.

The First Real Step

“I didn’t ask you here to… corner you,” she said finally.

“I know.”

“I asked because I’m tired of pretending we don’t both know something changed.”

There it was.

Not accusation.

Not demand.

Just… truth placed gently on the table between them.

Advay stared at his coffee.

Steam curled upward, blurring the surface just enough to hide his reflection.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I spent a long time believing if something was real enough, it would… become obvious on its own.”

She watched him carefully.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now I think real things still require people to choose them,” he said.

The words surprised him even as he said them.

But they felt… correct.

Heavy. But correct.

The Space Before The Question

Saanvi leaned back slightly, studying him.

Not judging.

Not pushing.

Just… measuring.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Then—

“What are you choosing, Advay?”

The question landed softly.

But it was the loudest thing in the room.

“What are you choosing, Advay?”

And then pivot into her speaking first, shifting the emotional ground.

The question landed softly.

But it was the loudest thing in the room.

Advay opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Not because he didn’t have words.

Because he had too many.

And for the first time, Saanvi didn’t wait for him to sort through them.

She leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers wrapped around her cup like she needed the heat more than the coffee.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let me say something first.”

Advay froze.

That was new.

Saanvi had always made space for him.

Always waited.

Always let him arrive at conversations in his own time.

Not today.

“I like you,” she said.

Simple.

Unornamented.

No buildup. No safety padding.

The words sat between them, solid and real.

Advay’s chest tightened.

“But,” she continued, and her voice didn’t shake, “I don’t like who I become when I’m waiting for you to decide what I am to you.”

The café noise blurred around them.

Somewhere behind him, a cup shattered. Someone apologized. Chairs scraped.

None of it reached him fully.

“I spent two years,” she said, not accusing, not bitter, just tiredly honest, “telling myself patience meant respect. That you needed time. That you would speak when you were ready.”

She looked at him then. Fully. Directly.

“And maybe that was true.”

Her thumb traced the rim of her cup.

“But I can’t build a life around someone who only exists in almost.”

The words didn’t cut.

They pressed.

Slowly. Precisely.

Advay felt something inside him shift — not panic, not defensiveness.

Recognition.

“I don’t need certainty,” she said. “I don’t need guarantees. I don’t need dramatic confessions.”

Her voice softened.

“But I need participation.”

The word settled deep.

Participation.

Not perfection.

Not clarity.

Not even immediate answers.

Just… presence. Choice. Movement.

“I’m not choosing between you and Anurag,” she said quietly. “That’s not what this is.”

He blinked.

“I’m choosing between waiting and living,” she finished.

That landed harder than anything else.

Because it wasn’t about competition.

It was about time.

About agency.

About self-respect.

She leaned back slightly, giving him space — but not the kind he could disappear into.

The kind he had to step into or step away from.

“I asked you here,” she said softly, “because I needed to know if you were going to meet me halfway.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his.

“And if you can’t,” she added, gentler now, “that’s not failure. It’s just information.”

No drama.

No ultimatum.

Just truth, offered cleanly.

For the first time in two years, the balance of their dynamic shifted.

Saanvi wasn’t waiting anymore.

And Advay realized something with quiet, terrifying clarity—

If he didn’t move now, he wasn’t losing potential.

He was losing something real.

And this time, silence wouldn’t protect him from that knowledge.

The space between them held.

Not fragile.

Not tense.

Just… waiting.

Advay inhaled slowly.

He could feel it — the moment tipping toward something irreversible.

And still

“I’m trying,” he said.

The words came out quiet. Honest. Incomplete.

Saanvi’s expression didn’t change immediately.

That somehow made it worse.

“I know,” she said.

And she meant it.

That was the problem.

“I just… don’t know how to be fast about this,” he added.

There it was.

The truth.

And also the distance.

The sentence sat on the table between them, unfinished, unresolved, careful in the way he had always been careful.

Saanvi exhaled slowly.

Not angry.

Not disappointed in the loud, visible way.

Just… tired in a way that came from understanding something she didn’t want to understand.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Not okay like agreement.

Okay like acceptance.

She picked up her cup.

Took a sip that had definitely gone cold.

“Thank you for being honest,” she added.

And the formality of it landed like something closing.

Advay felt it.

The shift.

Subtle.

Real.

She leaned back in her chair, not withdrawing physically, but something in her posture changed less open, more self-contained. Like she was gathering parts of herself back.

“I can’t be the only one moving toward this,” she said gently. “I don’t want to be.”

He nodded.

Because arguing would be dishonest.

And silence now meant something different.

Then-The Rain

The first drop hit the glass behind him.

Then another.

Then a steady sheet.

The café lights reflected in the rain like something melting.

People near the door paused. Looked outside. Groaned collectively.

“Great,” someone said. “That’s not stopping anytime soon.”

Saanvi turned toward the window.

The rain blurred the street into soft motion.

Full circle.

Again.

Advay felt it too.

The echo.

The last rain.

The almost.

Except this time

She wasn’t leaning toward him.

She wasn’t waiting for him to close the distance.

She just watched the rain.

Present. Self-contained. Decided in a quiet way.

Trapped In The Same Moment

“We should probably wait,” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

They stayed seated.

People moved around them. Ordered more coffee. Settled in. Accepted delay.

Time stretched.

Outside, rain hammered pavement like something trying to erase edges.

Inside, the café grew warmer. Louder. Safer.

And more isolating.

Advay stared at the condensation sliding down the glass.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said suddenly.

The words slipped out.

Not rehearsed.

Not controlled.

Not enough.

Saanvi closed her eyes briefly.

That hurt more than anger would have.

“Advay…” she said softly.

Not harsh.

Not dismissive.

Just… heavy with meaning.

“I’m not something you lose,” she said.

He flinched.

“I’m someone you choose,” she finished.

The rain got louder.

Or maybe his pulse did.

The Real Step Back

She stood.

Not leaving.

Just… resetting.

“I’m not walking away,” she said quietly. “But I’m not standing still anymore either.”

He nodded.

Because he finally understood what that meant.

She was still here.

But she wasn’t waiting anymore.

And waiting had been where he had always found her.

The New Silence

They stood near the window together.

Not touching.

Not distant.

Just… changed.

The rain softened slightly.

People started testing the doorway, deciding if they were brave enough to run for autos.

Saanvi picked up her bag.

“I should go before traffic gets worse,” she said.

He nodded.

Of course he did.

She hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then

“Text me when you get home,” she said.

Normal words.

New meaning.

Then she stepped out into the rain.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t look back.

After

Advay stayed inside.

Watching rain blur the street.

Watching the space she left behind.

For the first time, he understood something brutal and clarifying:

Love wasn’t built on almost.

And almost, repeated long enough, started to look like no.

The Morning After Rain

The morning looked exactly like every other morning.

That was the problem.

December sunlight filtered through thin cloud cover, pale and indifferent. The street outside the apartment complex buzzed with its usual rhythm — milk vendors arguing about change, scooters coughing awake, someone’s pressure cooker whistle echoing faintly across buildings.

Advay woke before his alarm.

Again.

For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow, predictable circles.

Everything was normal.

His chest didn’t feel normal.

The rain from last night lingered in the air — that damp, metallic smell cities get when water settles into dust and refuses to leave completely.

He sat up slowly.

His phone lay on the bedside table.

No new messages.

He didn’t check the time.

He already knew it was earlier than necessary.

Routine, Performed

He moved through his morning automatically.

Brush teeth.

Shower.

Iron shirt.

Check wallet.

Check phone.

Check phone again.

No messages.

He typed:

Reached home.

Sent.

Stared at the screen.

Three minutes passed.

No reply.

He locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket like it might burn if he kept looking.

Outside — The Same World

BSL East County looked exactly like it always did.

Children dragging school bags.

Morning walkers pretending they enjoyed being awake.

Security guards trading gossip like currency.

He nodded to people.

They nodded back.

Nothing had changed.

Except something had.

The Bus Stop

She was already there.

Of course she was.

Standing near the far end of the shelter, not in their usual spot — just a few feet away. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for him to.

She saw him.

Nodded.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

The word felt thinner than usual.

Not cold.

Just… careful.

The Bus Ride

They boarded together.

Muscle memory still worked.

Third row from the back.

Window side.

She slid in first.

He sat beside her.

For two years, this had been automatic comfort.

Today, it felt like sitting beside a memory that was still alive.

The New Silence

The bus hummed forward.

People dozed. Scrolled. Complained quietly into phones.

Saanvi watched the window.

Advay watched the reflection of both in the glass.

They looked like before.

They didn’t feel like before.

Halfway through the ride, she spoke.

“Traffic will be bad today,” she said.

Neutral.

Safe.

“Yes,” he said.

That was it.

The conversation ended there.

And somehow that hurt more than an argument would have.

Small Changes That Felt Huge

When the bus hit a speed breaker, their shoulders brushed.

She shifted slightly.

Not dramatically.

Just… enough.

And that tiny movement felt louder than any fight could have.

Office Arrival

They stepped off together.

Walked toward the building.

Not side by side.

Half a step apart.

He noticed.

He wondered if she noticed him noticing.

He almost laughed at the recursion of it.

Inside- Fluorescent Normalcy

Work swallowed them.

Emails.

Standups.

Bug reports.

Meetings about things that felt aggressively unimportant.

Advay functioned perfectly.

Answered questions.

Solved problems.

Even joked once.

People didn’t notice anything wrong.

He wondered if that was his biggest flaw.

Across The Floor

At 10:23 AM, he looked up.

Saanvi was laughing at something a teammate said.

Normal laugh.

Real laugh.

Not forced.

Not guarded.

And something in his chest loosened and tightened at the same time.

She was okay.

And maybe she was learning how to be okay without him in the center of that okay.

Lunch-Almost Habit, Not Quite

At lunch time, she walked toward the cafeteria.

Paused near his desk.

Not fully stopping.

“Coming?” she asked.

Like routine.

Like invitation.

Like neutral territory.

“Yes,” he said.

And he meant it.

The New Dynamic

They ate.

Talked about work.

About someone’s terrible code merge.

About coffee quality declining.

Nothing personal.

Nothing sharp.

Nothing unsafe.

And the absence of risk felt like standing in a room after furniture had been removed.

Recognizable.

But echoing.

Afternoon Realization

By 3 PM, Advay understood something with brutal clarity.

Nothing had broken.

Nothing had ended.

But something had shifted from assumed to optional.

And optional required choice.

Evening- Not Dramatic, Just True

At 6:07 PM, they left the office together.

Walked toward the bus stop.

Same distance.

Same route.

Different gravity.

“You heading straight home?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She nodded.

Like she was making peace with something.

Or maybe just accepting it.

The Chapter Truth

The rain hadn’t fixed anything.

It hadn’t broken anything either.

It had just washed away the illusion that time alone would decide things for them.

And now —

Everything familiar felt slightly out of place.

Like a chair moved one inch to the left.

Still usable.

Still recognizable.

But impossible to unsee once noticed.

She froze.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the air between them shifted.

Advay felt it immediately — that microsecond where possibility stalled and reality stepped in without knocking.

Saanvi turned slowly.

“Anurag,” she said.

Not surprised.

Not thrilled.

Just… acknowledging.

Anurag stood there, slightly damp from what looked like leftover drizzle outside, helmet hooked over one arm, expression caught somewhere between apology and relief.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know you were—”

His eyes flicked to Advay.

Understanding landed fast. Clean. Uncomplicated.

“Oh,” he finished softly. “I’m interrupting.”

“No,” Saanvi said automatically.

Then, quieter:

“It’s okay.”

Advay hated how polite that sounded.

Anurag stepped closer to the table but didn’t sit.

“I just came to grab coffee before heading out,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

Saanvi nodded.

Neither of them filled the silence.

Advay became hyper-aware of everything — the spoon clinking three tables away, the espresso machine screaming steam, the way his coffee had gone untouched long enough to form a thin skin on top.

“Well,” Anurag said finally, “I’ll let you—”

“You can sit,” Saanvi said.

The words landed before she seemed to fully decide them.

Advay’s chest tightened.

Anurag hesitated.

“You sure?” he asked.

She nodded once.

“Yes.”

He pulled out the chair beside their table, angled slightly toward them but not fully joining — respectful distance, not territorial proximity.

That almost made it worse.

The Broken Momentum

The moment — the one that had been narrowing, focusing, building — dissolved into something wider. Looser. Harder to hold.

Advay stared at his cup.

Saanvi cleared her throat.

“This is… unexpected,” she said.

“Yeah,” Anurag agreed. “Sorry if I—”

“It’s fine,” Advay said.

Too quickly.

Too clean.

Three people sat in a space designed for two.

Conversation tried to restart.

Failed.

Restarted again, weaker.

Small Talk As Emotional Camouflage

“How was traffic?” Saanvi asked.

“Mess,” Anurag said. “Signal near Punjagutta completely blocked.”

She nodded.

Advay listened like he was underwater.

This was what wrong timing looked like.

Not dramatic.

Not explosive.

Just… diluted.

The Almost That Still Lingered

Saanvi glanced at Advay.

Just once.

And in that glance was the ghost of the moment they’d almost had.

He saw it.

And knew she saw that he saw it.

And now there was no way to return to it cleanly.

Anurag, Unintentionally Kind

“I’ll grab my order,” Anurag said after a beat. “Give you guys space.”

He stood.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t linger.

Just… removed himself carefully.

That was worse than if he’d been oblivious.

Advay watched him walk to the counter.

Then looked back at Saanvi.

She exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t plan this,” she said.

“I know.”

Silence.

The café hummed louder now.

Or maybe their table just felt quieter.

The Attempt To Return

“You were saying something,” she said.

He nodded.

Yes.

He had been.

And now the words felt heavier. Less pure. More fragile.

“I…” he started.

Stopped.

Because now it felt like recovering something dropped, not offering something whole.

“I just didn’t want us to keep pretending this is just routine,” he said finally.

True.

Incomplete.

Not what he had practiced.

Not what she had been waiting for.

But honest.

She studied him.

Long enough that he had to look away first.

“Okay,” she said.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Just… receiving.

The Shift, Subtle But Permanent

Anurag returned with his coffee.

Conversation moved.

Work.

Weather.

Weekend plans mentioned but not explored.

Advay responded when spoken to.

Saanvi participated.

No one mentioned the almost sentence.

No one acknowledged the interruption.

But it sat there anyway.

Between sips of coffee.

Between normal questions.

Between three people who were all, in different ways, trying to be decent.

The Emotional Aftertaste

When Anurag finally stood to leave, he nodded to both of them.

“See you Monday,” he said.

“Yeah,” Saanvi replied.

Advay nodded.

After he left, silence returned.

Different now.

More aware.

Less hopeful.

She looked at him.

“You were going to say more,” she said quietly.

He nodded.

“Yes.”

She waited.

Not pushing.

Not rescuing.

Just… present.

And Advay realized something brutal and simple:

Moments didn’t come back the same way twice.

“I’m still here,” he said finally.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was the most honest thing he had.

She nodded slowly.

“I know,” she said.

And somehow, that sounded like both comfort and distance.

“Of all days,” she muttered.

Not angry.

Not embarrassed.

Just… tired of coincidence choosing the worst possible timing.

Advay let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Does he come here often?” he asked.

It was a stupid question.

A safe question.

A question that had nothing to do with what had just almost happened.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Weekends mostly.”

She watched her father across the café for a second laughing now, fully absorbed in whatever conversation he’d stepped back into.

Normal.

Uncomplicated.

Secure in a world where nothing was balancing on the edge of confession.

Saanvi turned back to the table.

The moment they’d been standing inside of felt… sealed over.

Not broken.

Just unreachable.

The Space After

“I’m sorry,” Advay said.

She blinked. “For what?”

“For…” He gestured vaguely. “Everything. Timing. Words. Not… saying them earlier.”

She studied him carefully.

“You don’t have to apologize for learning something late,” she said quietly.

Then added:

“But you do have to decide what you’re going to do now that you know it.”

There it was again.

Not pressure.

Not urgency.

Just… consequence.

The Attempt To Recover The Moment

He wrapped both hands around his coffee cup.

It had gone lukewarm.

He drank it anyway.

“Saanvi,” he said.

Her name landed softer this time.

More deliberate.

“I don’t want this to be just routine,” he said.

The words were simple.

Unpolished.

Not rehearsed.

Not enough.

But real.

She didn’t react immediately.

Didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Didn’t rescue him from it.

Progress, he realized dimly, hurt more than comfort ever had.

The Truth She Doesn’t Hide

“I know,” she said finally.

And he believed her.

That was the problem.

“I just don’t know if knowing is enough anymore,” she added.

The café noise surged around them again.

Someone dropped a tray.

A baby started crying near the door.

The world refused to pause.

The Emotional Line, Clearly Drawn

“I meant what I said yesterday,” she continued. “I’m not walking away.”

His chest loosened slightly.

Then—

“But I’m not standing still either.”

There it was.

The line.

Gentle.

Unmovable.

The Father- Background Normalcy

Her father laughed loudly across the room.

Called for another coffee.

Normal life continued like nothing significant was unfolding six tables away.

Advay wondered if adulthood was just learning how to have life-altering conversations while someone nearby debated cricket scores.

The Smallest, Most Honest Thing

“I’m scared of saying things I can’t take back,” he said suddenly.

She nodded.

“I know.”

“But I’m more scared now,” he said, voice lower, “of not saying them.”

That landed.

Not fireworks.

Not resolution.

But weight.

Real weight.

The Moment They Salvage

They sat there for another ten minutes.

Not rushing.

Not pretending.

Just… existing in the aftermath of something almost said.

When they finally stood, neither rushed for goodbye.

Outside, the air smelled like leftover rain and traffic.

“I’ll see you Monday?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Then, softer:

“I’m still here, Advay.”

Not promise.

Not guarantee.

Just… present tense.

The Emotional Undercurrent

As she walked toward her father’s table to say goodbye before leaving, Advay stayed by the door.

Watching.

Thinking.

Understanding something slowly but finally:

Moments didn’t need to be perfect.

They just needed to be chosen before they disappeared.

And maybe

Just maybe 

He was finally learning how.

“I know,” he said. “I just—”

The rest didn’t come.

Because the rest was the truth.

And the truth was still stuck somewhere between fear and habit.

Saanvi held his gaze for another second.

Two.

Three.

Long enough for him to feel exactly what he had just done.

Long enough for her to decide something.

She leaned back slowly in her chair.

Not dramatic.

Not angry.

Just… recalibrating.

“You thought I asked you here,” she said quietly, “to talk about Christmas lunch logistics?”

“No,” he said immediately.

Too fast.

Too desperate.

“Then why does it feel like you keep replacing real conversations with… safe ones?” she asked.

The café noise pressed in around them again — cups clinking, grinder whirring, chairs dragging across tile.

He didn’t answer.

Because the answer was uncomfortable.

Because the answer was yes.

She nodded once, like she’d heard the silence clearly.

“Advay,” she said, and her voice was gentler now, which somehow hurt more, “I’m not asking you to perform. I’m not asking you to say the perfect thing.”

He swallowed.

“I’m asking you to not run when something real is happening.”

The words landed clean.

No accusation.

Just… clarity.

The Moment He Feels It Slip

“I wasn’t running,” he said quietly.

“You forgot,” she said.

Not mocking.

Not dismissing.

Just… stating the reality as it felt from her side.

He pressed his thumb into the ceramic cup, grounding himself.

“I panicked,” he admitted finally.

There.

Something real.

She watched him carefully.

That mattered.

But—

It came after.

After the deflection.

After the safe detour.

After she’d already started bracing.

The Emotional Line Hardens

“I needed you to stay in that moment with me,” she said. “Even if it was messy. Even if it was awkward. Even if you said the wrong thing.”

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“And I can’t keep being the person who drags you back into it every time you step out,” she said.

That landed deeper than anything else.

Because it wasn’t anger.

It was boundary.

The Quiet Truth

She picked up her cup again, though she didn’t drink.

“I like you,” she said again.

Same words.

Different tone now.

More grounded.

Less hopeful.

“And I think you like me,” she added.

He exhaled shakily.

“Yes.”

The word came out before he could filter it.

Progress.

Painful progress.

“But liking someone,” she said softly, “isn’t the same as choosing them when it matters.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

Because she was right.

And he hated how clean that truth felt.

The Real Emotional Shift

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

His chest lifted again.

Then—

“But I’m not pausing my life waiting for you to decide either.”

There it was.

Not threat.

Not ultimatum.

Just… motion.

The Ending Of The Scene (Not The Story)

She stood.

Slowly.

Picked up her phone.

“I need to go home,” she said.

Not running away.

Not storming out.

Just… stepping back into her own timeline.

He stood too.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

She shook her head.

“Don’t apologize,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t do this again.”

Then, after a beat:

“Next time, stay.”

The word stayed with him longer than anything else.

Stay.

The Emotional Aftermath

She walked toward the door.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t look back.

The bell chimed softly when she stepped out.

And Advay sat back down slowly.

Because for the first time

He understood something with painful clarity:

Almost didn’t just delay things.

Almost changed things.

And now—

If there was going to be a next time

He would have to earn it.

For a few seconds after she left, no one moved.

The café held its breath.

Somewhere behind the counter, milk continued steaming — a shrill, ordinary sound that felt almost obscene against the silence.

Advay blinked.

Coffee slid from his temple to his jaw, dripping onto his collar. The heat had already dulled into warmth, but his skin still tingled where it had hit.

He reached blindly for napkins.

Someone pushed a stack toward him without a word.

“Sir—” a waiter started, then stopped, unsure if intervention would help or make things worse.

“I’m okay,” Advay said automatically.

He wasn’t.

But the sentence came out anyway. Muscle memory. Social reflex. Habit stronger than honesty.

He wiped his face slowly.

Hands shaking.

Not from the coffee.

From the realization settling in layers.

The Café Starts Breathing Again

Conversation restarted in low murmurs.

Chairs shifted.

Phones lifted discreetly, then lowered again.

No one stared openly.

Which somehow made it worse.

Advay sat there, napkin pressed to his cheek, staring at the table where she had been sitting ten seconds ago.

The indentation of her cup still marked the wood.

He could almost map the moment backward from it.

Her hand.

Her wrist tightening.

Her eyes — not angry, not wild.

Hurt.

And tired of being hurt quietly.

The Truth He Can’t Avoid Now

He had come here to speak.

He had left her with silence.

And silence, he understood now, wasn’t neutral.

Silence was an answer.

Just not the one he thought he was giving.

Physical Reality Returns

The manager approached cautiously.

“Sir, are you… do you need ice?”

Advay shook his head.

“No. I’m fine.”

He stood slowly.

Chair legs scraped louder than they should have.

He left money on the table. Too much. Didn’t check.

Picked up his phone.

Didn’t look at it.

Walked toward the door.

Outside — The World Is Indifferent

The street looked exactly the same as when he had walked in.

Autos honking.

Delivery bikes weaving through traffic.

Someone arguing over parking.

Normal.

Aggressively normal.

He stood just outside the café entrance, staring at the wet patch where rainwater from earlier had collected along the curb.

She was gone.

Of course she was.

She had never been someone who made scenes and then lingered to explain them.

She left.

When something broke, she left before it turned into spectacle.

The Emotional Impact Lands Late

He touched his cheek again.

Coffee smell.

Strong.

Persistent.

Impossible to ignore.

Like memory.

Like consequence.

He thought of every moment she had stayed when he had pulled back.

Every time she had dragged a conversation forward when he let it drift.

Every time she had chosen clarity while he chose comfort.

And today—

Today she had reached her limit.

Not because she didn’t care.

Because she cared enough to stop accepting half-presence.

The Most Honest Thought

She didn’t throw coffee because she hated him.

She threw it because she had run out of ways to make him feel the moment without breaking something.

And now—

Something was broken anyway.

The First Real Fear

Not that he had embarrassed himself.

Not that people had seen.

Not even that she was angry.

The fear sat deeper.

Quieter.

What if she was done trying?

The Emotional Shift — Permanent

For two years, Saanvi had been constant.

Predictable in the best way.

Present even when he wasn’t.

Today—

For the first time—

She had walked away without waiting to see if he followed.

And that felt like standing in a room where gravity had just changed direction.

The Final Beat Of The Scene

Advay pulled out his phone.

Unlocked it.

Opened her chat.

Typed:

I’m sorry.

Stopped.

Deleted.

Typed:

I should have stayed in the moment.

Stopped.

Deleted.

Typed nothing.

Because apologies suddenly felt… small.

And explanations felt… late.

He locked the phone.

Slipped it into his pocket.

And stood there on the pavement, coffee drying on his collar, traffic rushing past, understanding something brutal and clarifying:

Some moments don’t repeat.

Some people don’t stay in the same emotional place while you decide.

And if he was going to change this —

It couldn’t be with another careful sentence.

It had to be with something that couldn’t be mistaken for hesitation.

Colours Don’t Lie

Shamshabad did not believe in subtlety.

By noon, the open ground had surrendered entirely to color and noise. Speakers screamed Bollywood remixes into the sky. Buckets of colored water flew without warning. The earth itself was stained pink and green, trampled under laughing feet.

Advay had lasted twelve minutes.

Twelve.

He stood near the sugarcane juice stall, already streaked with accidental orange, scanning the crowd for one person.

He found her in the middle of chaos.

Saanvi.

White kurta ruined beautifully by splashes of magenta and yellow. Hair half-loose, curls damp at the edges. Someone had drawn a careless blue line across her forehead like a warrior mark.

She was laughing.

Not polite laughter.

Head thrown back. Eyes closed. Completely unguarded.

His chest tightened.

Arjun appeared beside him, face entirely purple. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like a man writing poetry in his head.”

“Shut up.”

Before Arjun could escalate, Saanvi spotted them.

Her smile changed.

Not wide now.

Focused.

She walked toward them through the crowd like she had chosen her target.

“You survived,” she said, stopping in front of Advay.

“Barely.”

“You’re still mostly white,” she observed, inspecting him.

“I prefer dignity.”

She smirked. “I prefer honesty.”

Before he could react, she grabbed a handful of bright pink powder and pressed it against his cheek.

Not quick.

Not playful.

Slow.

Her fingers dragged across his skin, leaving warmth beneath color. She didn’t break eye contact.

“Happy Holi,” she murmured.

He forgot how to breathe.

The noise blurred at the edges.

He lifted his hand instinctively, dipping into blue powder from a nearby plate. He hesitated as always hovering near her face.

She noticed.

“Why do you always pause?” she asked softly.

“Because,” he replied, voice low, “some things feel permanent.”

The words lingered between them.

She didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that he could see green dust caught in her eyelashes. Close enough that her breath brushed his collar.

His fingers touched her cheek.

The blue streaked gently across her skin.

Too gently.

Her eyes dropped briefly to his lips.

Then back up.

The music thumped harder around them. Someone sprayed colored water into the air. The sun burned overhead.

Neither of them noticed.

“You’re not scared of Holi,” she whispered.

“I’m not scared of color,” he said.

“Then what are you scared of?”

He swallowed.

“Of losing you.”

The confession slipped out quiet, unfiltered.

Her fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.

His thumb lingered near her jawline.

The distance between them shrank.

He leaned in.

Just enough.

Just

“OH MY GOD.”

Arjun’s voice detonated beside them.

“ARE WE KISSING OR ARE WE CONDUCTING A CHEMISTRY EXPERIMENT?”

Advay jerked back instantly.

Saanvi blinked, disoriented.

Arjun circled them like an unhinged commentator. “Ladies and gentlemen! Observe! The rare species Advay in natural habitat about to say something and then not say it!”

“Arjun, stop,” Advay warned.

But Arjun was fueled by chaos.

“You know what he told me?” Arjun continued loudly, grinning. “He said he’s scared of losing you but won’t say it properly because what if it ruins the ‘dynamic’.”

Saanvi’s face changed.

Advay froze.

“That’s not what I” he started.

Arjun wasn’t done.

“He literally practices speeches in his head. Bro, I’ve heard you. ‘Maybe today I’ll tell her.’ ‘No, no, not today. Timing is important.’” Arjun mimicked dramatically.

The crowd nearby laughed, not knowing the context but enjoying the drama.

Saanvi stepped back slowly.

Her expression shifted from vulnerable… to embarrassed.

“You rehearse?” she asked quietly.

Advay glared at Arjun. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Oh?” Arjun raised his eyebrows. “Tell her you weren’t planning to say something today and then chicken out again.”

Silence.

That was enough.

Saanvi’s jaw tightened.

“So this,” she gestured vaguely between them, “was another almost?”

“No,” Advay said quickly. “I meant what I said.”

“But you weren’t going to say it here,” she replied.

“I”

“That’s the thing,” she said, voice rising slightly. “You always feel. You never choose.”

He stepped forward. “Saanvi”

Arjun muttered under his breath, “This is better than Netflix.”

She heard it.

Humiliation flooded her expression.

In front of strangers. In front of his friend. In the middle of a festival.

She felt exposed.

Advay saw it too late.

“You think this is funny?” she asked Arjun sharply.

“Whoa, I was just”

Before he could finish

Her hand moved.

The slap cracked across Advay’s cheek.

Louder than the music.

Louder than the crowd.

Pink powder exploded off his skin from the impact.

Silence rippled briefly around them.

His head turned with the force.

Her palm stung.

His cheek burned.

“You don’t get to make me a rehearsal,” she said, voice shaking now. “Not in public. Not anywhere.”

“I wasn’t”

“You were.”

Color dripped down his face pink mixing with blue, with green, with something heavier.

Arjun’s grin disappeared.

Saanvi stepped back, eyes bright but unspilled.

“Stop being afraid of things that already exist,” she said softly.

Then she turned and walked into the crowd.

The music swallowed her.

Advay stood there, cheek burning, heart pounding.

Arjun looked at him cautiously. “Okay. That escalated.”

Advay didn’t answer.

He stared at the space she had just occupied.

His white shirt was gone.

His safety was gone.

And this time, the slap didn’t hurt as much as the realization.

He had almost kissed her.

And almost had consequences.

Don’t Walk Away

For three seconds after the slap, Advay didn’t move.

Not because of shock.

Because of recognition.

This wasn’t anger.

This was hurt.

And hurt walked fast.

“Saanvi!” he called, but the music swallowed her name.

Arjun touched his shoulder. “Give her a minute.”

“No.”

This time, no hesitation.

Advay pushed into the crowd.

Pink dust rose into the air as people danced recklessly. Someone sprayed a hose without aim. Strangers smeared color across his arms as he passed, laughing, unaware they were interrupting something fragile.

He scanned desperately.

White kurta.

Yellow shoulder.

Blue streak.

There.

Near the water tank at the far end of the ground, partly shielded by a temporary tent where vendors stored extra color packets.

She wasn’t crying.

She was furious at herself for almost crying.

He slowed when he reached her.

Not cautious.

Careful.

“Saanvi.”

She didn’t turn.

“I said your name,” he tried again, voice steadier.

“I heard you,” she replied.

She still didn’t look at him.

Up close, he could see her breathing wasn’t even. Her fingers were clenched tight, pink powder pressed into her palms.

“You shouldn’t have chased me,” she said.

“I know.”

That made her finally look at him.

Confusion flickered across her face. “Then why did you?”

“Because walking away is what I always do.”

The words landed differently.

The music thudded in the distance now, muffled by canvas and distance.

“You think this is about Arjun teasing you?” she asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then what?”

He stepped closer.

Close enough that their colors almost touched.

“It’s about you thinking I was playing.”

“You were,” she shot back. “You always almost say it.”

“I said it.”

“You whispered it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, streaking more green across his forehead.

“I didn’t whisper because I was unsure,” he said. “I whispered because it felt private.”

Her eyes softened for half a second.

Then hardened again.

“Do you know what it feels like,” she said, voice lower now, “to stand in front of someone who looks at you like you matter… but won’t claim it?”

That hit.

He inhaled sharply.

“I’m not good at loud,” he admitted.

“I don’t need loud,” she said. “I need sure.”

Silence.

Wind lifted the edge of the tent. Somewhere, someone shouted for more color.

He stepped even closer.

Close enough that her back nearly touched the bamboo pole behind her.

“Saanvi,” he said, voice quiet but unshaking, “I’ve loved you for two years.”

Her breath stopped.

He didn’t look away this time.

“I loved you on the bus when you pretended to hate mornings. I loved you in the cafeteria when you defended terrible coffee. I loved you when you fell asleep on my shoulder and pretended you didn’t.”

Her eyes widened.

“I was scared,” he continued. “Not of feeling it. Of saying it wrong.”

“That’s still fear,” she whispered.

“I know.”

He reached up slowly.

Paused.

Then didn’t pull back.

His fingers brushed a streak of yellow off her cheek.

“If I wanted to rehearse,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be standing here with a burning cheek in the middle of Shamshabad.”

A tiny, unwilling smile flickered at the corner of her mouth.

He noticed.

“You hit hard,” he added.

“You deserved it.”

“Probably.”

Her hand relaxed slightly.

The tension shifted.

Not gone.

Just… softer.

He stepped into her space fully now.

No audience.

No Arjun.

No performance.

“I’m not almost-ing you anymore,” he said.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Then don’t.”

The air between them changed.

Thick.

Warm.

The festival noise felt miles away.

His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, hesitant only for a breath.

She didn’t stop him.

Her fingers curled into his damp shirt.

Their foreheads nearly touched.

“You’re still scared,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“Of what now?”

He swallowed.

“That if I kiss you, this becomes real.”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth.

“It’s already real,” she said.

The distance shrank.

A fraction.

Her breath trembled against his skin.

He tilted his head slightly.

She leaned forward

“SAAAANVIIIII!”

Arjun’s voice echoed from across the field like a curse from the universe.

They both froze.

Advay shut his eyes briefly.

She exhaled against his cheek half laugh, half frustration.

“This man will never let us have cinematic timing,” she muttered.

Advay opened his eyes.

“Do you want him to?” he asked quietly.

Her gaze searched his.

Not teasing now.

Not testing.

Choosing.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand and smeared one last streak of red across his jaw.

“This,” she said softly, “is not rehearsal.”

And before Arjun could locate them

She leaned in.

Not dramatic.

Not rushed.

Just a soft, certain kiss.

Color transferred between them.

Pink into blue.

Red into yellow.

And for once—

Advay didn’t pull away first.

After the Color Fades

By evening, Shamshabad looked exhausted.

The ground that had been alive with music now lay stained in patches of pink and green. Empty packets of color fluttered weakly in the breeze. The water tanks were drained. The speakers were silent.

Color always looked happiest in chaos.

At night, it looked like evidence.

Saanvi stood under the shower longer than necessary.

Pink ran down her arms first. Then yellow. Then streaks of blue dissolved and disappeared into the drain. She scrubbed at her cheeks, her neck, the faint mark where his thumb had rested.

The kiss lingered longer than the color.

She pressed her palm against the wall and closed her eyes.

He hadn’t hesitated.

Not this time.

And that scared her more than the slap had.

Across town, Advay stared at his reflection in the mirror.

His cheek still held a faint outline of her hand.

He touched it.

It didn’t sting anymore.

What lingered was something else.

The memory of her breath just before the kiss.

The way she hadn’t pulled away.

The way she had chosen him back.

His phone buzzed.

He looked at it immediately.

No name.

Unknown number.

He frowned then remembered.

He had given his number to the U.S. project lead last week. They were finalizing onsite assignments.

The message was brief.

“Confirmation mail going out tomorrow. Two-year New York assignment. Need acceptance within 72 hours.”

His chest tightened.

Two years.

He hadn’t told her yet.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because today had felt… fragile.

He sat down slowly on the edge of his bed.

Holi had been about not almost-ing.

And here he was.

Almost telling her again.

Saanvi stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, phone buzzing on the counter.

She smiled automatically before even checking.

Advay.

She answered without thinking.

“Are you alive?” she asked.

“Define alive,” he replied.

She smiled faintly. “Still rehearsing jokes?”

“Trying not to.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Just full.

“Your cheek okay?” she asked.

“It’s healing.”

“You deserved it.”

“I know.”

A softer silence followed.

He almost said it then.

About New York.

About the email.

About 72 hours.

Instead—

“Today…” he began.

“Yeah.”

“I meant what I said.”

“I know,” she replied quietly.

He swallowed.

She waited.

He didn’t continue.

And she felt it.

That pause.

That shift.

“You’re thinking about something else,” she said gently.

“No.”

“You are.”

He exhaled.

“It’s nothing.”

She went still.

Nothing was always something.

“Advay.”

“Yeah?”

“If we’re not almost-ing anymore… then don’t start.”

The words hit harder than the slap.

He stared at the wall.

“I’m not hiding anything,” he said carefully.

It wasn’t entirely true.

Not yet.

She leaned back against her bed.

“Okay,” she said.

But her voice had lost warmth.

They talked about small things after that Arjun’s dramatic commentary, the vendor who slipped in colored water, the way his white shirt was permanently ruined.

They laughed.

But something thin and invisible had slipped between them.

After the call ended, Saanvi lay staring at the ceiling.

Holi had felt like clarity.

But clarity didn’t usually arrive with unfinished sentences.

Her chest felt tight again not with anger.

With premonition.

Advay’s phone buzzed again.

Another message.

“HR looping in tomorrow. Don’t delay response.”

He locked the screen.

Ran a hand through his hair.

Two years.

He pictured her face under the tent.

“You don’t get to make me a rehearsal.”

He closed his eyes.

If he told her now the night of their first kiss it would feel like betrayal.

If he waited it would feel like fear.

He hated timing.

He hated that timing mattered.

At 11:48 p.m., Saanvi’s phone buzzed.

A photo.

From Arjun.

It was from earlier the moment right after the slap.

Advay standing stunned, color exploding off his cheek.

Caption:

“Man almost died twice today. Pray for him.”

She stared at it longer than necessary.

Then she zoomed in.

His eyes.

Not embarrassed.

Not angry.

Certain.

Her heart softened again.

But the unease didn’t leave.

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

“Are we okay?”

She didn’t send it.

Instead, she locked her phone.

Across the city, Advay stared at his acceptance email draft.

He had typed:

“Yes, I confirm.”

He hadn’t pressed send.

Not yet.

Holi color fades.

But choices don’t.

And somewhere between confession and commitment

A decision was waiting.

The Color That Stayed

Holi ended.

But something didn’t reset.

On Monday morning, the bus felt different.

Not distant.

Not awkward.

Just… aware.

Saanvi sat beside him without ceremony. Their shoulders brushed. Neither pulled away.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“You’re observing,” he replied.

She smirked faintly. “That’s your line.”

He glanced at her. “I can share.”

They talked about normal things office deadlines, Arjun’s dramatic commentary, how impossible it was to remove green from fingernails.

It almost felt easy.

Almost.

But every time she laughed, he felt the email waiting in his inbox like a timer.

Seventy hours left.

She noticed something small.

He checked his phone more often.

Not obsessively.

Just… reflexively.

“Expecting something?” she asked lightly.

“Work,” he said.

She nodded.

But she stored it.

Timing

Tuesday evening.

Office floor mostly empty.

They stayed late for a deployment.

The lights were dimmer than usual. Screens glowed blue against tired faces.

Saanvi stretched and rolled her chair toward him.

“You still haven’t answered me.”

He frowned. “About?”

She watched him carefully.

“Are we okay?”

There it was.

He didn’t deflect this time.

“We are,” he said.

“Then why do I feel like something’s pending?”

He hesitated for half a second.

Too long.

Her eyes sharpened.

“Advay.”

“It’s nothing big,” he said quickly.

That phrase again.

She leaned back slowly.

“You know what I hate?” she asked.

“What?”

“When you decide for me what’s big.”

The words didn’t accuse.

They stated.

He turned his chair fully toward her.

“I’m not deciding anything.”

“Then stop minimizing it.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

The deployment alert beeped loudly across the room.

Moment broken.

She rolled back to her desk.

But not completely.

There was now space between their chairs.

That night, he drafted the acceptance email again.

Didn’t send it.

Instead, he called Arjun.

“You look like someone negotiating with fate,” Arjun said immediately on video.

“I have seventy hours to confirm New York.”

Arjun blinked. “And you haven’t told her.”

Advay said nothing.

“Why?”

“Because we just… started.”

Arjun leaned closer to the screen. “Exactly.”

Advay rubbed his forehead.

“If I tell her now, it sounds like I kissed her and then planned an exit.”

“And if you don’t?”

“It sounds like fear.”

Arjun nodded. “It is fear.”

Silence.

“Do you want to go?” Arjun asked.

“Yes.”

“And do you want her?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop acting like you can only choose one.”

Advay exhaled slowly.

He hated that Arjun was right.

The Almost-Truth

Wednesday afternoon.

Cafeteria quieter than usual.

Saanvi stirred her coffee absentmindedly.

“Are you free this weekend?” she asked.

He paused.

HR meeting scheduled Friday.

“Maybe,” he replied.

She looked up.

“Maybe?”

“There’s something I might need to handle.”

Her stomach tightened.

“Work?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

He hesitated.

That was enough.

“Advay,” she said calmly, “what aren’t you saying?”

He leaned forward.

“I don’t want to drop something heavy on a random Wednesday.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

“So you’re planning the weight?”

He winced.

“I just need time.”

“For what?”

“To say it properly.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

She stared at him for a long moment.

“You know what scares me?” she said softly.

“What?”

“That I’ll always feel things first.”

He shook his head immediately. “You don’t.”

“Then prove it.”

He reached across the table instinctively, brushing his fingers against hers.

“I am trying.”

“Trying isn’t telling,” she whispered.

She pulled her hand back gently.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

That evening, she sat on her balcony alone.

Wind moved through the trees below.

She replayed Holi.

The certainty in his voice.

The way he hadn’t pulled away from the kiss.

So what was this distance now?

Her phone buzzed.

From a mutual colleague.

“Congrats to Advay! Heard he’s being considered for onsite NY!”

Her heart dropped.

Considered.

She stared at the message.

Then at her phone screen.

Then at the sky.

He hadn’t told her.

Not even considered telling her.

Not yet.

She didn’t cry.

She went still.

Very still.

Meanwhile, Advay sat in his room staring at the unsent acceptance mail.

Thirty-two hours left.

He opened his chat with her.

Typed:

“Can we talk?”

Deleted.

Typed again:

“There’s something about work…”

Deleted.

His phone buzzed.

A message from her.

“Are you being considered for New York?”

His breath left his body.

The timer in his chest stopped.

The explosion hadn’t happened yet.

But the ground had cracked.

They ended up at a bar without planning to.

It was barely noon.

The place was dim in a way that made time irrelevant curtains half-drawn, stale air clinging to leather seats, a television mounted in the corner playing something muted and meaningless.

Advay didn’t remember suggesting it.

He just remembered walking.

And Arjun following.

They slid into a booth near the back. The vinyl seat stuck faintly to Advay’s damp shirt.

Arjun studied him for a full ten seconds before speaking.

“You look like someone just unplugged your brain.”

Advay let out a slow breath.

“She thought I was laughing at her.”

“You were laughing at me.”

“I know.”

“Did you tell her that?”

Advay didn’t answer.

Arjun leaned back. “Ah.”

A waiter appeared. Arjun ordered without asking. Two glasses. Something strong.

Advay stared at the condensation forming on the tabletop.

“I was going to tell her,” he said finally.

“Tell her what?”

“That I love her.”

The word sounded foreign in his mouth. Too late. Too exposed.

Arjun blinked. “You didn’t?”

“I tried.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Advay’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

The drinks arrived.

Neither of them touched them immediately.

“She thought I brought her there for something real,” Advay continued, voice flat. “And I… defaulted.”

“To safety.”

“Yes.”

Arjun nodded slowly. “You always do.”

Advay closed his eyes briefly.

“I panicked.”

“About loving her?”

“About saying it out loud.”

Arjun leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why?”

Advay swallowed.

“Because if I say it and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose her.”

Arjun exhaled sharply. “You just lost her anyway.”

The words landed hard.

Advay finally picked up his glass and took a long swallow. It burned. He didn’t flinch.

“She looked at me like I made her stupid,” he said quietly.

“No,” Arjun corrected. “She looked at you like you made her vulnerable alone.”

That hurt more.

Advay stared at the amber liquid.

“I didn’t want to do it wrong.”

“Advay,” Arjun said gently, “there’s no correct grammar for feelings.”

Silence stretched between them.

The slap replayed in his head — not the sound, not the sting.

The look in her eyes before it happened.

Disappointment.

Worse than anger.

He reached up and touched his cheek again.

It wasn’t physical pain.

It was recognition.

Across the city, Saanvi sat in her room, door locked.

She hadn’t cried in the café.

She hadn’t cried on the street.

She hadn’t cried while slapping him.

She cried now.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just a steady release she couldn’t hold back anymore.

She dropped onto the edge of her bed and pressed her palms against her eyes.

He had looked at her that morning like he was about to cross something.

And then he hadn’t.

Again.

It wasn’t the coffee.

It wasn’t the interruption.

It was the collapse.

The way his voice shifted.

The way he retreated into safe conversation about Christmas.

Christmas.

She laughed bitterly through tears.

“I made myself believe,” she whispered to the empty room.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Arjun.

She declined the call.

Buzzed again.

This time, a message.

“He wasn’t laughing at you.”

She stared at the screen.

Another message.

“He’s an idiot. But not cruel.”

She locked the phone without replying.

That wasn’t the point.

He had made her feel exposed.

In a room full of strangers.

He had let the moment die.

And she had been left holding it.

Back at the bar, Advay’s phone vibrated.

He looked at it immediately.

No message from her.

Arjun noticed.

“You going to call her?”

Advay nodded slowly.

Then hesitated.

“Now?”

“If not now, when?” Arjun asked.

He pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

He lowered the phone.

“She won’t pick up,” Arjun said quietly.

“I know.”

Advay stared at the table.

“I hate this,” he said.

“Good.”

He looked up.

“Good?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Arjun said. “Because maybe now you’ll stop pretending timing will save you.”

Advay leaned back in the booth.

The bar felt too small suddenly.

Too dim.

He stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Arjun asked.

“To fix it.”

“How?”

Advay didn’t know.

But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t waiting for the right words.

He was moving.

That evening, Saanvi’s doorbell rang.

She didn’t open it.

It rang again.

Longer this time.

“Go away,” she muttered under her breath.

Silence.

Then

“Saanvi.”

His voice.

Not loud.

Not pleading.

Just there.

She closed her eyes.

“Please,” he said from the other side of the door. “If you don’t want to see me, say it to my face.”

Her hand hovered over the handle.

She didn’t owe him this.

She knew that.

But closure had always been harder for her than confrontation.

She opened the door.

He looked worse.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The coffee stain was gone.

The certainty wasn’t.

“I’m not here to explain,” he said immediately.

“Good.”

“I’m here to say what I should have said in the café.”

She crossed her arms.

“Say it then.”

He stepped closer.

Not into her space.

Just enough that she could see he wasn’t retreating this time.

“I love you.”

No buildup.

No rehearsal.

No safe substitute topic.

Just truth.

Her breath caught.

He continued before fear could interrupt him.

“I’ve loved you for two years. I didn’t say it because I thought waiting would protect us. It didn’t. It hurt you instead.”

Silence.

The world outside her apartment hummed faintly.

A dog barked somewhere down the street.

She studied him carefully.

“You don’t get to fix humiliation with three words,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m choosing,” he replied.

That word.

Her chest tightened.

She stepped aside.

Not inviting him in.

Not pushing him away.

Just… making space.

He didn’t move.

“You still froze,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And you might freeze again.”

“Yes.”

“And you might hurt me again.”

“Yes.”

The honesty startled her.

He swallowed.

“But I don’t want to lose you to my silence.”

Her eyes filled again but she didn’t look away.

The anger was still there.

The hurt was still there.

But so was something else.

Recognition.

“You’re late,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Silence settled between them.

Heavy.

Not resolved.

But not broken either.

She didn’t forgive him.

Not yet.

She didn’t close the door either.

And for the first time since the cafe

They were both standing in the doorway.

Not running.

Not retreating.

Just there.

Late.

The word did not shout.

It pressed.

Advay leaned back into the couch, the dim yellow light catching the edge of his jaw. Music thudded low in the background not loud enough to distract, not soft enough to comfort.

Arjun watched him carefully.

“You’re not scared of her,” Arjun said finally.

Advay didn’t respond.

“You’re scared of the moment after.”

Advay’s jaw tightened.

“If she says no,” Arjun continued, “you lose possibility.”

Advay finally looked up.

“If she says yes,” he countered quietly, “I lose control.”

That surprised Arjun.

“Control of what?”

“Of… what comes next.”

Arjun leaned forward.

“Love isn’t a sprint you prepare for. It’s something you trip into.”

“I don’t trip,” Advay muttered.

Arjun snorted. “You overthink.”

Advay ran a hand over his face.

“She looked at me like I made her feel stupid,” he said again, softer now.

“No,” Arjun said firmly. “She looked at you like she trusted you to step forward.”

That silence again.

Not empty.

Exposing.

Advay’s phone sat face-down on the table between them.

Neither mentioned it.

Neither needed to.

“She’s not asking for perfection,” Arjun added. “She’s asking for participation.”

Advay exhaled slowly.

“I thought I was protecting it.”

“Protecting what?”

“What we have.”

Arjun shook his head.

“You don’t protect a plant by never watering it.”

Advay closed his eyes briefly.

He replayed the café.

The way her expression shifted when he changed the topic.

The way her shoulders straightened pride stepping in where hope had just been.

And then the slap.

Not rage.

Boundary.

He opened his eyes.

“I’ve always waited for clarity,” he said.

“And?”

“And clarity doesn’t arrive. It expires.”

Arjun sat back.

“Good,” he said.

Advay frowned. “Good?”

“Yes. Because that means you finally understand timing isn’t about comfort. It’s about courage.”

Advay looked at his drink.

Half-empty.

Like the morning.

“What if I go now?” he asked suddenly.

“To her?”

“Yes.”

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “Now-now? Or dramatic ‘I’ve had two drinks and feel poetic’ now?”

Advay stood.

Now-now.

The movement was immediate. Not calculated.

Arjun blinked. “Okay. That’s new.”

Advay grabbed his jacket.

“I’m tired of being late.”

Arjun smiled slowly. “There he is.”

But as Advay reached for his phone, it vibrated.

Both of them froze.

He flipped it over.

Saanvi.

Not a call.

A message.

He stared at it for a long second before opening it.

Three words.

“Forget it. It’s fine.”

His stomach dropped.

He knew that tone.

It wasn’t fine.

It was retreat.

Arjun saw his face change.

“What?”

“She said it’s fine.”

Arjun winced. “That’s worse.”

Advay swallowed.

Because when Saanvi got loud, she fought.

When she went quiet, she decided.

He typed immediately.

“It’s not fine.”

Dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then—

“You don’t have to fix it.”

He stared at the words.

She wasn’t asking anymore.

That terrified him.

He called.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

He lowered the phone slowly.

Arjun leaned forward.

“You’re losing the window.”

Advay nodded once.

“I know.”

He didn’t sit back down.

He didn’t hesitate.

He walked toward the exit.

Arjun called after him, “Say it properly this time!”

Advay didn’t turn around.

Outside, Hyderabad night air hit him hard.

Cooler than the bar.

Clearer.

The city moved around him — traffic lights blinking, auto drivers arguing, someone laughing loudly across the street.

He stood still for exactly one second.

Then he started walking.

Not rehearsing.

Not editing.

Just moving.

Because this time

He wasn’t going to let the moment pass.

Silence, Advay learned that day, was not empty.

It was loud in the places where words should have been.

His room felt smaller than usual.

The fan rotated lazily overhead, slicing the air into soft, indifferent circles. A faint hum came from somewhere outside a neighbour’s television, a passing scooter, life continuing without permission.

His phone lay face down on the table.

He didn’t touch it.

Because touching it meant choosing.

And choosing meant risking that there would be nothing waiting on the other side.

He leaned back slowly against the wall, head tipping upward, eyes closing.

The café replayed in fragments.

Her expectation.

His hesitation.

Her disappointment hardening into humiliation.

He exhaled sharply.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The word didn’t sting.

It settled.

He reached for the phone.

Turned it over.

No new messages.

The chat still ended with:

“Forget it. It’s fine.”

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted.

He stared at the blinking cursor.

What do you say when you’re not fixing a misunderstanding but your own pattern?

Another vibration.

His chest tightened.

Not Saanvi.

Arjun.

“Did you go?”

Advay replied after a moment.

“Home.”

Three dots appeared immediately.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Advay dropped the phone onto the bed.

He wasn’t avoiding her.

He was thinking.

But thinking had never saved him before.

In the kitchen, plates clinked softly.

His mother’s voice drifted faintly as she spoke on the phone to someone probably an aunt, probably about something ordinary and harmless.

Advay sat still.

He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to be someone who said things immediately.

Someone who didn’t calculate emotional impact like a software update.

He picked up his phone again.

Opened her contact.

Pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then

“Hello.”

Her voice.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Neutral.

“Hi,” he said.

Silence.

He swallowed.

“I didn’t freeze because I don’t feel it.”

She didn’t respond.

“I froze because I do.”

A quiet inhale on the other end.

“That’s not comforting,” she said softly.

“I know.”

Another silence.

Not empty.

Measured.

“You made me look like I imagined everything,” she said.

“You didn’t.”

“It felt like I did.”

His chest tightened.

“I was going to tell you.”

“You always are,” she replied gently.

There was no accusation in it.

That made it worse.

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to be the person who almost says it.”

“Then don’t.”

The simplicity of it cut through him.

He opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Because this time, it wasn’t about just saying “I like you.”

It was about saying something that changed the shape of everything.

“I”

He stopped again.

She noticed.

“I can’t keep dragging the words out of you,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to feel like I’m negotiating my own importance.”

The fan continued spinning.

His heart pounded louder than it should have.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then speak.”

The moment hung.

This was it.

Not dramatic.

Not cinematic.

Just a phone call in a small room.

He took a breath.

“I love you.”

There.

No build-up.

No escape hatch.

Silence.

Long enough for fear to bloom fully.

Then

“Why does it sound like you’re apologizing?” she asked softly.

His throat tightened.

“Because I’m late.”

Her breath trembled slightly.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I love you.”

This time, steadier.

Something shifted.

Not fixed.

But aligned.

She exhaled.

“I needed you to choose that without being cornered.”

“I know.”

“And you might still run.”

“I know.”

“And I might still get angry.”

“I know.”

A small, tired laugh escaped her.

“God, you’re frustrating.”

He smiled faintly despite himself.

“I’m trying not to be.”

Silence settled again.

But this one felt different.

Not hollow.

Held.

“I’m not ready to pretend today didn’t hurt,” she said.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I need time,” she continued. “Not distance. Just… time.”

His chest tightened.

“Okay.”

No resistance.

No argument.

She noticed.

“You’re not fighting me on that?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because this time, I don’t want to rush you into feeling safe.”

Another small pause.

“Okay,” she said softly.

They didn’t hang up immediately.

Neither spoke.

They just stayed.

Breathing into the same silence.

When the call finally ended, Advay didn’t feel relieved.

He felt exposed.

But lighter.

He set the phone down carefully.

Not face down this time.

Face up.

For the first time that day, silence wasn’t accusing him.

It was waiting.

He didn’t move for a while after the call ended.

The fan hummed. The night outside thickened. Somewhere in the house, his mother switched off the kitchen light.

He stared at the ceiling.

He had said it.

Not perfectly.

Not heroically.

But he had said it.

And she hadn’t walked away.

That mattered.

His phone lay beside him, screen dimming slowly.

Then—

It lit up again.

A new email notification.

He almost ignored it.

Almost.

Subject line:

“Onsite Assignment Confirmation New York (Final Approval Required)”

His chest tightened instantly.

He sat up.

Opened it.

Formal. Polished. Efficient.

Two-year leadership role.

Relocation package attached.

Reporting timeline.

Acceptance required within 48 hours.

Forty-eight.

Not seventy-two.

Forty-eight.

He read the mail twice.

Then a third time.

The room felt different now.

Smaller.

He let the phone drop onto the mattress.

He had just told her he loved her.

He had just promised not to almost things.

And here was a decision that could quietly undo everything.

Two years.

Two winters she wouldn’t be there for.

Two birthdays.

Two Holis.

Or

Two years building something bigger.

He pressed his palms against his eyes.

Timing.

Again.

He reached for his phone.

Opened their chat.

Her last message now looked different.

“I need time.”

And he had said okay.

He imagined calling her back immediately.

Telling her.

But the conversation replayed in his head.

You don’t get to rush me into feeling safe.

If he told her now

Would it sound like a test?

Like a choice she had to compete with?

He opened the attachment.

Salary breakdown.

Visa timeline.

Joining date: six weeks from now.

Six weeks.

He stood up abruptly and walked to the balcony.

Hyderabad night air wrapped around him humid, familiar.

Below, someone laughed loudly. A bike engine roared and faded.

This was his life.

Routine. Bus rides. Café disasters. Balcony calls.

And somewhere across the city, Saanvi was probably replaying his “I love you” the way he was replaying her “I need time.”

He exhaled slowly.

He could delay the reply.

Forty-eight hours.

He didn’t have to decide tonight.

But she deserved to know.

Didn’t she?

His phone buzzed again.

Not email.

Saanvi.

A message.

He opened it immediately.

“I’m not angry anymore. Just tired.”

His chest softened.

He typed:

“I know.”

Her reply came quickly.

“Don’t disappear into your head now.”

He froze.

Because that’s exactly what he was about to do.

He looked at the New York email again.

The subject line glowed in his inbox like a secret.

He typed slowly.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

He locked the screen.

Not tonight.

He stepped back inside.

Sat on the edge of his bed again.

Forty-eight hours.

He would tell her.

He just needed the right moment.

The thought sounded familiar.

Too familiar.

Across the city, Saanvi lay on her bed staring at her ceiling.

She felt lighter.

Not healed.

But steadier.

He had said it.

Without being cornered.

Without being interrupted.

She smiled faintly to herself.

Her phone buzzed again.

A notification from LinkedIn.

She almost ignored it.

Almost.

But curiosity won.

She opened it.

A mutual connection update.

“Congratulations to Advay R. on being shortlisted for an onsite opportunity in New York!”

Her smile faded slowly.

Shortlisted.

New York.

Her chest tightened.

He hadn’t mentioned it.

Not during the café week.

Not tonight.

Not even after saying he loved her.

She stared at the screen for a long time.

Then locked it.

Very carefully.

Her room felt colder suddenly.

Not because of distance.

Because of omission.

Back in his room, Advay finally lay down.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Just as his eyes began to close

His phone buzzed.

He reached for it immediately.

One message.

From her.

“Is there something you haven’t told me?”

His heart dropped.

The fragile progress trembled.

And for the first time that night—

Silence wasn’t waiting.

It was demanding.

His heart didn’t just drop.

It thudded.

Her message glowed on the screen.

“Is there something you haven’t told me?”

He stared at it for a full five seconds.

No rehearsing.

No drafting.

No delay.

He pressed call.

It rang once.

She picked up immediately.

“Tell me,” she said.

No anger.

Just clarity.

He swallowed.

“I was going to.”

“Going to when?”

He didn’t deflect.

“Tonight.”

Silence.

He exhaled slowly.

“I got an email. Final confirmation. New York. Two years.”

The words felt heavier spoken than read.

On the other end, he heard her breathe in.

Slow.

Measured.

“And you weren’t going to tell me before saying you love me?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t want it to sound like I was choosing a location over you.”

“You don’t get to protect me from reality,” she said.

“I know.”

The word came easier now.

“I didn’t reply yet,” he added quickly. “I haven’t accepted.”

Silence again.

Longer.

He could almost feel her thinking.

“I don’t want you to stay because of me,” she said softly.

“I don’t want to go without you.”

There.

Truth without strategy.

Her breath caught slightly.

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want us to start with a compromise,” he continued. “I just told you I love you. I don’t want the next sentence to be ‘but I’m leaving.’”

Another pause.

Then—

A soft sound.

Not quite a laugh.

Not quite a sigh.

“Advay.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t ask if you were leaving.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“I asked if there was something you hadn’t told me.”

His heartbeat slowed, confused.

“What does that mean?”

There was a tiny tremor in her voice now.

Not anger.

Something else.

“Check your mail,” she said.

He blinked.

“Why?”

“Just check.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear, opened his inbox.

A new mail sat at the top.

Subject line:

“International Assignment Confirmation New Jersey (Client Project Approval)”

His fingers went cold.

He opened it.

Six-month initial transfer.

Convertible to long-term.

Project collaboration with U.S. division.

Location: New Jersey.

He stopped breathing.

He brought the phone back to his ear.

“You…” he started.

“I got it this afternoon,” she said quietly.

“When?”

“After the Holi disaster week.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to.”

He closed his eyes.

The irony pressed into him gently.

“But?” he asked.

“But I wanted to see if you would choose me without knowing I had a ticket too.”

The words landed softly.

Not manipulative.

Not testing.

Honest.

His chest tightened painfully.

“You were going to New York,” she continued. “And I thought… if you told me because you wanted me, not because you needed reassurance that I’d follow…”

He sat down slowly on the edge of his bed.

“You were waiting,” he said.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop being careful.”

Silence.

Not strained.

Full.

“I didn’t accept yet either,” she added.

His eyes snapped open.

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want it to look like I rearranged my life around a man who wasn’t sure.”

The truth stung.

But it was clean.

He ran a hand through his hair.

“We’re idiots,” he said softly.

She laughed then.

A real laugh.

Relieved.

“We are.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“So could you.”

Fair.

He stared at the New York email again.

Then at the New Jersey one.

Two cities.

One river between them.

One choice not about geography.

“Are you scared?” she asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Of distance?”

“No.”

“Of what?”

“That we keep almost choosing each other at the same time.”

Her voice softened.

“We didn’t almost this time.”

He felt that.

Deep.

He stood and walked to the balcony again.

Hyderabad air. Familiar.

Soon-to-be memory.

“I don’t want you to move because of me,” he said.

“I’m not,” she replied. “I applied before you even told me. I wanted growth too. I just didn’t know if we were part of the same plan.”

He smiled faintly.

“We are.”

A pause.

Then, quietly:

“I love you,” she said.

Not hesitant.

Not defensive.

Just steady.

The words moved through him like something finally aligned.

“I love you,” he replied.

“And this time,” she added softly, “it doesn’t sound late.”

He leaned against the railing, eyes closing.

The fear hadn’t disappeared.

The future wasn’t simple.

Two visas.

Two projects.

Two families.

But for the first time

They weren’t waiting for the other to speak first.

“When do you have to confirm?” she asked.

“Forty-eight hours.”

“Same.”

He laughed softly.

“Of course.”

Silence settled again.

But this one felt different.

Not fragile.

Intentional.

“Next time we meet,” she said slowly, “no surprises.”

“Agreed.”

“And Advay?”

“Yeah?”

“If we’re doing this… we do it loudly.”

He smiled.

“I don’t do loud.”

“You will.”

He believed her.

For the first time

Distance didn’t feel like threat.

It felt like a bridge.

The bonfire crackled softly at the center of the clearing, sparks rising into fog that refused to fully lift. Children ran past in bursts of laughter. Someone argued about marshmallows. An uncle was already narrating a story that had nothing to do with the question asked.

Saanvi stood slightly apart from the noise, arms wrapped around herself more for grounding than warmth.

She could feel him.

Not looking at her.

But aware of her.

Advay stood across the clearing, nodding politely at something someone’s father was explaining about property investments. His responses were automatic. Measured. Safe.

But his eyes kept drifting.

She noticed.

He looked like someone who wanted to approach a cliff and didn’t trust his footing.

Avani appeared beside her quietly.

“He hasn’t smiled properly all evening,” she said.

Saanvi didn’t respond.

“You don’t have to talk to him tonight,” Avani added gently.

“I know.”

“But you probably will.”

Saanvi’s lips twitched faintly.

“Why?”

“Because neither of you are built for unresolved things.”

Across the fire, Advay’s father called his name.

He turned instinctively.

For a brief second, his gaze met Saanvi’s.

Not dramatic.

Not lingering.

Just steady.

Something unspoken passed.

Then the moment moved on.

Later that night, the noise thinned. Families retreated to cottages. The fog grew heavier, wrapping the hillside in soft white silence.

Saanvi stepped away from the crowd and walked toward the darker edge of the property where the lights faded.

She didn’t expect him to follow.

He did.

He didn’t call her name.

He just stopped a few feet behind her.

The air smelled like damp earth and burnt wood.

“I wasn’t going to pretend nothing happened,” he said quietly.

She didn’t turn around.

“Good.”

He took a step closer.

“I don’t want to explain,” he added. “I want to apologize.”

That made her look at him.

There was no performance in his face.

No strategy.

Just fatigue and something painfully sincere.

“For what?” she asked.

“For making you feel alone in something we both felt.”

The fog shifted between them.

“I don’t need you to feel perfectly,” she said. “I need you to feel out loud.”

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“And if you don’t know how”

“I learn.”

That was new.

She studied him carefully.

“You freeze,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“And I react.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why I slapped you?”

He swallowed.

“Because you were hurt.”

“Yes,” she said. “But also because I didn’t want to be embarrassed for believing in you.”

The truth landed without cruelty.

He didn’t defend himself.

“I deserved that,” he said quietly.

She blinked.

“No,” she replied after a moment. “You deserved honesty. Not violence.”

The admission surprised them both.

He let out a small breath.

“I don’t want to be someone you have to brace yourself around.”

The fog curled closer around them.

“You’re not,” she said.

He looked at her.

Then away.

Then back again.

“I was scared,” he admitted.

“Of what?”

“That if I said it wrong, you’d see me differently.”

She stepped closer now.

“You don’t get to curate how I see you.”

The words weren’t sharp.

They were steady.

“You don’t get to protect me from your fear.”

He absorbed that slowly.

Behind them, faint laughter echoed from the cottages.

The world continued.

But here, time felt suspended.

“I love you,” he said.

Not whispered.

Not dramatic.

Just placed between them.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t cry.

She just exhaled.

“You don’t sound like you’re apologizing anymore.”

“I’m not.”

She nodded.

Silence settled.

But this silence was different.

Not a wall.

A space.

She looked past him briefly, toward the dim lights of the cottages.

“If we try,” she said slowly, “we try without spectators.”

He almost smiled.

“Agreed.”

“And if you freeze again”

“I won’t disappear.”

“And if I react again”

“I won’t retreat.”

The agreement wasn’t romantic.

It was practical.

Which made it stronger.

A sudden gust of wind lifted the fog, revealing a clearer stretch of sky.

Stars peeked through faintly.

Saanvi looked up.

“Do you ever think,” she asked quietly, “that maybe we’re not bad at love?”

He followed her gaze.

“Maybe we’re just bad at timing.”

She glanced at him.

“Timing is a decision.”

He let that sit.

Then he reached out.

Not for her hand.

Not yet.

Just enough to close the space between them.

“Then let’s decide better,” he said.

And for the first time since the cafe

She didn’t feel like she was waiting.

No dramatic reveal. No sudden awe. Just a gradual shift in air, the city thinning behind them as the road curved upward and trees crowded closer together. Fog drifted lazily across the path, settling on branches and stone walls like it belonged there.

Saanvi noticed it immediately.

The way her shoulders dropped. The way her breathing slowed.

She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself until the tension loosened on its own.

The resort was modest rows of cottages tucked between trees, fairy lights wound carefully around trunks, the scent of damp earth and wood smoke hanging in the air. Families spilled out of buses, laughter rising and falling as bags were unloaded and rooms assigned.

Advay stepped down last.

He stood still for a moment, taking it in the hills, the fog, the unfamiliar quiet. Places like this always unsettled him. They stripped away distraction. Left too much room for thought.

He spotted Saanvi near the edge of the clearing, hands wrapped around a cup of something warm Avani had handed her. She looked calmer than she had in weeks.

That made his chest ache.

Dinner was loud in the way only family gatherings could be overlapping conversations, exaggerated stories, plates passed back and forth. Someone argued about seating. Someone complained about the cold. Someone laughed too loudly at their own joke.

Advay participated just enough to avoid suspicion.

Saanvi did the same.

They orbited the same spaces without intersecting.

When she stood to refill her plate, he shifted his chair slightly to let her pass not looking up, but aware of the warmth that trailed behind her. When he reached for water, her fingers brushed the same steel jug a second too late.

Neither apologized.

Neither lingered.

But neither was unaware.

Across the table, Avani noticed everything.

She said nothing.

After dinner, someone suggested a bonfire. Someone else insisted on music. Within minutes, chairs were dragged into a loose circle in the open clearing. A small pile of wood caught flame slowly, reluctantly, until the fire found its confidence.

Fog pressed closer as night deepened.

Saanvi stood near the outer edge of the circle, watching sparks rise and disappear into white.

Advay stood on the opposite side.

The distance wasn’t dramatic.

But it was deliberate.

Children ran between adults, their laughter cutting through the low hum of conversation. An uncle started singing an old film song loudly and off-key. Someone clapped encouragement anyway.

Saanvi smiled at that.

Advay noticed.

He noticed the way the firelight softened her face. The way her hair caught embers of orange when she turned. The way she laughed at something Avani whispered in her ear not fully, not freely, but almost.

He wanted to cross the circle.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

Because this time, he wasn’t trying to intercept a moment.

He was trying to enter it.

Later, when the singing thinned and conversations split into smaller clusters, Saanvi slipped away from the circle toward the darker edge of the clearing.

She didn’t announce it.

She just needed air.

The fog had thickened, swallowing the fairy lights at the far end. The hills beyond were invisible now just suggestion and shadow.

She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, listening to the quiet hum of insects and distant laughter.

Footsteps approached behind her.

Slow.

Measured.

She didn’t turn.

“You always walk toward the quiet,” he said.

Her breath paused.

“I always end up there,” she replied.

He stepped beside her, not too close. Close enough to feel the same cold.

For a moment, they just stood.

No confrontation.

No performance.

The silence between them felt different here. Not sharp. Not loaded.

Just present.

“I don’t like this place,” he admitted after a while.

She glanced at him. “You don’t?”

“It forces you to think.”

She almost smiled. “You need that.”

“I know.”

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

The fog moved like breath around them.

“You look calmer,” he said.

“I am.”

“Because of this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the hills.

“Because I stopped arguing with myself.”

That made him look at her fully.

She met his gaze.

“I was angry because I felt embarrassed,” she said softly. “But underneath that… I was hurt.”

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“And underneath that,” she continued, “I was scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of waiting,” she corrected.

That landed somewhere deep.

“I don’t want you to wait,” he said.

“Then don’t make me.”

The words weren’t harsh.

They were simple.

The fire crackled behind them. A burst of laughter echoed faintly. The world existed just not here.

“I freeze,” he said quietly. “You react.”

“Yes.”

“And somehow we both end up alone in the same moment.”

She studied him.

“That’s accurate.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I don’t want to win arguments,” he said. “I want to stop losing you in them.”

Her throat tightened slightly.

“That’s new.”

“I’m trying not to protect myself from feelings that are already there.”

She turned fully toward him now.

The fog softened his outline, made him look less guarded somehow.

“You don’t have to be fearless,” she said. “You just have to stay.”

The wind lifted a strand of her hair across her face. He reached up instinctively to move it.

He paused halfway.

She noticed.

She didn’t move away.

He finished the motion gently.

No rush.

No spectacle.

Just touch.

“I’m staying,” he said.

Her breath hitched — not dramatically. Just enough to matter.

The fog thinned briefly, revealing a clearer patch of sky.

Somewhere above them, stars tried to exist.

Behind them, someone called their names.

They didn’t answer immediately.

They just stood there a second longer.

Because sometimes reconciliation isn’t fireworks.

It’s two people deciding not to step back.

When they finally walked back toward the fire, they didn’t hold hands.

But they walked side by side.

And that, for now, was enough.

The bonfire thinned out slowly.

Children were carried back half-asleep. Plates were stacked carelessly. Someone argued about who had the room keys. The night grew colder as the fog settled heavier across the clearing.

Saanvi excused herself first.

Not abruptly. Not pointedly.

Just… quietly.

Advay noticed.

He didn’t follow immediately.

He gave it a minute.

Then another.

Then he slipped away too.

The cottages were modest wooden doors, soft yellow bulbs, thin curtains that moved whenever the wind insisted. The hallway outside their rooms smelled faintly of damp wood and something sweet maybe the dessert someone had reheated earlier.

He stopped outside her door.

Didn’t knock immediately.

Just stood there.

He could hear faint movement inside. A cupboard closing. The rustle of fabric.

He knocked softly.

A pause.

Then the door opened halfway.

She had changed into something warmer. Hair down now. No audience. No firelight.

Just her.

“Yes?” she asked gently.

“I wasn’t ready for the night to end,” he said.

She studied him for a second.

Then stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The room was small but warm.

One bed. One chair near the window. A lamp glowing softly near the side table. Her bag lay open on the floor, clothes folded neatly beside it.

She closed the door quietly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to hold the space.

He didn’t sit immediately.

Neither did she.

The air between them wasn’t tense.

But it was aware.

“You hate rooms like this,” she said after a moment.

“Why?”

“Too quiet. No distractions.”

He exhaled softly. “You notice too much.”

“That’s the problem?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why this is difficult.”

She leaned back against the edge of the table.

“Why is it difficult?”

He took a breath.

“Because you see the pause before I do.”

Silence.

“You freeze before I speak,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And then I react before you finish.”

“Yes.”

A small, almost-smile passed between them.

Pattern acknowledged.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m dragging love out of you,” she said softly.

“You’re not.”

“It feels like I am sometimes.”

He walked toward the chair but didn’t sit. Instead, he rested his hand on its back.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I was afraid that if I said it out loud, it would change the balance.”

“What balance?”

“The one where we still had each other even if we didn’t define it.”

She tilted her head.

“That’s not balance,” she said. “That’s suspension.”

The word settled.

He nodded slowly.

“You’re right.”

A beat.

“I don’t want to be suspended,” she added.

He looked at her then.

Really looked.

“I don’t want you to be either.”

She stepped closer.

Not confrontational.

Just narrowing distance.

“You know what scared me in the café?” she asked.

“That I didn’t say it?”

“That you didn’t choose it.”

The word hung heavier this time.

Choose.

He swallowed.

“I thought waiting was safer.”

“It wasn’t,” she said gently.

“I know.”

Silence again.

But softer now.

Outside, wind brushed against the window. Somewhere far away, someone laughed faintly before a door shut.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

He remained standing for a second longer.

Then he sat on the chair opposite her.

The space between them was small.

But not accidental.

“Do you regret today?” she asked.

“No.”

“Even the slap?”

He almost smiled.

“That was deserved.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I don’t like that I did that.”

“I don’t like that I made you feel like you had to.”

That stopped her.

She looked up slowly.

“I don’t want us to become careful around each other,” she said.

“I don’t either.”

“Because careful turns into distant.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I don’t want distance.”

Her voice dropped.

“Then stay when it’s uncomfortable.”

“I will.”

The simplicity of it startled them both.

No speeches.

No poetry.

Just promise.

The room felt warmer now.

Or maybe it was just the absence of tension.

He stood slowly.

Moved closer.

Not invading.

Just aligning.

He sat beside her on the bed this time.

Not touching.

But close enough that their shoulders almost did.

They both noticed.

Neither commented.

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” she said quietly.

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“I just need you to be present.”

He nodded.

“I can do that.”

She turned slightly toward him.

“So can I.”

The distance between their shoulders disappeared.

Not dramatic.

Not charged.

Just contact.

He felt her warmth through the thin fabric of his sweater.

She felt his breath steady.

They didn’t rush to fill the silence.

For once, silence wasn’t threatening.

It was shared.

After a while, she leaned back against the wall behind the bed.

Without thinking too hard about it, he mirrored her.

Their knees brushed lightly.

Neither pulled away.

“Do you think we make this harder than it needs to be?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because we both care enough to be afraid.”

She considered that.

“Care isn’t the enemy.”

“No.”

“Fear isn’t either.”

He looked at her.

“Then what is?”

She held his gaze.

“Avoidance.”

He nodded slowly.

“I’m done avoiding.”

She studied him.

And this time—

She believed him.

The lamp cast a soft halo around them.

The fog outside pressed against the window, quiet and patient.

He reached for her hand.

Slowly.

Not testing.

Choosing.

She let him.

Their fingers intertwined without ceremony.

No audience.

No interruption.

Just two people in a small cottage in the hills, deciding to stay.

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t need to.

Sometimes intimacy is simply not leaving the room.

The morning arrived gently.

Not with alarms.

Not with noise.

Just with light.

A thin stripe of pale gold slipped through the curtains and stretched slowly across the cottage floor. The fog outside hadn’t fully lifted, but it had thinned enough for shapes to exist again trees, rooftops, distant hills.

Saanvi woke first.

She didn’t move immediately.

For a few seconds, she didn’t even remember where she was.

Then she did.

The cottage. The fog. The conversation.

Her heart steadied instead of racing.

That was new.

She turned her head slightly.

Advay was still asleep.

He had shifted sometime in the night, one arm bent awkwardly under the pillow, hair falling across his forehead in a way he would’ve hated if he’d seen it.

He looked younger when he slept.

Less guarded.

She studied his face.

There was no tension in his jaw.

No crease between his brows.

Just rest.

She hadn’t realized how tightly he held himself until she saw him like this.

She looked down.

Their hands were still loosely intertwined.

Not tight.

Not dramatic.

Just… there.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she let her thumb move slightly against his knuckles.

A small motion.

He stirred.

Not fully awake yet, but aware.

His fingers tightened instinctively.

Then his eyes opened.

For a second, confusion flickered.

Then recognition.

Not panic.

Not distance.

Recognition.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

She smiled faintly.

“Morning.”

Neither moved.

The world outside the cottage was quiet distant clatter of utensils, muffled laughter from another room, birds testing the air.

He blinked a few times, then glanced down at their hands.

He didn’t pull away either.

That was the shift.

Old Advay would have adjusted immediately.

Created space.

Neutralized implication.

This time, he just breathed.

“You didn’t disappear,” she said softly.

He frowned slightly. “Was I supposed to?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

He studied her for a moment.

“You didn’t build a wall overnight.”

“I was tempted,” she admitted.

He smiled faintly.

“Of course you were.”

She rolled her eyes gently.

Silence settled again.

But it wasn’t heavy.

It was comfortable.

He sat up slowly, their hands finally separating not abruptly, not awkwardly. Just naturally.

She watched the way he stretched, the way he rubbed sleep from his eyes without self-consciousness.

There was less performance in him this morning.

Less calculation.

He looked at her again.

“Coffee?” he asked.

The simplicity of it made her chest tighten in a good way.

“Please.”

He stood, ran a hand through his hair, then paused.

“I meant what I said,” he added quietly.

“About?”

“Staying.”

She held his gaze.

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Not over-explaining.

Not repeating.

Just confirming.

He moved toward the small electric kettle near the table.

She watched him measure water like it mattered.

Watched him frown slightly when the switch didn’t respond immediately.

Watched him tap it once impatiently.

It was ordinary.

But it didn’t feel ordinary.

It felt shared.

When he handed her the cup, his fingers brushed hers.

He didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t either.

They stepped outside the cottage together.

The fog had lifted just enough to reveal the hills in soft green layers. Dew clung to leaves. The air smelled clean — washed.

Families were already awake, someone laughing loudly near the dining hall.

They stood side by side on the small porch.

Not touching.

Not needing to.

He looked at the hills.

She looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not avoiding eye contact.”

He smirked slightly. “I’m evolving.”

She laughed.

And this time, it was unguarded.

A few steps away, Avani spotted them.

She paused.

Took in the body language.

The proximity.

The absence of tension.

She didn’t smile widely.

Just knowingly.

When she walked past, she murmured softly to Saanvi,

“Doorways look good on him.”

Saanvi tried not to smile.

Too late.

Advay looked between them suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Saanvi said lightly.

He narrowed his eyes.

Then shook his head.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t defensive.

It was ease.

As they walked toward breakfast, he slowed slightly to match her pace.

He didn’t rush ahead.

He didn’t hang back.

He aligned.

And somewhere between fog and morning light, something quiet had shifted.

Not fireworks.

Not declarations.

Just this:

They were no longer bracing for each other.

They were moving together.

The way he asked questions now.

The way he stayed present in conversations instead of retreating into observation.

The way he laughed more easily.

It made something warm bloom in her chest.

And something dangerous.

Because warmth meant attachment.

And attachment, with a departure date looming quietly in their calendars, meant risk.

His birthday arrived without announcement.

No dramatic countdown. No group reminders.

Just another weekday that happened to carry meaning.

Advay had tried to make it forgettable.

“I don’t do birthdays,” he’d said the week before.

“You exist,” she’d replied. “That’s reason enough.”

He had rolled his eyes.

But he hadn’t argued.

That morning, the bus felt lighter.

Not because of celebration.

Because of normalcy.

She slid into the seat beside him with practiced ease.

“Happy birthday,” she said casually, like it was an afterthought.

He glanced at her.

“You remembered.”

“I have a functioning memory.”

He smiled.

But it lingered longer than sarcasm usually allowed.

She handed him a small, badly wrapped box.

“No speeches,” she warned.

He took it carefully.

The paper tore unevenly when he opened it.

Inside was a leather-bound notebook.

Simple.

Understated.

On the first page, she had written:

“For the things you don’t want to almost say.”

He didn’t look at her immediately.

He just stared at the handwriting.

The words.

Then he closed the book gently.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You know that’ll make me use it.”

“Good.”

He exhaled.

Soft.

Real.

“Thank you.”

Not performative.

Not deflecting.

Just gratitude.

At the office, word spread faster than he expected.

Arjun arrived with unnecessary enthusiasm.

“Old man!” he announced loudly, clapping him on the back.

Advay winced. “Please don’t.”

By lunchtime, someone had arranged a small cake in the cafeteria.

It was crooked.

The icing slightly melted.

Perfect.

Saanvi stood back as everyone sang loudly and off-key.

She watched him.

The way he tolerated attention with half-embarrassment, half-amusement.

The way he glanced at her when the song ended.

Not seeking approval.

Seeking presence.

He cut the cake reluctantly.

Arjun smeared a bit of frosting on his cheek immediately.

“You’re dead,” Advay muttered.

Laughter erupted.

Someone shouted for photos.

He stood stiffly at first.

Then relaxed.

Gradually.

And when someone insisted Saanvi stand beside him

He didn’t hesitate.

He stepped closer.

Shoulders brushing.

Natural.

The camera flashed.

She felt that warmth again.

And the danger beneath it.

Because in less than two months

He would be gone.

That evening, she told him she needed him for an hour.

“No context?” he asked.

“No context.”

He followed her without argument.

They ended up on the terrace of his apartment building.

Hyderabad evening wrapped around them distant traffic, cooking smells drifting upward, the sky fading from orange to indigo.

A small table sat near the edge.

On it

A cake.

Not from the office.

Homemade.

Slightly uneven at the edges.

He stared at it.

“You baked?”

She folded her arms defensively.

“Multiple casualties. This is the survivor.”

He stepped closer.

Touched the icing.

“You did this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitated.

Then:

“Because I wanted something that required effort.”

He looked at her carefully.

“Effort?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She met his eyes.

“Because you matter.”

The air shifted.

No jokes.

No sarcasm.

Just truth.

He swallowed.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

That was the point.

He looked at the cake again.

Then at her.

“You burned the first one, didn’t you?”

She glared. “Irrelevant.”

He laughed.

And this time, it wasn’t guarded.

It wasn’t restrained.

It was free.

They cut the cake together.

No audience.

No singing.

Just the soft scrape of a knife against cardboard.

She fed him the first bite.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t make a joke.

Just tasted it.

“It’s good,” he said.

“It’s average.”

“It’s good.”

She smiled faintly.

He reached up and brushed a streak of icing from her thumb.

The gesture lingered a second too long.

The city lights flickered below them.

“You’re leaving soon,” she said quietly.

Not accusatory.

Just aware.

“Yes.”

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

She nodded slowly.

“I don’t want this to feel like countdown happiness.”

“It doesn’t,” he said.

“What does it feel like?”

He considered.

“Like something we’re choosing before it gets complicated.”

She looked at him carefully.

“And when it gets complicated?”

“We don’t almost.”

The words settled between them.

The birthday candle flickered weakly in the breeze.

She leaned closer to shield it.

“Make a wish,” she said softly.

He didn’t close his eyes.

He looked at her instead.

“I don’t need to,” he replied.

Her breath caught.

The warmth in her chest bloomed wider.

And the danger deepened.

Because love was no longer hypothetical.

It had shape.

It had dates.

It had departure gates waiting quietly in the future.

She leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.

He didn’t freeze.

He didn’t calculate.

He just stayed.

And somewhere beneath the city lights, between cake crumbs and unspoken fear—

They began counting time.

Together.

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

He shrugged, but there was no deflection in it this time.

“You mentioned it once. Two years ago. Said you re-read it when you were sad and dramatic.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I am not dramatic.”

“You cried at a detergent advertisement.”

“It was emotional.”

He smiled.

But softer now.

Not teasing.

Present.

She ran her fingers over the edge of the book like it was fragile.

“You bought this when?”

“A while ago.”

“How long is a while?”

He hesitated.

“Before the café.”

That made her look up.

Really look at him.

“You planned to give me this?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“And then I said the wrong thing.”

Silence settled.

But it wasn’t sharp anymore.

It was reflective.

She stepped closer.

“I would’ve kept it,” she said gently.

“I know.”

“I would’ve kept you too.”

That one landed deeper.

The room felt warmer now that everyone had left.

Cake boxes sat half-open on the table. Balloons leaned tiredly against the wall. The paper party hat was still tilted slightly on her head.

He reached up without thinking and adjusted it.

“You look ridiculous,” he said.

“You let me in.”

“I did.”

She studied him.

“You weren’t embarrassed.”

“I was.”

“Then why didn’t you shut down?”

He considered that.

“Because it was you.”

Simple.

She didn’t smile immediately.

She absorbed it.

There was icing still faintly on his cheek.

She reached up and wiped it gently with her thumb.

His breath shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Her hand lingered a second longer than necessary.

The room felt quieter now.

No music.

No laughter.

Just the hum of the ceiling fan and something else building slowly between them.

“You hate attention,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t hate tonight.”

He looked at her.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t feel like performance.”

She tilted her head.

“What did it feel like?”

“Like being seen without being judged.”

Her expression changed.

Something tender.

Something dangerous.

She stepped closer.

Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin without touching.

“You’re not hard to celebrate,” she said.

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

He exhaled slowly.

“You make it easier.”

Her breath caught slightly.

That warmth in her chest bloomed again.

He looked at her like he wanted to say something else.

Something bigger.

But this time

He didn’t hesitate.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For not giving up after the café.”

She swallowed.

“Don’t make this sentimental,” she warned softly.

He smiled faintly.

“You started it.”

A beat.

She lifted the book again.

“You know this story doesn’t end well.”

“I know.”

“You’re giving me a tragedy on your birthday.”

“I’m giving you something about love that survives distance.”

The air shifted again.

Subtle.

Heavy.

“You’re leaving,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Does that scare you?”

He didn’t pretend.

“Yes.”

“More than tonight?”

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly.

“Good.”

He blinked. “Good?”

“It means you care.”

He laughed softly.

“You hit me when you care.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You deserved at least one.”

He stepped closer now.

No rush.

No audience.

“I don’t want us to be careful,” he said quietly.

“We’re not.”

“We are.”

She studied him.

“Then stop being.”

His hand moved instinctively toward her waist.

He paused.

She noticed.

She didn’t step back.

He let his hand settle there.

Light.

Questioning.

Her breath slowed.

“Advay,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“You’re not supposed to get confident after cake.”

“I’m evolving,” he said softly.

She laughed under her breath.

Their faces were closer now.

Not accidental.

Not dramatic.

Just inches.

The room felt smaller.

The world felt far.

His forehead nearly touched hers.

He didn’t move further.

He waited.

And for once

Waiting didn’t feel like fear.

It felt like permission.

She could feel his breath.

Warm.

Steady.

“You’re going to miss this,” she whispered.

“I already do.”

Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt.

“You’re still here.”

“Not for long.”

The truth sat between them.

Not ruining the moment.

Sharpening it.

She leaned forward first.

Not a kiss.

Just her forehead resting against his.

Contact.

Connection.

He closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Not rushed.

Not late.

She exhaled against his skin.

“I know.”

A beat.

Then

“I love you too.”

The words weren’t explosive.

They were anchored.

He didn’t freeze.

He didn’t overthink.

He just held her a little closer.

And for the first time since everything almost broke

The word “birthday” didn’t feel like attention.

It felt like beginning.

She stepped aside to let him in.

The apartment smelled faintly of cocoa and something… slightly burnt.

He noticed immediately.

“You’re baking again,” he said.

She closed the door behind him. “You’re not allowed to judge.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

The kitchen light was still on. A bowl sat in the sink. A whisk abandoned mid-process. There was flour on the counter. And on her cheek.

He noticed that too.

“You’ve got—” he started.

“I know,” she said defensively.

“You don’t.”

He stepped closer and wiped the flour from her cheek gently.

Her breath stilled.

The touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary.

Something about this felt different.

Not charged in a chaotic way.

Charged in a settled way.

“I wasn’t coming for cake,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” she replied, trying to sound casual. “That’s tragic.”

He ignored the sarcasm.

“I was thinking,” he continued.

“That’s always dangerous.”

He didn’t smile this time.

“I don’t want to leave things unsaid again.”

That made her straighten slightly.

“You already said it,” she replied softly.

“I know. But saying ‘I love you’ and living it are different.”

Silence.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

“How are you planning to live it?” she asked carefully.

He exhaled.

“By not acting like we’re temporary.”

The word hit.

Temporary.

She leaned back against the counter, folding her arms loosely.

“You are leaving.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not temporary.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s distance.”

She held his gaze.

“And?”

“And I don’t want to treat distance like a breakup preview.”

Her lips parted slightly.

He stepped closer.

Not invading.

Not pushing.

Just closing space.

“I don’t want us to soften what this is just because I’m going to New York,” he said. “I don’t want to downgrade us to survive it.”

Her heartbeat quickened.

“You’re very intense for a Tuesday,” she murmured.

He almost smiled.

“I’m trying not to almost you again.”

That did it.

The air shifted.

The humor dropped.

She walked toward him slowly.

“You know what scares me?” she asked.

“What?”

“That we’ll build something right before you leave… and then it’ll hurt more.”

“It will hurt,” he said honestly.

She blinked.

“That’s not comforting.”

“I’m not trying to comfort you. I’m trying to stay.”

There it was again.

Stay.

She searched his face.

No deflection.

No escape route.

Just steadiness.

“And when it gets hard?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t freeze.”

“And if I overreact?”

“I don’t retreat.”

She stared at him.

“You practiced that line.”

“I did.”

She laughed softly.

Then stopped.

Because he wasn’t joking.

The space between them had narrowed to inches now.

No one else in the apartment.

No noise from the outside world.

Just breath.

Just closeness.

“You didn’t come here for cake,” she said again, voice lower.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

He looked at her like he’d already decided.

“Because when you waved from the balcony yesterday… I didn’t want to be your best friend anymore.”

Her pulse jumped.

“And what do you want to be?”

He stepped closer.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth from his chest.

“Yours.”

No grand declaration.

Just placement.

She swallowed.

“You already are.”

“Not halfway,” he said.

That word again.

Halfway.

He reached for her hand.

Not hesitantly.

Deliberately.

Her fingers intertwined with his automatically.

No thinking.

Just instinct.

“I don’t want to count days like they’re subtracting us,” he said quietly. “I want to count them like they’re leading somewhere.”

Her throat tightened.

“You’re different,” she whispered.

“I’m trying to be.”

She studied him carefully.

“You didn’t pause just now.”

“I noticed.”

She smiled slowly.

Dangerous warmth blooming in her chest again.

He lifted his free hand and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

He didn’t pull away this time.

Her breath grew uneven.

“You’re very close,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“You’re not calculating.”

“I’m not.”

She searched his face one last time.

No retreat.

No escape.

Just presence.

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

“Advay…”

“Yeah?”

“If you freeze now, I swear”

He closed the distance.

Not abruptly.

Not rushed.

Just enough.

Their foreheads touched first.

Then noses.

Then breath.

He paused.

Letting her decide.

She didn’t step back.

She didn’t hesitate.

Their lips met.

Not dramatic.

Not desperate.

Soft.

Careful.

Real.

The kind of kiss that doesn’t prove anything.

It confirms it.

His hand settled at her waist.

Her other hand slid into his shirt lightly.

The world narrowed to warmth and the faint scent of cocoa.

When they pulled back, it wasn’t because they had to.

It was because they needed air.

She rested her forehead against his again.

“You’re leaving,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I won’t run.”

That was enough.

For now.

Outside, somewhere in the city, traffic moved. People argued. Life continued.

Inside her apartment

The buddy phase had not just expired.

It had been replaced.

And this time, neither of them pretended it wasn’t love.

He was in deep.

And for the first time, he didn’t try to retreat from the realization.

She was still talking.

“…and the third one looked perfect until I touched it and it just collapsed like it had trust issues,” she said, frowning at the memory.

He smiled.

“You’re laughing,” she accused.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m appreciating the effort.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the faint pride in her expression.

He walked closer to the counter.

The cake wasn’t symmetrical. The frosting had been applied with more enthusiasm than precision. There was a slight dip in the center where it had probably been rescued from disaster.

It was imperfect.

Which made it undeniable.

“You really practiced all week?” he asked softly.

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to mess up on the final one.”

“For me?”

“For my ego,” she corrected quickly.

He looked at her.

“You don’t practice for ego.”

She faltered slightly.

“Okay, fine. For you.”

The admission was small.

But it held.

He reached out and dipped his finger lightly into the frosting.

She gasped. “Hey!”

He tasted it.

Then looked at her.

“It’s good.”

“I know it’s good. I tasted it like six times.”

“That explains the sugar rush.”

She swatted his arm lightly.

He caught her wrist gently before she could pull away.

Not forceful.

Just instinct.

The air shifted.

Her hand stilled in his.

He didn’t let go immediately.

And this time

He didn’t look for an exit.

“You don’t have to do things like this,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She held his gaze.

“Because I don’t want you to forget this place.”

He blinked.

“Hyderabad?”

She shook her head slightly.

“Me.”

There it was.

Not dramatic.

Just vulnerable.

He felt something tighten in his chest.

“I won’t,” he said.

“You’ll be busy.”

“I’ll still remember.”

She searched his face like she was testing for hesitation.

He didn’t give her any.

“You’re leaving in a few weeks,” she said softly. “I just… wanted something of mine in your memory that wasn’t office coffee.”

He exhaled slowly.

“You think I only remember coffee?”

She smiled faintly. “You remember everything. You just pretend you don’t.”

He stepped closer.

Close enough to see the tiny crease near her eyebrow when she was unsure.

“I remember the first time you fell asleep on the bus,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“I remember the yellow kurti you wore on Diwali two years ago. You complained about the sleeves.”

She stared at him.

“I remember you don’t like raisins in sweets.”

“That’s basic human decency.”

He ignored the comment.

“I remember you always wave from the balcony even if I don’t look back.”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t listing facts.

He was placing proof.

“I remember things,” he said again, softer this time. “I just forget to say them.”

She didn’t joke this time.

She just looked at him like something inside her had steadied.

The cake sat between them, slightly lopsided, slightly cracked.

He let go of her wrist slowly.

But he didn’t step away.

“This isn’t friendship,” he said quietly.

She swallowed.

“I know.”

“It hasn’t been for a while.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t we say it?”

She smiled faintly.

“Because you were being careful.”

“And you?”

“I was waiting.”

He nodded once.

Honest.

Painfully honest.

He reached for the knife on the counter.

Cut a small slice.

Held it up toward her.

“You first.”

She hesitated, then leaned forward and took a bite.

Frosting smudged lightly at the corner of her lip.

He stared at it a second too long.

“You’ve got”

She wiped it automatically.

He caught her hand.

“No.”

His thumb brushed gently against her lip instead.

The touch was slower this time.

Intentional.

Her breath shifted.

“You’re different,” she whispered.

“I’m tired of being almost.”

The words landed heavy and steady.

She placed the cake plate down.

Stepped closer.

Not cautious.

Not dramatic.

Just certain.

“You’re in deep,” she said softly.

He didn’t flinch.

“I know.”

“And you’re not running?”

“No.”

Her hand slid lightly against his chest.

Feeling the steady rise and fall.

“Good,” she murmured.

Because this time

He wasn’t retreating from realization.

He was standing in it.

And somewhere between burnt edges and uneven frosting

They stopped pretending that care could be casual.

The apartment still smelled like chocolate.

The cake sat between them, slightly imperfect, slightly leaning like it had survived something.

So had they.

Saanvi’s hand was still resting lightly against his chest.

He hadn’t moved it away.

He hadn’t needed to.

For a moment, everything felt aligned.

Not dramatic.

Not fragile.

Just steady.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

She didn’t.

“It’s vibrating,” she murmured.

“It can wait.”

It buzzed again.

And again.

Not a call.

Email notifications.

He exhaled slowly.

“Probably office.”

“Check it.”

He hesitated.

Just a fraction.

She noticed.

“Advay.”

He pulled his phone out.

The screen lit up.

Subject line:

Onsite Assignment – Final Confirmation Required (New York)

His heartbeat shifted instantly.

The room changed temperature.

He opened it.

Formal language.

Clear timeline.

Visa processing initiated.

Joining date confirmed.

Acceptance required within 24 hours.

Not 48.

24.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Saanvi saw it.

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Which was answer enough.

She stepped closer.

“Tell me.”

He handed her the phone.

No delay.

No editing.

She read it once.

Then again.

Her expression didn’t collapse.

It tightened.

“That’s soon,” she said.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Six weeks.”

The cake sat on the counter between them like a quiet witness.

The softness in the room didn’t disappear.

It fractured.

She placed the phone back into his hand.

“You didn’t know?”

“I knew it was coming.”

“But not this soon.”

“No.”

Silence.

Not angry.

Not loud.

Just heavy.

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I was going to tell you tonight.”

“When?”

“After this.”

She looked at the cake.

Then at him.

“You were waiting for a good moment.”

“Yes.”

Her lips curved faintly.

“That’s your pattern.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t want this to overshadow…” he gestured vaguely toward them.

“Us?”

“Yes.”

She leaned back against the counter.

The warmth that had bloomed in her chest earlier didn’t vanish.

It hurt.

“That’s the problem,” she said softly.

“What?”

“You think news like this overshadows us.”

He frowned.

“It changes things.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t erase them.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not angry.”

She looked at him carefully.

“I’m not surprised.”

That hit harder.

He stepped closer.

“I don’t want this to feel like I’m choosing something over you.”

She met his eyes.

“Are you?”

The question was clean.

No accusation.

Just truth.

He answered without pause.

“No.”

“Then don’t treat it like betrayal.”

He stared at her.

“You’re not upset?”

“I am,” she said honestly. “But not because you’re going. I’m upset because time is suddenly real.”

The word settled.

Time.

He looked at the cake again.

At the uneven frosting.

At the effort she had poured into something meant to stay.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he said quietly.

“You’re not losing it.”

“How do you know?”

She stepped forward.

Took his hand.

“Because I’m not temporary.”

The words were steady.

Not dramatic.

Just anchored.

“You think distance will undo us?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s honest.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I don’t want to freeze again.”

“Then don’t.”

“And if I get overwhelmed there?”

“Call me.”

“And if it gets hard?”

“It will.”

He blinked.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I’m not here to reassure you,” she said softly. “I’m here to stay.”

There it was again.

Stay.

He squeezed her hand unconsciously.

“I don’t want our last weeks to feel like countdown.”

“Then don’t count.”

He almost smiled.

“I always count.”

“I know.”

She moved closer.

Forehead touching his again.

Just like the cottage.

Only this time

There was a deadline in the room.

“You’re allowed to go,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to want more.”

“I want you.”

“Good,” she said softly. “Want both.”

He looked at her carefully.

“You’re not scared?”

“I am.”

“Of what?”

“That we’ll both pretend to be strong and not admit when we miss each other.”

He let out a small breath.

“I will miss you.”

“I know.”

“And that scares me.”

She smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He almost laughed.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it means you’re not numb.”

The email notification remained open on his phone.

Waiting.

A decision within 24 hours.

He looked at it.

Then at her.

“I’m accepting,” he said.

She nodded.

“I know you are.”

“And you’re okay?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m not leaving.”

That did something to him.

Something stabilizing.

He leaned down and kissed her.

Not desperate.

Not panicked.

Grounded.

When he pulled back, the room didn’t feel fractured anymore.

It felt sharpened.

The cake still sat between them.

Softness hadn’t disappeared.

It had grown weight.

Six weeks.

Not forever.

But not nothing.

And for the first time

They weren’t avoiding the future.

They were standing in it.

Together.

The email arrived on a Tuesday morning, unannounced and unforgiving.

Advay read it three times before it registered.

Two-year onsite assignment.

New York.

Leadership role.

Relocation package attached.

Reporting date: January.

Two years.

Not six months.

Not trial.

Two years.

The office around him continued as if nothing monumental had just entered his bloodstream. Keyboards clicked. A chair squeaked. Someone laughed too loudly near the pantry.

His screen felt too bright.

He read the mail again.

Then scrolled.

Visa processing. Housing assistance. Salary revision. Growth trajectory.

Everything he had once wanted.

Everything he had worked toward.

He leaned back slowly in his chair.

Two years.

He calculated automatically.

Eight hundred and something days.

Two birthdays.

Two Holis.

Two Christmas trips that wouldn’t happen.

Two years of bus seats without her beside him.

His throat tightened.

Across the aisle, Saanvi was explaining something to a junior developer, hands moving animatedly, eyebrows lifting dramatically as she spoke.

She looked alive.

Present.

He watched her laugh.

And for the first time—

The promotion didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like subtraction.

His phone buzzed with a follow-up mail.

“Please confirm acceptance within 48 hours.”

Forty-eight.

He swallowed.

Forty-eight hours to choose the future he had built toward.

And risk fracturing the present he hadn’t fully secured.

Arjun dropped into the chair beside him without invitation.

“You look like someone just told you you’re getting married,” Arjun said.

Advay didn’t respond.

“Or divorced,” Arjun added.

Still nothing.

Arjun leaned closer.

“What happened?”

Advay turned the screen toward him.

Arjun’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“Oh.”

Yeah.

Oh.

“This is huge,” Arjun said.

“Yes.”

“You’re not smiling.”

“No.”

Arjun studied him carefully.

“Have you told her?”

“No.”

“You’re thinking about not taking it?”

Advay didn’t answer.

Because the thought had arrived the second he read the subject line.

And that scared him more than New York did.

“I worked for this,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“I wanted this.”

“Yes.”

Arjun leaned back.

“And?”

Advay looked across the aisle again.

Saanvi was still mid-sentence, unaware that geography had just shifted under them.

“And now it feels complicated.”

Arjun exhaled.

“Of course it does.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You can’t not take it,” Arjun said gently.

“I know.”

“And you can’t not tell her.”

“I know.”

He hated that both things were true.

He opened a new message window.

Typed her name.

Stopped.

Deleted it.

Closed it.

Forty-eight hours.

He would tell her tonight.

Not on the bus.

Not in the office.

Not rushed.

Properly.

He owed her that.

Across the aisle, Saanvi glanced up unexpectedly.

Their eyes met.

She smiled automatically.

He didn’t.

The smile faltered slightly.

Just a little.

Enough for her to notice.

And suddenly

Forty-eight hours didn’t feel like time.

It felt like a countdown.

Airports had always unsettled Advay.

Too much motion. Too many endings disguised as logistics.

He stood near the security barrier, boarding pass folded too neatly in his hand, backpack strap pulled tight across his shoulder like it might anchor him to the floor.

The departure board flickered.

NEW YORK — ON TIME.

Of course it was.

Saanvi stood beside him, arms crossed loosely, scanning the crowd like she was memorizing everything. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t made a scene. She had been efficient all morning—checked his documents twice, repacked his charger, made sure he ate something.

She was managing him.

Which meant she was holding herself together.

“You’ve got ten minutes before they start boarding,” she said calmly.

He nodded.

Didn’t move.

Around them, people hugged too tightly. Children whined. Announcements echoed overhead in neutral voices that didn’t understand what they were interrupting.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

The familiar crease between her brows when she was thinking too much. The way she pressed her lips together when she didn’t want to say something reckless.

“I hate this place,” he muttered.

She exhaled softly. “You hate waiting.”

“I hate not knowing what the next version of us looks like.”

That made her turn fully toward him.

“There isn’t a new version,” she said. “There’s just distance.”

He shook his head faintly. “Distance changes people.”

“So does staying,” she replied.

He swallowed.

The weight of everything unsaid over the past few weeks pressed against his ribs.

The countdown had been real.

Suitcases. Documents. Vaccinations. Last dinners. Last bus rides.

They had been brave about it.

Too brave.

An announcement cut through the terminal.

“Passengers for Flight 247 to New York, boarding will commence shortly.”

His chest tightened.

This was it.

The ordinary ending.

He reached for her hand.

Not dramatically.

Just instinct.

Her fingers slipped into his immediately.

Warm.

Steady.

“I don’t want to leave like this,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

Her composure cracked slightly.

“It does hurt,” she admitted.

He nodded.

“But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

She looked at him carefully.

“What are you afraid of?”

“That I’ll get there and build a life that doesn’t have space for you.”

Her breath caught.

“That won’t happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

He almost smiled.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Another announcement.

Boarding now.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that the noise around them blurred slightly.

“I love you,” he said.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Placed.

She didn’t respond immediately.

She studied him.

Like she was checking for hesitation.

There wasn’t any.

“I know,” she said softly.

He frowned faintly.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

She smiled through the tightness in her throat.

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t cinematic.

It was steady.

His chest burned.

“I almost didn’t take it,” he admitted suddenly.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“Don’t.”

“I thought about it.”

“Don’t,” she repeated, firmer now.

“You matter more.”

“And I want you to matter to yourself too,” she said. “Don’t shrink for me.”

The truth of that hit deeper than anything else.

He nodded slowly.

“I won’t.”

She stepped into him then.

Not politely.

Not carefully.

Her arms wrapped around his waist tightly.

He held her back just as firmly.

No one clapped.

No music swelled.

Just two people holding on longer than necessary.

He buried his face briefly against her hair.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Don’t let me freeze there.”

“I won’t.”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll fly there and slap you again.”

He laughed against her shoulder.

The sound broke something open in him.

They pulled apart slowly.

Reluctantly.

The boarding line moved.

People glanced impatiently.

Time did not pause.

She reached up and adjusted his collar automatically.

“You’ll forget your gloves,” she murmured.

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

He smiled faintly.

“Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

“And Advay?”

“Yeah?”

“If it gets hard”

“It will.”

“—don’t go silent.”

He nodded.

“I won’t disappear.”

That was the real promise.

Not forever.

Not perfection.

Presence.

He leaned down and kissed her.

Not desperate.

Not hurried.

Deep enough to remember.

When he pulled away, her eyes were bright but steady.

“Go,” she said softly. “Before I change my mind and cause a public scene.”

He almost didn’t move.

Then he did.

One step.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t look back immediately.

Because if he did

He might not board.

At the security checkpoint, he turned.

She was still there.

Not crying.

Not waving wildly.

Just standing.

Watching.

Present.

He lifted his hand slightly.

She mirrored it.

Small.

Certain.

Then he walked through.

And for the first time

Distance wasn’t theoretical.

It was a gate closing quietly behind him.

She didn’t cry at the airport.

Not when he hugged her.

Not when he said he was scared.

Not even when he disappeared past security and the glass doors slid shut between them like something final.

She stood there a few seconds longer than necessary.

Just to prove to herself she could.

Then she turned.

The walk toward the exit felt longer than usual.

The airport noise was louder now — trolley wheels scraping, announcements echoing, children crying, someone arguing over baggage weight.

Life moved on.

Her didn’t.

She reached the parking lot before her breath changed.

It came shorter.

Shallower.

Like her lungs hadn’t been informed that holding it in wasn’t required anymore.

She unlocked her car.

Sat inside.

Closed the door.

Silence.

The kind that presses against your ears.

Her hands stayed on the steering wheel.

Still.

She looked at the passenger seat.

Empty.

No backpack tossed carelessly there.

No commentary about traffic.

No sarcasm about parking fees.

Just space.

She exhaled.

It trembled.

“Okay,” she whispered to no one.

Okay.

The word didn’t mean anything.

Her phone buzzed.

Her heart leapt instinctively.

But it wasn’t him.

Group chat.

Someone asking if she got home safe.

She locked the screen.

The tears came without warning.

Not dramatic.

Not loud.

Just sudden.

Like her body had waited for privacy.

She leaned forward, forehead pressing against the steering wheel.

Her shoulders shook once.

Twice.

Then fully.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

Not the airport.

Not New York.

This.

The distance.

The fact that love had a gate number.

She tried to steady herself.

Wiped her face quickly.

Took a breath.

Started the car.

The drive home was a blur.

Traffic lights changed without meaning.

Songs played on the radio that she didn’t hear.

Her mind replayed the last hug.

The way his voice cracked when he said he was scared.

The way he didn’t look back immediately.

That hurt more than she expected.

At a red light, she reached for her phone.

No message yet.

Of course not.

He’d barely boarded.

She dropped the phone back into her lap.

“Don’t go silent,” she had said.

Now she realized—

The silence would be on her side too.

She reached her building.

Parked.

Sat there again for a full minute.

The balcony above her apartment looked the same.

The same place she had waved from.

The same place he had looked up.

Her throat tightened again.

She walked upstairs slowly.

Unlocked the door.

Stepped inside.

The apartment felt too still.

Too tidy.

Too aware.

She dropped her keys into the bowl.

The sound echoed more than usual.

She walked into the kitchen automatically.

The cake box from his birthday still sat on the counter.

She stared at it.

Touched the lid lightly.

“He left,” she whispered.

Saying it out loud made it real.

She walked to the balcony.

Opened the door.

The Hyderabad air wrapped around her.

Warm.

Familiar.

Indifferent.

She leaned against the railing and looked down at the street.

No car waiting.

No headlights flashing twice to say goodbye again.

Just normal life.

Her phone buzzed.

Her heart slammed into her ribs.

She grabbed it.

A message.

From him.

“Boarded.”

That was it.

Just one word.

But it steadied her.

She typed back immediately.

“Okay.”

She stared at the screen.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

“Call me when you land.”

Sent.

She leaned back against the wall.

The tears came again.

Quieter this time.

Less panic.

More ache.

She slid down until she was sitting on the balcony floor, knees pulled to her chest.

This wasn’t a breakup.

That almost made it harder.

Because she wasn’t losing him.

She was trusting him.

Trust required endurance.

Trust required space.

She closed her eyes.

“I’m not temporary,” she whispered to herself.

He had believed that.

She had to believe it too.

Her phone buzzed again.

A new message.

“Already miss you.”

The tears stopped.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because it felt mutual.

She pressed the phone to her chest.

“Good,” she whispered.

Then she stood up.

Went inside.

Closed the balcony door gently.

Distance had begun.

But so had something else.

Resolve.

The apartment in Jersey City was too clean.

Too rectangular.

Too quiet.

Advay stood in the middle of the living room with his suitcase still unopened beside him.

The heater hummed faintly. Outside the window, the city moved in unfamiliar rhythms — distant sirens, subway vibrations, wind cutting sharply between buildings.

It was colder than Hyderabad.

Not just in temperature.

In memory.

He placed his bag down slowly.

Looked around.

One couch. One small dining table. White walls. A kitchen that didn’t smell like anything yet.

Temporary.

The word echoed.

He sat on the edge of the bed in the adjoining room and stared at his phone.

No missed calls.

No chaos.

Just the message thread.

Her last text:

“Call me when you land.”

He had.

She had sounded steady.

Too steady.

He knew that tone.

It was the one she used when she was holding something in.

He leaned back against the wall.

Closed his eyes.

The silence pressed in.

No ceiling fan hum.

No distant traffic from his lane.

No balcony doors rattling slightly in the evening breeze.

Just the heater.

He stood up abruptly.

Unpacked without focus.

Folded clothes into drawers he didn’t care about.

Placed his laptop on the desk near the window.

He avoided the bed.

Avoided lying down.

Because lying down meant acknowledging he was alone.

His phone buzzed.

Not her.

Office onboarding instructions.

He muted the notification.

Then, almost without thinking, he opened Spotify.

Searched.

The Telugu playlist he’d created months ago.

He scrolled slowly.

Then stopped.

That song.

The one that had played at Ananthagiri Hills.

The one her brother had dramatically lip-synced when the music cut off.

He pressed play.

The opening notes filled the small apartment.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

His throat tightened instantly.

He moved to the window.

Looked out at the city lights reflecting against the Hudson.

They were beautiful.

Cold.

The lyric arrived.

“Manasulonunna kalavaram theerche

Nuvvikkada levaaye…”

He closed his eyes.

The line hit differently now.

You’re not here to calm the unrest in my heart.

He exhaled slowly.

The song continued.

“Ne nichata neevu achata,

Ee thapanalo kshanamulu yugamulaina vela…”

Here I am, there you are…

In this longing, moments stretch into ages.

He laughed softly under his breath.

“Of course,” he muttered.

He leaned his forehead against the glass.

The cold steadied him.

In Ananthagiri, that song had been background noise.

Fog. Bonfire. Laughter.

Now it was a mirror.

He pictured her on the balcony.

The way she had slid down against the railing when she thought no one was watching.

The way she said, “Don’t go silent.”

His chest tightened painfully.

The city outside moved with urgency.

Cars crossing bridges.

Lights flickering in distant buildings.

Somewhere below, someone laughed loudly in English he barely processed.

He felt… displaced.

Not because of geography.

Because of absence.

He moved back toward the bed finally.

Sat.

The song looped softly.

The same lyric came again.

“Manasulonunna kalavaram theerche…”

His phone buzzed.

This time

Her.

A photo.

The balcony.

Night sky over Hyderabad.

Caption:

“Same moon. Different coordinates.”

His breath left him slowly.

He typed back:

“Moments are already feeling long.”

Three dots appeared immediately.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

“Don’t romanticize loneliness.”

He smiled faintly.

“I’m not,” he typed. “I’m acknowledging it.”

A pause.

Then:

“Are you okay?”

He stared at the question.

Honesty had been their agreement.

He typed:

“No. But I will be.”

She responded:

“Good. Because I didn’t let you leave to break there.”

He leaned back on the bed.

Stared at the unfamiliar ceiling.

The song faded into the next track.

He stopped it.

Silence again.

But not the suffocating kind.

The kind that waits to be filled.

He turned off the lights.

The room fell into darkness broken only by city glow through the blinds.

He lay still.

For the first time in years—

There was no morning bus waiting.

No seat beside him.

No elbow jab waking him up.

He reached for his phone again.

One last message.

“I’m not going silent.”

Her reply came quickly.

“Good. Because I’m still here.”

He placed the phone on his chest.

Closed his eyes.

The heater hummed.

The city breathed.

Distance had begun.

But love had too.

And somewhere between New York cold and Hyderabad warmth—

He didn’t freeze.

He stayed.

He laughed, then stopped.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

The joke lingered between them, thin and fragile. Around them, the airport moved with its usual impatience—rollers scraping against tiled floors, boarding calls echoing overhead, people hugging too tightly or not tightly enough.

But inside that small café table space, time had slowed into something dense.

“Say it,” she murmured, not looking at him.

“Say what?”

“What you’re not saying.”

He swallowed.

There it was again that fault line. The one they had been walking along for months. Maybe years.

He watched her fingers adjust the baggage tag again even though it was already secure. She was giving him room. As always.

Room had been his hiding place.

Not today.

“I don’t want to go like this,” he said quietly.

She finally looked up.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m just… leaving.”

“You are leaving,” she replied gently. “That’s how flights work.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“I don’t want this to become something we never defined,” he continued. “I don’t want to look back and realize I protected comfort more than I protected us.”

Her expression changed.

The humor drained first.

Then the practiced calm.

“What are you saying, Advay?” she asked softly.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.

“For years, I’ve told myself timing matters. That there’s a right moment. A right setting. A perfect sentence.” He exhaled shakily. “There isn’t.”

She went very still.

“I love you,” he said.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just… real.

The airport noise seemed to recede.

Announcements blurred into background static.

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“You love me,” she repeated, as if testing the shape of it.

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

He smiled faintly. “Long enough to ruin coffee shops and airport mornings.”

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She laughed softly through it. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“You wait until immigration lines are involved to do this?”

“I was running out of time,” he said simply.

That undid her.

She stood abruptly and crossed the small distance between them. Not dramatically. Not publicly. Just enough to press her forehead briefly against his shoulder.

“I hated you that day,” she whispered.

“I hated myself.”

“I didn’t want to wait forever.”

“You won’t.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red but steady.

“I was waiting,” she admitted. “To see if you’d choose me without being cornered.”

“I am choosing you,” he said. “Not because I’m leaving. Because I don’t want a life that doesn’t include you.”

The boarding announcement for his flight echoed overhead.

Final call.

Cruel timing.

She wiped her face quickly. “You’re going to miss it.”

“I’ll take the next one.”

She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you dare.”

They stood there, breathing the same air for what felt like the last unmeasured second.

“I’ll come,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “What?”

“I got an offer,” she continued, voice trembling now. “New Jersey. Different project. I didn’t tell you because… I needed to know you’d say it without the safety net.”

His world tilted.

“You were”

“Waiting,” she finished.

Relief hit him so hard it felt like vertigo.

He let out a broken laugh. “You’re terrifying.”

“I know.”

They both smiled through tears.

“Eight weeks,” she said. “I need to wrap things up here.”

“I’ll count,” he replied automatically.

“I know you will.”

The final boarding call came again.

He stepped closer.

This time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t almost.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was steady. Certain. Short but full of everything they had nearly lost.

When they pulled apart, she pressed her palm against his chest.

“Go build something,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded.

Then he walked toward security.

Halfway there, he almost turned back.

Almost.

But this time, he didn’t freeze.

He moved forward.

Because now he wasn’t leaving her behind.

He was walking toward the same future.

And for the first time

Distance didn’t feel like disappearance.

It felt like arrival.

The Departure- Saanvi Leaves

The airport felt different this time.

Not like a place that takes something away.

Like a place that returns it.

Saanvi stood in front of the departure board at Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, passport tucked under her arm, boarding pass folded and unfolded at least six times already.

Newark- On Time.

Her reflection in the glass looked… bright.

Too bright.

“You look like you’re going to conquer Manhattan,” Avani teased beside her.

“I am not living in Manhattan,” Saanvi shot back. “Rent is violence.”

But she was glowing.

New project.

New country.

New Jersey.

Eight weeks had crawled. She had packed and unpacked emotionally a hundred times. Wrapped gifts for his kitchen. Printed photos. Practiced how to act casual when she saw him again.

“You’re sure?” her mother asked gently.

Saanvi nodded. “I’m not following him,” she said. “I’m choosing my own opportunity. It just… happens to be close.”

It felt important to say that.

Because this wasn’t sacrifice.

It was alignment.

She hugged everyone too quickly.

If she lingered, she would think.

If she thought, she would hesitate.

At security, she turned once more.

Avani waved both hands dramatically.

“Go,” she mouthed.

Saanvi smiled wide.

Confident.

Certain.

Excited.

She walked through.

And then It hit.

Not immediately.

Not during takeoff.

Not while the plane climbed above Hyderabad’s lights.

It hit when the seatbelt sign turned off and the cabin dimmed.

When she opened her phone to scroll through photos.

Ananthagiri fog.

Birthday cake.

His stupid half-smile in a winter coat in ninety-degree heat.

Her throat tightened.

She leaned back into the seat.

Tried breathing.

Tried telling herself this was good.

This was what she wanted.

But the moment stretched.

The hum of the airplane felt too loud.

For the first time, she wasn’t watching him leave.

She was leaving everything.

Her balcony.

Her kitchen.

The city that knew her.

Her voice cracked silently before she could stop it.

She turned toward the window so the stranger beside her wouldn’t see.

Tears came.

Slow at first.

Then heavier.

Not regret.

Not fear.

Just… the weight of change.

“I’m coming,” she whispered to herself.

Not just to him.

To the life waiting.

Still, somewhere between continents, she pressed her forehead to the cool window and let herself break quietly.

Excitement and grief had never been opposites.

They lived in the same suitcase.

Months Later- Jersey City Airport

Winter had softened.

Snow no longer surprised him.

Advay stood near the arrivals gate at Newark Airport, fingers drumming nervously against the strap of his jacket.

He had checked the arrivals screen twelve times.

He had rehearsed nothing.

He had slept badly.

Flight from Hyderabad Landed

His heart thudded so hard it felt adolescent.

Passengers began to spill out.

Families reuniting.

Children running.

Tired professionals scanning for ride-share signs.

Then—

There.

She stepped out with a trolley piled too high, scarf wrapped carelessly around her neck, hair longer than he remembered.

She looked thinner.

Stronger.

Older.

And exactly the same.

She scanned the crowd once.

Didn’t see him.

Panic flickered across her face.

Then she saw him.

Time did something strange.

It didn’t stop.

It narrowed.

He stepped forward first.

She didn’t run.

She walked.

Slowly.

Like she didn’t trust the distance to behave.

They stopped a foot apart.

For a second, neither spoke.

“You’re taller,” she said softly.

“You’re dramatic,” he replied.

Her eyes filled instantly.

That was it.

No grand music.

No cinematic embrace.

Just the relief of presence.

She dropped the trolley handle.

Stepped forward.

And wrapped her arms around him.

Not polite.

Not restrained.

Full.

He held her like something that had almost been lost once.

His chin rested against her hair.

She smelled like home.

Like long flights and jasmine oil and Hyderabad air that had clung stubbornly to her clothes.

He felt her shoulders shake.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She laughed against his chest.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice cracking. “I just crossed the planet. Calm down.”

He pulled back slightly.

Her cheeks were wet.

“So much for not crying,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

He wiped her tears with his thumb.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

“I missed you,” he said.

Not coded.

Not deflected.

“I know,” she replied. “I counted.”

He smiled.

Of course she did.

“You look… different,” she said, studying him.

“You sound the same.”

“That’s disappointing.”

He laughed.

The sound was softer now.

Quieter.

More certain.

Around them, the airport kept moving.

But they stood still for a few seconds longer.

Grounded.

“You ready?” he asked finally.

“For what?”

“For this.”

She looked at him.

Then at the exit doors leading into a city that was no longer just his.

“Yeah,” she said.

And slipped her hand into his.

Not because she was scared.

Because she wasn’t.

This wasn’t reunion for drama.

It was reunion for continuation.

As the doors slid open and cold New Jersey air rushed in, she squeezed his fingers once.

“Don’t go silent here,” she warned lightly.

He shook his head.

“Not anymore.”

And this time

He didn’t walk ahead.

He walked with her.

Jersey City- First Night Together

The cold hit her properly once they stepped outside.

“Why is the air sharp?” Saanvi complained, shivering as she pulled her scarf tighter.

“It builds character,” Advay said solemnly.

“I don’t want character. I want circulation.”

He laughed and she stopped.

Not because of the joke.

Because of the laugh.

It sounded deeper. Quieter. Less defensive.

New York had changed him.

Not dramatically.

But subtly.

He reached for her suitcase before she could protest this time. “Give it.”

She let him.

That was new too.

The drive back was strangely calm.

City lights flickered against the Hudson. Snow lined the sidewalks in uneven piles. Everything felt cinematic and entirely real at the same time.

She kept looking at him while he drove.

Not openly.

Sideways.

Cataloguing.

The faint stubble he hadn’t shaved properly. The way he tapped the steering wheel at red lights. The way his jaw tightened slightly when concentrating.

He felt her staring.

“What?” he asked.

“You drive differently.”

“It’s the lanes,” he said. “They don’t trust you here.”

“Neither do I,” she muttered.

He smiled.

When they reached the apartment building, he hesitated slightly before unlocking the door.

It suddenly mattered what she thought.

The door opened.

Warm air spilled out.

She stepped inside slowly.

The place wasn’t bare anymore.

There were plants near the window.

A rug she had once sent him a link to.

Two mugs on the kitchen counter one clearly newer than the other.

A small framed photo on the shelf.

Ananthagiri Hills.

Fog. Bonfire. Half-blurred laughter.

Her throat tightened.

“You kept it,” she said softly.

“I don’t throw away important things.”

She walked further in.

Touched the back of the couch.

The kitchen counter.

The edge of the dining table.

Like she was testing reality.

“This is where you lived without me,” she said.

There was no accusation in it.

Just wonder.

He stood a few steps behind her.

“Yeah.”

“And now?”

He stepped closer.

“Now you’re here.”

The words settled gently.

No fireworks.

No dramatic background music.

Just truth.

She turned to face him.

The distance between them felt different now.

Not charged with hesitation.

Charged with awareness.

Months had passed.

They had survived distance.

But proximity was its own test.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“I don’t want to rush this,” he said.

Her brows softened.

“You think I crossed oceans for rush?”

He exhaled.

Relief flickered across his face.

She stepped closer.

Slow.

Measured.

Until there was barely space between them.

“You don’t get to freeze now,” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“I won’t.”

Her hand slid up, resting lightly against his chest.

His heart was racing.

Good.

She leaned in first this time.

The kiss wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t airport-short.

It wasn’t almost.

It was slow.

Intentional.

A learning kiss.

A “we’re here now” kiss.

His hand moved to her waist carefully, like he was still afraid she might disappear.

She pulled back just slightly.

“Relax,” she murmured.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re vibrating.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against her forehead.

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Foreheads touching.

Breathing synchronizing.

Outside, a siren wailed faintly.

Inside, everything felt steady.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Living together.”

She thought about it honestly.

“A little,” she admitted. “You’re very annoying in confined spaces.”

“That’s fair.”

“But I’m more scared of not trying.”

That did it.

He pulled her into him again, tighter this time.

Not desperate.

Not clinging.

Just certain.

She rested her head under his chin.

The heater hummed softly.

The city outside moved.

But inside that apartment, something settled fully for the first time.

Not the end of longing.

Not the end of adjustment.

Just the end of almost.

“Welcome home,” he whispered.

She smiled against his chest.

“Don’t mess it up.”

“I won’t.”

And for once

He didn’t sound unsure.

First Snowfall- Jersey City

It started without announcement.

No thunder.

No dramatic sky shift.

Just small white flakes drifting lazily past the window while Saanvi was arguing with a grocery app about cilantro.

“Why is coriander called cilantro here?” she muttered, squinting at her phone. “It sounds illegal.”

Advay looked up from the couch. “It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing. It feels different.”

He was about to reply when something outside caught his attention.

The light had changed.

Not darker.

Quieter.

He stood slowly and walked to the window.

“Hey,” he said.

She didn’t look up. “If this is about kale again, I’m not”

“Come here.”

Something in his voice made her pause.

She walked over.

And then she saw it.

Snow.

Not heavy yet.

Not cinematic blizzard snow.

Just soft, hesitant flakes landing on parked cars and railing edges like they were asking permission.

Her breath left her slowly.

“That’s it?” she said.

“It’s starting,” he replied.

They stood there for a moment, watching.

The world outside moved slower.

Cars reduced speed.

Footsteps softened.

The Hudson looked muted, like someone had turned the saturation down on reality.

“It doesn’t make sound,” she whispered.

“That’s the point.”

She glanced at him.

He was watching the snow like it was something sacred.

She nudged him. “You’ve seen this before.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

“With you here.”

That did something quiet to her heart.

The snowfall thickened gradually.

Within minutes, rooftops were dusted.

Streetlights flickered on early, their glow catching flakes mid-air, turning them briefly golden before they vanished.

“I want to go outside,” she said suddenly.

“You’ll freeze.”

“I survived Hyderabad summers. I’ll survive this.”

He sighed dramatically. “You don’t even own proper gloves.”

“Minor detail.”

Ten minutes later, they were downstairs, layered awkwardly.

She looked like a bundled rebellion against fashion.

He looked mildly competent.

The cold hit immediately.

Her gasp was involuntary.

“Why is it attacking my face?”

“It’s air,” he said.

“It’s rude air.”

Snowflakes landed on her scarf, her lashes, her hair.

She stood still for a second.

Then extended her palm.

One landed.

Perfect.

Symmetrical.

And then—

It melted.

“That’s so unfair,” she said softly.

He watched her instead of the snow.

The way her face softened.

The way wonder replaced sarcasm.

She tilted her head back and let flakes fall across her cheeks.

For a moment, she looked younger.

Lighter.

He stepped closer.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his coat.

She leaned back into him without hesitation.

The snow thickened now.

Sidewalks turned white.

Sounds dimmed.

The city that had once felt loud and foreign suddenly felt… intimate.

“Back home,” she said, voice small, “December never looked like this.”

“Back home,” he replied, “December smelled like filter coffee and fog.”

She smiled faintly.

They stood like that for a long time.

Breathing in sync.

Snow collecting on their shoulders.

At one point, she turned inside his arms.

Close enough that her nose brushed his scarf.

“Is this romantic?” she asked.

“Very,” he said.

She squinted at him. “You didn’t plan this, did you?”

“I don’t control weather.”

“Suspicious.”

He laughed softly.

A flake landed on her lashes again.

This time, he leaned in and kissed it away.

Not dramatic.

Not urgent.

Just warm.

Her hands slid up under his coat, seeking heat.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

“I told you to wear gloves.”

She punched his chest lightly.

He caught her hand.

Held it.

Interlaced their fingers.

“Remember the airport?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“I was scared we’d ruin this.”

He looked at her.

“We almost did.”

She nodded.

“But we didn’t.”

Snow continued falling around them.

Gentle.

Unrushed.

Like it had all the time in the world.

She rested her forehead against his.

“New Jersey is freezing,” she said.

He smiled.

“Stay,” he replied.

“I am.”

And in the hush of their first snowfall

With the world softened and edges blurred

They weren’t almost.

They weren’t leaving.

They weren’t waiting.

They were just there.

Together.

And for the first time, winter didn’t feel lonely.

Later That Night- After the Snowfall

The heater hummed softly.

Wet boots were lined up near the door like exhausted soldiers. Her scarf hung over the chair, slowly drying. The apartment smelled faintly of cocoa and cold air they had carried inside with them.

Snow still drifted past the window, slower now.

Saanvi sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hair slightly damp from melted flakes. Advay sat beside her, not touching — but close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them shifted.

They had been quiet for a while.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… processing.

“It feels different here at night,” she said finally.

“It does.”

“Quieter than Hyderabad.”

“Less honking.”

She smiled faintly.

A long pause followed.

Snow tapped gently against the glass.

She looked at him sideways. “Did you ever think we wouldn’t survive the coffee day?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She swallowed.

“I wanted to hurt you back that day,” she admitted quietly. “Not physically. Just… enough for you to feel what I felt.”

“I did,” he said. “Just later.”

She studied him.

He wasn’t defensive.

Wasn’t minimizing.

He was just… present.

“I hated that I cared that much,” she continued. “It scared me.”

He nodded slowly. “I hated that I waited that long.”

Silence settled again.

Not heavy.

Reflective.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her knees.

“I think I’ve always been louder than you,” she said.

“You have.”

“I feel first. React first. Speak first.”

“I think first,” he replied. “Overthink. Then miss the moment.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’re learning.”

He leaned back against the couch. “You forced me to.”

“No,” she corrected gently. “I just stopped waiting.”

That landed softly between them.

Snow thickened again outside.

The city glowed white and muted.

He turned toward her slightly.

“Were you ever close to giving up?” he asked.

She didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“When?” he asked.

“After the café,” she said. “After the slap. When I asked for space.”

He inhaled slowly.

“I thought if you didn’t fight for it then… maybe I’d imagined everything.”

He looked at his hands.

“I was scared that if I pushed, I’d lose you completely.”

“And I was scared that if you didn’t push, I’d lose you anyway.”

They both laughed softly at the symmetry of it.

Snow hit the window in soft flurries.

She leaned her head back against the couch.

“Do you ever think about how close we came to being strangers?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said immediately.

“Does that haunt you?”

“No.”

She turned to look at him.

“It humbles me,” he continued. “It reminds me that love isn’t automatic. It’s chosen.”

She absorbed that.

“You weren’t bad at loving,” she said after a moment. “You were just bad at saying it.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m still bad at it.”

She shifted closer.

Rested her head lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re better,” she said.

He tilted his head slightly, resting it against hers.

“Are you scared of living here?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

“Of what?”

“Of becoming someone else,” she said. “Of missing home too much. Of us becoming practical.”

He understood.

“Practical is dangerous,” she added softly.

“Yes,” he agreed.

She looked up at him then.

“Promise me something.”

“Okay.”

“If we ever start circling again say it. Don’t wait for perfect timing.”

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“I promise.”

“And if I get too loud?” she added.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “Not retreat.”

She searched his face.

He wasn’t dramatic.

He wasn’t grand.

He was steady.

And that steadiness felt different now.

Outside, the snowfall slowed.

Inside, something settled.

He reached for her hand under the blanket.

Interlaced their fingers.

“Back home,” he murmured, “we never really had stillness like this.”

“No,” she agreed. “There was always noise. People. Motion.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

“Maybe this is good for us.”

She nodded.

“Maybe this is where we grow up.”

The word lingered.

Grow.

Not change.

Not disappear.

Just… deepen.

The heater clicked off for a moment.

The room felt quieter.

She looked up at him again.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

He thought.

Which she appreciated.

“Yes,” he said finally. “But not because it’s perfect.”

She waited.

“Because it’s intentional.”

Her eyes softened.

She leaned up and kissed him.

Slow.

Unrushed.

Not about heat.

About grounding.

When they pulled apart, she didn’t move far.

“Okay,” she said softly. “We’re doing this.”

He smiled.

“Yeah.”

Outside, the last flakes drifted down.

Inside, two people who had once almost missed each other sat in the quiet no longer afraid of it.

And for the first time

Silence didn’t feel loud.

It felt earned.

The Thaw- Before Albany

The snow didn’t disappear dramatically.

It retreated.

Slowly.

Edges first.

Then corners.

Then the thick white layers shrinking into uneven grey patches along the sidewalks of Jersey City.

Water dripped from rooftops in patient intervals.

The air felt different now — less sharp, more uncertain.

Saanvi stood by the window with a mug of chai she insisted on making the “right way.” Steam curled up in soft spirals as she watched the melt.

“Looks messy,” she said quietly.

“It always does before spring,” Advay replied from behind her.

He was folding shirts into a small overnight bag on the dining table.

Albany.

Just four hours away.

Temporary.

Two weeks onsite.

It wasn’t another country.

But it still felt like departure.

She didn’t turn immediately.

She watched a chunk of snow slide off a parked car and collapse into slush.

“Remember Ananthagiri?” she asked.

He paused mid-fold.

“Yeah.”

The fog.

The bonfire.

The way silence had first felt less dangerous.

“That morning,” she continued softly, “when the mist was everywhere.”

He walked over, standing beside her now.

The Hudson reflected pale sunlight.

No more snowfall.

Just damp streets and bare trees.

“I remember you holding that steel cup,” he said. “Acting like the fog was a personal attack.”

She smiled faintly.

“I remember thinking… if you don’t speak now, you’ll lose him.”

He swallowed.

“I remember thinking… if I speak wrong, I’ll lose her.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder.

Snow melting outside.

Memory warming inside.

“In Ananthagiri,” she said, “everything felt suspended. Like time was waiting.”

“And now?” he asked.

“Now it feels like time moves whether we’re ready or not.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I don’t like leaving again,” he admitted.

“It’s Albany, Advay. Not Antarctica.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She finally turned to face him.

The apartment felt warmer today.

More lived in.

Her plants near the window had grown slightly. A cookbook lay open on the counter. Two pairs of shoes by the door.

Home had started forming here.

“You’re scared of slipping back into distance,” she said gently.

“Yes.”

Honest.

Immediate.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t get to assume distance wins,” she said softly. “We already proved it doesn’t.”

He nodded, but something in his shoulders remained tense.

“Do you remember that song?” she asked suddenly.

“Which one?”

“The one your uncle massacred at the bonfire.”

He laughed quietly.

“Newyork Nagaram?”

“No,” she corrected. “The one that kept playing in the background. The one with the line…”

She hummed softly.

“Manasulonunna kalavaram theerche…”

His chest tightened.

“‘Nuvvikkada levaaye…’” he completed quietly.

You’re not here to calm the unrest in my heart.

They looked at each other.

“It felt dramatic then,” she said.

“It felt lonely in Jersey the first night,” he admitted.

She nodded.

“And now?”

He considered it.

Now, even when he left for a few days, she would still be here.

Not across oceans.

Not uncertain.

Here.

“I don’t feel restless,” he said slowly. “Just… reluctant.”

“That’s different,” she smiled.

Water dripped steadily outside.

Snowbanks shrinking into memory.

In Ananthagiri, fog had hidden everything.

Here, melting revealed it.

The ground beneath.

The mess.

The real shape of things.

“I think love is like this,” she said, watching the last thin layer slide from the railing.

“How?”

“It’s not the snowfall. It’s the thaw.”

He looked at her.

“When it melts,” she continued, “you see what survived underneath.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

He stepped closer instead.

Rested his forehead gently against hers.

“I survived you throwing coffee on me,” he murmured.

She snorted softly.

“And a slap.”

“And that.”

They both smiled.

The memory didn’t sting anymore.

It anchored them.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Cab arriving in ten minutes.

Albany.

He exhaled.

“Two weeks,” she said.

“Fourteen days.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You counted already?”

“I count when I care.”

She softened.

“Good.”

He pulled her into him then.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

Just fully.

Outside, the last visible snow collapsed into slush.

Inside, warmth held steady.

“Ananthagiri felt like the beginning,” she whispered against his chest.

“This feels like continuation,” he replied.

She leaned back slightly.

“If you go quiet in Albany, I will personally drive there and embarrass you in front of your colleagues.”

He smiled.

“I won’t.”

He meant it.

The doorbell rang.

Cab.

He grabbed his overnight bag.

Paused at the door.

Looked at her.

Not with fear.

Not with uncertainty.

Just awareness.

“I’ll call tonight,” he said.

“You better.”

He stepped out.

She watched from the window this time.

Not with dread.

With steadiness.

As the car pulled away, the last thin strip of snow along the sidewalk disappeared completely.

Winter had ended.

Distance had changed shape.

And neither of them mistook movement for loss anymore.

One Year Later- New York

The terminal buzzed with that restless, mechanical energy airports never lost.

Advay stood near the departure board at JFK, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, scanning updates for his Albany return flight.

He had done this route so many times it no longer felt like travel.

It felt like habit.

New York had grown into him over the past year.

The rush.

The independence.

The distance that had once scared him.

He had learned to navigate subway maps without hesitation. Learned to cook something beyond survival. Learned to sit alone without feeling abandoned.

But something in him had remained unfinished.

The words felt unreal.

He wasn’t leaving the country this time.

Just flying for work.

Just another week.

But departures always stirred something old in his chest.

He adjusted his bag strap.

Checked the time again.

Boarding in thirty minutes.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

He frowned and answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then

“You still hate last-minute updates?”

His breath stopped.

He turned.

Slowly.

Saanvi stood a few feet away.

Arms folded loosely.

Eyes scanning him like she was memorizing what time had done.

Hair slightly longer.

Same crease between her brows.

She looked calm.

Too calm.

For a second, the entire airport blurred.

“You…” he managed.

She tilted her head slightly. “Hi.”

His brain lagged behind his heartbeat.

“What are you How?”

“Surprise?” she offered lightly.

He stared at her like she might dissolve.

“You’re supposed to be in Jersey,” he said.

“I was.”

“And now?”

“I’m here.”

He blinked.

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know.”

Something in his chest cracked open quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because you would’ve overthought it.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“You crossed state lines without warning?”

She shrugged. “You once crossed an ocean without saying ‘I love you.’ Let’s call it even.”

That did it.

He closed the distance between them in three strides.

Stopped just short.

A year had changed things.

There was confidence in him now.

Less hesitation.

But there was still that flicker the boy who once froze at cafés.

“You’re really here?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

“For you.”

That word landed differently now.

Not desperate.

Not dependent.

Chosen.

“I got transferred,” she continued. “Permanent role. Manhattan office. I start next month.”

His eyes widened.

“Permanent?”

“Don’t panic. I still snore.”

He laughed.

It broke something open.

He reached for her without thinking this time.

Pulled her into him.

Full.

Unapologetic.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest.

He felt her breathe in deeply.

“You smell like airport coffee,” she muttered.

“You smell like home.”

She stilled.

That wasn’t a joke.

That was real.

He leaned back slightly, hands still on her shoulders.

“You did this alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even warn me?”

“I wanted to see your face.”

“You could have given me heart failure.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He studied her.

Really studied her.

There was steadiness there now.

Not the girl who once threw coffee because she was afraid of being invisible.

Not the girl who once waited to see if he’d choose her.

This was someone who had chosen herself.

And him.

“I was scared,” she admitted quietly. “That after a year… we’d feel different.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“We do feel different.”

Her face fell slightly.

He stepped closer.

“We feel stronger.”

Silence wrapped around them.

The kind that used to intimidate him.

Now it just held space.

“I used to think airports were endings,” he said softly.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now they’re just transitions.”

She smiled.

“Your gate changed,” she said again, glancing at the board. “C12.”

He laughed under his breath.

“Of course it did.”

She slipped her hand into his.

Like she always had.

But this time there was no fear of letting go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

“Neither am I.”

Boarding was called.

He looked at the gate.

Then at her.

“Come with me,” he said impulsively.

“To Albany?”

“Yes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this romantic or logistical?”

“Both.”

She thought for a moment.

Then smiled slowly.

“Okay.”

He stared.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I packed light.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

They walked toward the gate together.

No rush.

No panic.

Just movement.

And as they stood in line, she nudged him lightly.

“Remember Ananthagiri?”

“Yes.”

“Fog.”

“Bonfire.”

“Silence.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Not anymore.”

She leaned into him slightly.

“Good,” she whispered.

And this time

There was no almost.

No waiting.

No missed moment.

Just a man who had learned to speak.

And a woman who had stopped needing him to.

And the city loud, relentless, beautiful stretched out ahead of them like something they would build together.

The Engagement- New York

It was supposed to be “just dinner.”

That was what Advay had said.

“Team dinner,” he’d claimed casually. “Year-end project milestone.”

Saanvi had narrowed her eyes immediately.

“You hate public celebrations.”

“I’ve evolved,” he replied.

Suspicious.

Still, she dressed up.

Simple black dress. Hair loose. Minimal jewellery. The tiny silver ring she’d once given him tucked safely into her bag like a secret memory.

The hotel stood tall near the Hudson, glass walls catching evening light. Inside, chandeliers glowed warmly. Soft instrumental music filled the air.

“This is too fancy for backend deployment,” she muttered as they stepped in.

Advay just smiled.

Too calm.

Too steady.

She noticed it.

The ballroom doors opened.

And

“Surprise!”

The room exploded.

Cheers.

Clapping.

Whistles.

Their friends from Hyderabad.

His Albany team.

Her Manhattan colleagues.

Avani near the front holding a sign that read: “Finally.”

Arjun leaned against the bar dramatically wiping fake tears.

Saanvi froze.

“What?”

She turned to Advay.

He wasn’t looking at the crowd.

He was looking at her.

Always her.

The ballroom was decorated subtly warm fairy lights, white and gold accents, long tables with candles flickering softly. Through the tall windows, Manhattan’s skyline shimmered against the darkening sky.

“This isn’t a team dinner,” she said slowly.

“No,” he replied.

Her heart started pounding.

“Advay…”

He stepped forward.

Took her hands.

The noise in the room softened into background warmth.

“You remember the cafe?” he asked quietly.

She groaned softly. “Must we?”

“You threw coffee at me.”

“You deserved it.”

“You slapped me.”

“You really deserved it.”

Laughter rippled softly through the crowd.

He smiled.

“You remember Ananthagiri?”

“Fog. Bonfire. Bad singing.”

“You remember the airport?”

She swallowed.

“Yes.”

He took a slow breath.

“For years,” he said, voice steady but full, “I thought timing mattered more than courage.”

The room was silent now.

He wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t freezing.

He wasn’t circling.

“I loved you long before I said it. And you loved me long before I deserved it.”

Her eyes filled.

He continued.

“You crossed continents for your own dreams. You chose yourself. And you still chose me.”

She felt her chest tighten.

“I don’t want almost anymore,” he said. “I don’t want later. I don’t want safe.”

He reached into his jacket pocket.

The entire room leaned forward.

He dropped to one knee.

Saanvi’s breath left her body.

“I want ordinary mornings. Loud arguments about coriander versus cilantro. Snowfall. Fog. Airports that don’t scare us anymore.”

He opened the ring box.

Simple.

Elegant.

Not oversized.

Intentional.

“I want fifty winters,” he said softly. “And even that won’t be enough.”

Her tears spilled freely now.

“Marry me, Saanvi.”

Silence.

One heartbeat.

Two.

She laughed through tears.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’ve evolved,” he replied.

The room burst into soft laughter.

She nodded immediately.

“Yes.”

Louder.

“Yes.”

He stood quickly and slipped the ring onto her finger.

The room erupted.

Cheers.

Music swelling.

Arjun screaming, “Finally, bro!”

She pulled him into a kiss.

Not shy.

Not hesitant.

Confident.

Certain.

Champagne popped somewhere behind them.

Avani ran forward to hug them both.

“About time,” she muttered.

Saanvi looked around at the room.

Friends from home.

Colleagues from two countries.

The skyline glowing beyond the glass.

She leaned toward Advay’s ear.

“You planned this for how long?”

“A year.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“I know.”

The DJ shifted the music.

Upbeat now.

Laughter spilling everywhere.

Colleagues clinking glasses.

Arjun already narrating their love story badly to anyone who would listen.

Advay pulled her toward the center of the floor.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“You don’t dance.”

“I’ve evolved.”

She rolled her eyes but let him pull her close.

The music softened briefly.

Lights dimmed slightly.

Outside, the Hudson reflected city lights like scattered stars.

“You don’t get to freeze ever again,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” he replied.

“And if you do?”

He smiled.

“You’ll slap me.”

She laughed against his shoulder.

They swayed gently.

No rush.

No panic.

No fear of losing the moment.

Because this time

They had arrived at it together.

Later that night, as the party blurred into dancing and toasts and too many photos, Saanvi stepped onto the balcony for air.

The skyline stretched endlessly.

Advay joined her.

Quiet now.

Private.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“New York,” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Who would’ve thought?”

“Not café-Advay.”

“Definitely not coffee-throwing Saanvi.”

They both smiled.

She looked down at the ring.

Then at him.

“We almost missed this.”

He kissed her temple softly.

“But we didn’t.”

Inside, their friends laughed loudly.

Outside, the city pulsed with life.

And somewhere between Hyderabad fog and New Jersey snow

Two people who once circled silence had finally chosen forever.

After the Party

The ballroom had finally emptied.

Fairy lights still glowed softly against tall glass windows. Staff moved quietly in the background clearing glasses and folding chairs. Manhattan shimmered outside like it had approved of the evening.

Saanvi slipped out of her heels near the balcony doors.

“My feet are filing complaints,” she muttered.

Advay laughed softly and picked up the shoes, setting them aside carefully like they were ceremonial artifacts.

“You survived,” he said.

“I said yes. That’s survival?”

“You cried.”

“You cried.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He smiled.

The adrenaline had faded now.

What remained was something calmer.

Fuller.

They stepped out onto the terrace balcony.

The air was cool. Not winter-sharp anymore. Spring was settling into the city.

She rested her hands on the railing.

Looked down at the ring again.

Not to admire it.

To process it.

“This is real,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“No more ‘almost’?”

“No more.”

She turned toward him slowly.

“Do you ever think about how close we came to being strangers?”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

She stepped closer.

“Would you have married someone sensible?”

He tilted his head. “Are you not sensible?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Answer the question.”

He smiled gently.

“I would have survived. But I wouldn’t have been this.”

Her expression softened.

“What is this?” she asked.

He stepped closer until their foreheads almost touched.

“This feels… intentional,” he said. “Chosen. Not convenient.”

Her throat tightened.

She lifted her hand, touching his cheek lightly.

“You don’t get to freeze at our wedding,” she warned softly.

“I won’t.”

“And if you do?”

“You’ll kick me under the mandap.”

She laughed.

Inside, someone dropped a tray and cursed under their breath. The world continued.

But here time felt private.

He slid his arms around her waist.

“I was scared tonight,” he admitted.

“Of what?”

“That you’d say yes and I’d realize I still don’t know how to do this properly.”

She leaned back slightly.

“There is no properly,” she said. “There’s just staying.”

He nodded slowly.

Staying.

Her phone buzzed.

Then his.

They both glanced down.

Multiple missed calls.

From home.

They exchanged a look.

“Oh no,” she said.

He answered first.

“Amma?”

The moment he put the call on speaker, his mother’s voice filled the quiet terrace.

“Engaged and you don’t call us immediately?”

Saanvi covered her mouth to stop laughing.

“We were” Advay started.

“Celebrating,” Saanvi finished.

On the other end, her father’s voice chimed in.

“So now you remember we exist?”

They both sat down on one of the outdoor benches, phone balanced between them.

Laughter flowed easily through the line.

Blessings.

Teasing.

Emotional “finally” remarks.

Then came the inevitable.

“So,” his mother said sweetly. “When are you both coming back?”

“For what?” Advay asked carefully.

Silence.

Then

“For your wedding, obviously.”

Saanvi choked.

“So soon?” she asked.

“Soon?” her mother echoed. “You’ve already taken years.”

Her father cleared his throat theatrically.

“We want Hyderabad wedding,” he declared. “Not foreign shortcut.”

“Appa,” Saanvi groaned.

“Grandparents are already discussing dates,” his mother added casually.

They both froze.

“Dates?” Advay repeated.

“Yes. And don’t argue. We are booking venues.”

Saanvi looked at him slowly.

Hyderabad.

Mandap.

Family chaos.

Burnt cake jokes.

Everything coming full circle.

Her mother’s voice softened.

“Come home,” she said. “Start this properly.”

The word landed differently.

Home.

After the call ended, they sat in silence for a moment.

“So,” she said slowly, “Hyderabad wedding?”

He looked at her.

The skyline behind her.

The ring on her finger.

The city that had changed them.

“Feels right,” he said.

She nodded.

“It started there,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly.

“Café. Coffee. Slap.”

“Ananthagiri fog.”

“Airport confession.”

“Snowfall.”

She leaned against him.

“And now… back home.”

He rested his chin lightly against her hair.

“Full circle,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes.

“You know what’s scary?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel rushed.”

He smiled.

“It feels ready.”

Inside the ballroom, the last lights dimmed.

Outside, the city kept breathing.

Two continents.

One story.

And for once

They weren’t afraid of the next chapter.

Snow changed everything.

Not in the dramatic way Advay had imagined no cinematic silence, no sweeping revelations. It changed things quietly, insistently, the way distance once had. By layering itself over the city until even the sharp edges softened.

He stood outside the PATH station in Jersey City, hands buried deep in the pockets of a coat Saanvi had forced him to buy, breath fogging the air in front of him. People hurried past, heads bowed against the cold, boots crunching against snow that had lost its novelty weeks ago.

He checked the time again.

Late.

She was late.

That thought didn’t worry him. It amused him. Comforted him.

Some things, he had learned, were consistent across continents.

The station doors slid open.

She emerged with a suitcase that looked entirely too large for a single person and a scarf wrapped haphazardly around her neck. Her hair was tucked into a beanie she clearly hadn’t figured out how to wear properly.

She scanned the crowd once.

Twice.

Then she saw him.

Her smile broke slowly, spreading like warmth.

“You’re late,” she said, stopping in front of him.

“You’re early,” he replied automatically.

She raised an eyebrow. “You counted the days again, didn’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, just looking at each other confirming, perhaps, that the other was real. That distance hadn’t altered the shape of this thing between them.

Finally, she stepped closer.

“Need help?” he asked, reaching for her suitcase.

“I carried it across an ocean,” she said. “I think I can manage Jersey City.”

He smiled. “Welcome home.”

She paused at the word.

Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Life together didn’t arrive all at once.

It unfolded.

In grocery runs where they argued about brands neither of them truly cared about. In evenings where exhaustion won and they ate cereal for dinner. In weekends spent discovering the city walking without direction, getting lost deliberately.

Winter stretched on.

Saanvi learned the rhythms of his days, the way he needed silence after long meetings, the way he paced when thinking. Advay learned hers the way she talked through ideas out loud, the way she filled rooms with movement even when tired.

They learned how to disagree without retreating.

How to apologize without explaining.

How to sit together without needing noise.

Some nights, snow fell quietly outside their window, and they lay awake listening to the city breathe.

“You ever think about how close we came to missing this?” Saanvi asked once.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Yes,” he said finally. “All the time.”

“Does that scare you?”

“No,” he replied. “It keeps me honest.”

Spring arrived hesitantly.

The snow melted. The city shifted. Layers were shed.

On a mild afternoon, they sat on a bench overlooking the Hudson, coffee growing cold between them. Boats moved slowly across the water, indifferent to time.

“You remember the cake?” she asked suddenly.

He laughed. “Which version?”

“The last one,” she said. “The one that didn’t collapse.”

“I think about it more than I should.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small box.

His heart stuttered.

“This isn’t a grand gesture,” she said quickly. “I don’t do those.”

She opened it.

Inside was a simple silver ring. Unadorned. Honest.

“I don’t want a buddy anymore,” she said. “I want a life. With you. The boring parts. The hard parts. All of it.”

Advay didn’t rush his answer.

Not because he was afraid.

Because this time, he wanted the words to land exactly where they belonged.

He took her hand.

“Fifty years won’t be enough,” he said.

She laughed through tears. “Good. We’ll start with today.”

Hyderabad welcomed them back with heat and jasmine.

The city hadn’t changed.

They had.

The wedding was exactly what it needed to be family chaos, misplaced shoes, laughter threaded through rituals older than either of them. Saanvi caught him wearing the wrong socks under his sherwani.

“Seriously?” she whispered.

“Tradition,” he grinned.

At the reception, the cake waited.

Not perfect.

Not symmetrical.

But made with care.

She smeared chocolate on his nose, laughing.

“Forever tradition.”

He didn’t wipe it away immediately.

Some things were worth keeping visible.

Later that night, fireworks lit the sky.

They stood together on the terrace, city lights stretching endlessly around them.

Home, Advay realized, wasn’t a place.

It was the person who knew exactly where to hit your arm to make you listen.

“I love you,” he said, finally unafraid of the timing.

Saanvi punched his shoulder.

And smiled.

The Quiet Flight Home

The flight from Newark to Hyderabad felt different from every other flight they had taken.

Not departure.

Not distance.

Return.

Saanvi leaned against the window, watching clouds stretch endlessly beneath them. Her engagement ring caught the cabin light occasionally, flashing softly against the dim blue interior.

Advay sat beside her, unusually still.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He smiled faintly.

“I left this city once because I thought growth meant going far,” he said. “Now I’m going back because I know growth isn’t geography.”

She turned toward him fully.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“Standing in the same airport where I almost lost you.”

She reached for his hand.

“You didn’t lose me,” she said gently.

“I almost did.”

A pause.

The engine hummed steadily.

Cabin lights dimmed further as most passengers slept.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Remember the first airport goodbye?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t breathe.”

“You finally said it.”

“I was late.”

She smiled softly.

“You were just in time.”

He turned slightly, brushing a quiet kiss into her hair.

“This time,” he said, “we’re not leaving.”

She squeezed his hand.

“No,” she said.

“This time, we’re beginning.”

Outside the window, dawn began slowly bleeding gold into the clouds.

Hyderabad waited below.

Emotional Return to Hyderabad

The airport doors slid open.

Warmth.

Humidity.

The familiar scent of dust, jasmine, and something faintly spicy.

Hyderabad didn’t change its personality for anyone.

It greeted them loudly.

Both families stood near the barricade.

Mothers already teary.

Fathers pretending not to be.

Avani waving like she was directing aircraft traffic.

Saanvi stepped forward first.

Her mother wrapped her in a hug that said everything distance had not.

“You’ve become thinner,” her mother declared immediately.

“I live in America, not a jungle,” Saanvi replied.

Advay bent to touch his parents’ feet.

His mother cupped his face.

“You look older.”

“I am older.”

“Good,” she said. “Marriage requires it.”

Laughter rippled around them.

Outside, traffic honked impatiently.

It felt grounding.

It felt like home.

As the car drove through familiar roads Banjara Hills, Abids, Tank Bund memories layered over the present.

“That’s where you bought that ridiculous coat,” she whispered.

“That coat built character.”

“You looked like a migrating penguin.”

He laughed.

The city didn’t feel smaller.

It felt rooted.

Pre-Wedding Chaos

The house was no longer calm.

It had transformed.

Relatives everywhere.

Suitcases open.

Sarees draped across chairs.

Phone calls overlapping in every room.

Someone arguing about catering.

Someone arguing about flower color.

Arjun had already made himself comfortable on the sofa like an unpaid wedding consultant.

“Ah,” he declared when they walked in. “The couple who cannot communicate has returned.”

Saanvi threw a cushion at him.

“Respect the engaged,” she said.

“Respect timing,” he replied smugly.

Haldi Morning

Turmeric everywhere.

Yellow everywhere.

Laughter everywhere.

Saanvi sat on a low wooden stool while cousins circled her like they were preparing for battle.

“Apply gently,” she warned.

They did not apply gently.

Haldi smeared across her cheeks.

On her arms.

In her hair.

Someone whispered dramatically, “Glow, bride, glow.”

Across the courtyard, Advay endured similar chaos.

Arjun leaned close and said, “Don’t freeze under the mandap.”

Advay smirked.

“I evolved.”

“Oh, we’ve seen.”

Mehendi Evening

Intricate patterns crawled across Saanvi’s hands.

Her name hidden somewhere in Advay’s design.

Music filled the house.

Older aunties gossiping.

Younger cousins filming everything.

Advay stood awkwardly near the doorway, watching her.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“I’m memorizing.”

She smiled.

“Find your name,” she challenged later when the mehendi darkened.

He searched carefully.

Found it hidden in a curve near her wrist.

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve improved.”

“I practice observation.”

“Use it sooner this time,” she whispered.

Teasing Rituals

At the sangeet, Arjun grabbed the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced dramatically, “let us remember the café incident.”

Groans erupted.

Saanvi covered her face.

Advay stood calmly.

“Yes,” he said into the mic. “I deserved it.”

The crowd howled.

Avani added loudly, “And he finally learned.”

The music shifted.

Dance battles began.

Cousins pulling them into the center.

They danced not perfectly.

But freely.

This wasn’t nervous love anymore.

It was comfortable.

Earned.

A Quiet Night Before the Wedding

After the chaos settled and relatives dispersed into scattered rooms, Saanvi stepped onto the balcony.

Hyderabad night air wrapped around her like memory.

Advay joined her quietly.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Café. Ananthagiri. Airport. Snow. Everything.”

He leaned against the railing beside her.

“We almost missed this,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“But we didn’t.”

He turned toward her.

“No more circling,” he said gently.

“No more waiting,” she replied.

Below, distant traffic hummed.

Above, the sky stretched endlessly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

“Forever.”

She smiled.

“Finally.”

And somewhere between foggy hills and New York snow

Between slap echoes and airport confessions

Two people who once feared silence were about to say their vows in the city where it all began.

Full circle.

Not rushed.

Not forced.

Just ready.

The Wedding

Morning arrived before either of them was ready for it.

Hyderabad sunlight poured into courtyards and onto freshly washed marble floors. Jasmine strings hung thick from doorways. Marigold garlands looped across pillars in bright orange and yellow arcs.

The house did not wake up gently.

It erupted.

Relatives moving like coordinated chaos. Priests reciting instructions over phone calls. Someone shouting for safety pins. Someone else shouting about missing bangles.

Saanvi sat in front of the mirror, draped in silk the color of molten gold. Her bridal saree caught the light differently with every small movement.

Her mother adjusted the pleats for the third time.

“Stop moving,” she scolded gently.

“I’m not moving,” Saanvi protested.

“You’re thinking loudly.”

That made her smile.

The mehendi on her hands had darkened beautifully. Intricate patterns wrapped around her wrists and up her arms. Hidden among the designs was his name, woven into the curve of a peacock feather.

She looked at herself carefully.

Not searching for perfection.

Searching for grounding.

This was the same girl who once threw coffee in a café.

The same girl who once waited at an airport.

The same girl who crossed oceans.

Now she was here.

Ready.

Across the venue, Advay stood in a cream sherwani embroidered with quiet detail. He adjusted his dupatta nervously.

Arjun leaned beside him.

“Don’t freeze,” he whispered dramatically.

Advay exhaled slowly.

“I won’t.”

“Remember café-Advay?”

“He evolved.”

Arjun grinned. “Good. Because mandap-Advay cannot fail.”

The baraat began with rhythm.

Dhol beats echoed through the street. Cousins danced wildly. Someone attempted coordinated choreography and failed beautifully.

Advay walked forward, smiling more easily than he ever had in his life.

Not forced.

Not cautious.

Steady.

When he stepped into the decorated wedding hall, the scent of sandalwood and flowers wrapped around him.

The mandap stood at the center carved wood, draped with marigolds, lit by soft golden lamps.

The sacred fire pit awaited.

He took his seat.

And waited.

For once, waiting did not scare him.

Music shifted.

A softer melody.

Heads turned.

Saanvi entered.

Slowly.

Not because she was unsure.

Because she was absorbing it.

Her eyes found him instantly.

And stayed.

For a second, the entire hall blurred.

Noise dimmed.

People disappeared.

There was only the two of them and the quiet acknowledgment of how much they had survived to stand here.

He did not freeze.

He smiled.

Small.

Certain.

She reached the mandap.

Their hands brushed briefly as she sat opposite him.

Electric.

Familiar.

The priest began chanting.

Sanskrit verses flowed like something ancient and grounding. The sacred fire crackled to life between them.

As rituals unfolded garlands exchanged, grains offered, vows whispered — they leaned closer during the quieter moments.

“Still here?” she murmured softly.

“Still choosing,” he replied.

The crowd watched with warm approval.

At the moment of tying the mangalsutra, the air felt thick with anticipation.

Advay’s fingers did not tremble.

He tied the sacred thread around her neck gently.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Intentional.

The hall erupted in applause.

Tears shimmered in his mother’s eyes. Her father looked away suspiciously at the ceiling.

Then came the seven steps the saptapadi.

Seven promises.

Seven circles around the fire.

Each step steady.

Each vow echoed softly.

With every round, the distance they once feared seemed further away.

By the final step, something had settled completely.

They were no longer two people trying to time their courage.

They were partners.

The priest declared them married.

Applause rose like a wave.

Relatives surged forward.

Blessings.

Laughter.

Tears.

Arjun wiped his eyes openly now.

“About time,” he muttered.

Later, during the reception, under a canopy of lights and music, the cake arrived.

Not perfect.

Not symmetrical.

But chocolate.

Saanvi cut the first slice carefully.

Advay leaned closer.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

She smiled.

And smeared a small streak of frosting across his cheek.

The hall burst into laughter.

He didn’t wipe it away immediately.

He leaned down instead and kissed her softly.

Not dramatic.

Not desperate.

Just full.

That night, when most guests had left and the venue grew quieter, they stepped onto the terrace alone.

Hyderabad stretched below them warm lights, distant honks, the hum of a city that had witnessed their beginning.

“You remember December mornings?” she asked softly.

“Window seat,” he said.

“Company bus.”

“Coffee.”

“Slap.”

He smiled.

“Snow.”

“Airport.”

“Fog.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder.

No fear.

No almost.

“I love you,” he said.

Not late.

Not rushed.

On time.

She looked at him.

“You’re finally punctual.”

He laughed.

She slipped her hand into his.

Below them, life moved.

Above them, stars scattered across the sky.

Home was no longer a place.

It was this.

The person who taught him to speak before silence won.

The woman who refused to wait forever.

The man who learned to stay.

Their story had not been perfect.

It had been chosen.

And that was enough.

—————————————————THE END————————————————–