Rhea Jha
The conference room was freezing, or maybe it was just her hands that had turned cold. Aisha Kapoor adjusted the cuff of her blazer for the third time in five minutes, a nervous habit she thought she’d long abandoned. The team sat around the glass table, murmurs of speculation buzzing in the air—new leadership, potential restructuring, rumors about a merger. But all Aisha could focus on was the ticking clock on the wall, inching closer to ten. Her mind wasn’t in the present, not really. It was tangled somewhere between a finance report and a memory she had buried under years of silence.
“Is he really that big of a deal?” Rohan from product whispered beside her.
She didn’t answer. How could she explain that the man walking through the door wasn’t just their new CEO—but also the boy who once wrote her poetry on tissue paper during college canteen breaks, the one she had kissed under the library stairwell, the one who disappeared the day after they had their biggest fight, taking with him her trust, her pride, and something she had never been able to name?
The door clicked open.
A tall man in a charcoal suit stepped in, his presence swallowing the room. His hair was a little shorter, more polished, and the boyish curve of his smile had hardened into something sharper. But his eyes—they were unmistakable. Dark, deliberate, devastating. He scanned the room slowly, taking in each face. When his gaze landed on her, it paused for a beat too long. Aisha felt it—like a hand brushing her skin without touch.
“Good morning,” he said, voice smooth but measured. “I’m Vihaan Malhotra. Let’s keep this short. I don’t believe in wasting time.”
Neither did she. Not anymore.
As he began speaking—detailing quarterly targets, restructuring plans, and buzzwords that floated past her like static—Aisha stared straight ahead, willing herself not to shrink. She wasn’t the girl who once cried herself to sleep when he stopped calling. She wasn’t the girl who waited two hours at a café, only to realize he wouldn’t come. She was thirty-one now. She had built herself from broken pieces. She had her own team, her own apartment, her own rules.
But even now, after ten years, his voice unsettled something in her. A subtle ache. A question left unanswered.
When the meeting ended, people shuffled out with nods and cautious enthusiasm. Aisha gathered her notes with deliberate calmness, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But the universe, ever the dramatist, had other plans.
“Aisha,” came that voice behind her.
She turned slowly. “Vihaan.”
There was a silence between them so thick it almost echoed.
“You’ve changed,” he said, eyes scanning her as if trying to reconcile memory with reality.
She gave a dry smile. “Most people do over a decade. It’s called growth.”
He smirked, and for a second, there was a flicker of the old Vihaan—the one who teased her about her handwriting, the one who danced with her in the rain outside Ganga hostel.
“True. But you still bite back when you’re nervous.”
She blinked. “And you still assume too much.”
Their words were careful, crisp. As if neither wanted to give the other the upper hand. The room had emptied, but neither moved.
He leaned against the table, arms folded. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Likewise. I thought you’d be in London running mergers and forgetting old promises.”
A flash of something passed his face—was it regret? Anger? Memory? But it disappeared too quickly.
“I came back because something felt…unfinished,” he said.
Aisha’s breath caught, but she masked it with a small laugh. “Unfinished is a convenient word. It sounds noble. But most of the time, it just means someone ran.”
“I didn’t run,” he said, his voice low now.
“You disappeared without a word, Vihaan. That’s not running?”
He looked away then, jaw tight. “I had my reasons.”
“And I had my questions. You never answered them.”
Their eyes locked again, and the air between them shifted. No longer guarded—just heavy. With memory. With loss.
He stepped closer. “Maybe now I can.”
She took a step back. “You’re my boss now. Whatever we were—it doesn’t matter.”
Vihaan held her gaze. “You sure about that?”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned and walked out, heels clicking against the floor like a drumbeat in retreat. But even as she walked away, she knew something had cracked open.
The past wasn’t done with her yet. And worse—neither was he.
***
Aisha’s fingers hovered over her keyboard, frozen mid-thought. The spreadsheet in front of her had turned into a blur, columns dancing as her mind replayed the conversation like a faulty cassette stuck on repeat. “Maybe now I can,” he had said—those five words tunneling through every layer of distance she’d built. She closed her laptop with a soft click, exhaled, and stood up. Her glass cabin offered her no escape from the stares outside. She was always composed, always sharp. She couldn’t afford to be anything else. Especially now.
Outside, the office had gone into mild chaos, like it always did when a new leader arrived. Rohan from product was loudly complaining about Vihaan’s “intimidating energy” while Kritika from HR was definitely smitten, judging by the way she’d changed her lipstick shade overnight. Aisha walked past them with her usual grace, ignoring the side glances, the not-so-subtle whispers. But one whisper hit home harder than it should’ve.
“Did you see the way he looked at Aisha in the meeting?”
She didn’t turn. She just walked faster.
Her phone buzzed. A calendar invite. Subject: “Private Strategy Briefing.” Time: 7:30 PM. Venue: Boardroom. From: Vihaan Malhotra.
She stared at the screen. She had half a mind to decline. But a deeper, more dangerous part of her—the one still bruised, still curious—clicked “accept” before her mind caught up. Ten years. She had waited ten years for closure. Or at least an explanation. If this was the beginning of something again, she needed to understand where it had once ended.
At 7:29 PM sharp, she entered the boardroom. He was already there, sleeves rolled up, staring at a city map projected on the screen.
“You’re early,” he said without looking.
“I’m punctual,” she replied, sitting down at the other end of the table. Distance mattered. Boundaries mattered.
Vihaan turned. “Do you always look this serious after hours?”
“I didn’t know this was a social call.”
A smile played at the corner of his lips. “It’s not. But I remember the girl who once laughed so hard during a lecture, she got kicked out.”
Aisha felt the memory like a soft bruise—tender, but still real. She didn’t reply.
Vihaan walked over and placed a folder in front of her. “These are the preliminary plans. We’re restructuring the innovation wing. I want you leading it.”
Aisha blinked. “That’s—unexpected.”
“No, it’s earned. I read your case studies. You’ve held this company up through two leadership transitions. You deserve this.”
She stared at the folder but didn’t open it. “And you’re sure this has nothing to do with…the past?”
He leaned closer, voice low. “The past doesn’t cloud my judgment. But it does remind me who you were. Brilliant. Stubborn. Real.”
Her heart did a small, involuntary lurch.
“Don’t romanticize me, Vihaan. It’s a bad habit.”
He nodded slowly. “Noted.”
A silence stretched between them, until she finally opened the folder. The contents were impressive—detailed plans, bold ideas, and something scribbled in his familiar handwriting: Trust her judgment. She’s the future.
Her eyes flicked up. “You wrote this?”
He shrugged. “I never stopped believing in you. Even when we stopped speaking.”
“And yet, you couldn’t call. Or text. Or say goodbye.”
“I thought if I left clean, it’d hurt less.”
“For you or for me?”
Vihaan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the window. The city outside was humming with a million stories, but their silence was louder.
“My father had a heart attack the morning after our fight,” he said suddenly. “I flew to Delhi that night. I was gone for weeks. When I came back, you were dating someone else. I took the job offer in London the next day.”
Aisha felt the floor shift slightly beneath her. “You never told me.”
“I wanted to. I dialed your number so many times. But I thought—maybe it was better to let you move on. I saw your photos. You looked…happy.”
She remembered that time. The smile in those photos was real, but brittle. Like she’d forced herself into someone else’s arms just to forget the feel of Vihaan’s.
“You assumed too much, Vihaan,” she said softly. “I waited for you. For weeks.”
He turned back to face her. “And I punished myself for months.”
Another silence. This time it wasn’t heavy—it was fragile.
“I don’t know what you want from me now,” Aisha said.
“Not forgiveness. Just honesty. And a chance—to rebuild something. Even if it’s just respect.”
She looked at him carefully, the edges of memory and maturity meeting in his eyes. The boy she once loved had left her with silence. But the man standing now was offering something braver—accountability.
She stood up. “Fine. Let’s build that. Respect. Nothing more.”
He smiled, just slightly. “For now.”
She turned to leave but paused at the door.
“One more thing,” she said. “Don’t ever put me in a position where I have to doubt myself because of you again.”
Vihaan nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”
As she walked away, the sound of her heels echoed like punctuation at the end of an old sentence. She didn’t know what was starting. But for the first time in years, it felt like something had been rewritten.
***
The next morning, Aisha arrived at the office earlier than usual. The city was still rubbing sleep from its eyes, and the scent of fresh filter coffee wafted through the breakroom like a small mercy. She liked this hour—before the calls, the politics, the smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. But today, even the silence felt louder. She knew she had cracked something open last night, something fragile. And despite her resolve, it was affecting her.
“Early bird.” Kritika poked her head into Aisha’s cabin with two coffee cups. “Thought you could use one. Long night?”
Aisha offered a half-smile. “Something like that.”
“Any gossip?” Kritika winked. “I heard you had a late meeting with Mr. Intense Eyes.”
“He’s my boss now. Let’s keep things professional.”
“Sure,” Kritika said, though her grin suggested otherwise. “But just between us girls, if an ex showed up in a suit, successful and single—I’d at least think about it.”
“I’m not you, Kritika.”
“No,” she said, backing out with a smile, “you’re smarter. But sometimes being too smart can be… lonely.”
Aisha didn’t reply. She turned back to her screen, but her mind wasn’t on the quarterly projections. It was back in 2012, in the middle of campus lawns and whispered poetry and two-minute noodles at midnight. The Vihaan of those days had once drawn a heart on her palm with a fountain pen, claiming ink was more permanent than words. That boy had vanished. But last night, just for a second, she thought she saw him again—behind the apology, beneath the strategy briefings.
She shook her head. This wasn’t college. This was business. And she had no intention of becoming someone’s cautionary tale again.
By mid-day, she was deep in review sessions with her team, her mind laser-focused. Vihaan kept his distance. His cabin door stayed shut, blinds drawn, only brief emails exchanged about deliverables. And yet, she could feel his presence like a current in the room—quiet, insistent.
At 4:15, her intercom buzzed. His assistant’s voice chirped through. “Ms. Kapoor, Mr. Malhotra would like you to join him for a site review meeting at the Andheri innovation unit. He’s leaving in fifteen. Shall I confirm your attendance?”
Aisha hesitated. She hadn’t seen that invite. But refusing would make it look personal. And she wouldn’t let office gossip paint her as emotional.
“Confirm it,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”
They didn’t speak much during the drive. He was reading reports. She was pretending to. The car felt like a sealed capsule of history—every bump on the road echoing unspoken thoughts.
“You’ve done well,” Vihaan said finally, breaking the silence. “It shows.”
“So have you. London seems to have sharpened your edges.”
He smiled slightly. “You always said I was too soft.”
“You were. You cried during Dead Poets Society.”
He laughed. “Still do.”
For a brief moment, something softened between them. And just like that, she hated it—how easy it still was. How laughter could still feel like betrayal to the version of herself who once cried into her pillow wondering why he’d vanished.
The site visit was efficient. They walked through corridors lined with design sprints, AI prototypes, and a room full of interns too scared to look up. Aisha took notes, asked sharp questions, and earned subtle nods from Vihaan. By the end of it, even the senior engineers seemed impressed.
As they walked back to the car, he looked at her with quiet admiration. “I wasn’t wrong about you, Aisha. You’re still ten steps ahead of everyone.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And yet you left me behind.”
His smile faltered. “I’m trying to make up for it.”
“Then stop complimenting me like you’re trying to mend a wound with poetry. We’re not those people anymore.”
“You really believe that?”
“I have to.”
They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. The city outside blurred past—vendors packing up, lovers stealing umbrella space, kids chasing their shadows under the yellow wash of streetlamps.
Back at the office, the sun had already dipped below the skyline. She got out of the car without waiting for him to open his mouth. But his voice came anyway, low, certain.
“Aisha—”
She stopped but didn’t turn.
“I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But if I were to ask… not as your boss, not even as the boy you once loved—but as the man who hasn’t been able to forget—would you ever let me explain it all? Properly?”
She turned halfway, eyes unreadable. “Explanations are easy. Living with what you did is not.”
“I lived with it every day,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “You just didn’t see it.”
A silence fell between them that felt neither heavy nor light—just inevitable.
“Let’s get through this project,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”
He nodded. Not a victory. Not yet. But not a defeat either.
As she walked toward her cabin, her phone buzzed again. A new message. From an unknown number, but she knew it instantly.
Vihaan:
Remember the library stairwell? The note I never gave you? I found it yesterday.
She stared at the message. Then, without replying, she locked her screen.
The past was no longer a shadow. It had taken form. And it was knocking.
***
That night, Aisha stared at the ceiling fan as it spun endlessly, like a clock without purpose. Her bedroom was quiet, save for the occasional horn from the street below, but her thoughts were louder than traffic. She hadn’t replied to Vihaan’s message. The note he never gave her. What could it possibly say now that hadn’t already been washed away by time?
She got up, padded to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the cold counter. Her reflection in the window looked calm—hair tied in a loose bun, eyes tired but focused. But inside, she felt anything but composed. Vihaan’s return had stirred everything she’d pressed down for years. Not just the love, but the betrayal. The questions. The ache of being forgotten.
She told herself this was just temporary. He was a phase that had returned, like monsoon rain. Sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore—but it would pass. It had to.
The next morning brought an air of brisk determination. Aisha arrived early again, this time to a neatly wrapped package on her desk. No card. No sender name. Just a navy blue envelope sealed with a wax stamp. She stared at it for a moment before picking it up, heart suddenly too loud.
Inside, folded with care, was a letter on aged college-ruled paper.
Library Stairwell. March 18, 2012.
Aisha,
If I say the wrong thing tonight, forgive me. If I stammer, or pause too long, it’s not because I doubt you—it’s because I’ve never been this sure and this scared at the same time.
You make the world feel like a song I didn’t know I already knew. You wear sarcasm like armor but offer kindness like a secret. You challenge me, annoy me, inspire me.
If we ever lose each other, know that I didn’t walk away because I stopped loving you. I walked away because I didn’t know how to love you right.
But I’m learning.
—V.
She read it twice. Then a third time. The words blurred in places, and her throat tightened in a way she hadn’t expected. Not because the letter was beautiful—it was. But because he never gave it to her when it mattered. He held it back. Like he held back so many truths.
She folded the note slowly and placed it in her drawer. Her fingers lingered on the wood a moment too long.
Later that day, Vihaan entered the team review meeting like nothing had shifted. He was smooth, focused, every word crisp, commanding attention. He didn’t look at her once. But that silence between them now had weight. A quiet knowledge.
After the meeting, as the team dispersed, she stayed behind.
“You left something on my desk,” she said, arms folded.
Vihaan looked up from his notes, but didn’t smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d read it.”
“I did.”
He nodded. Waited.
“It was… heartfelt. And ten years too late.”
“I know. I didn’t expect it to fix anything.”
“Then why send it?”
“Because you deserved to read it then. And since I failed you then, I’m trying to do better now.”
Aisha studied him. There was no drama in his voice, no pleading. Just a steady truth. She could handle lies. She’d spent years learning to spot them. But this honesty—it was harder to process.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Vihaan,” she said, softer now. “An apology doesn’t reverse what you did. Or what I went through.”
“I want nothing you don’t want to give,” he said. “Not love. Not a second chance. Just… a clean page. Even if it’s only in the margins.”
She didn’t answer. There was too much noise in her head. Instead, she turned and left, heart humming like a tuning fork. Her past and present were finally speaking—but she wasn’t sure if they were writing the same story.
That weekend, she visited her old college. Unannounced. She told herself it was for nostalgia, but part of her needed to see if the place still whispered of him. Of them.
The library stairwell was still there—cracked paint, rusty railings, the same faint scent of old books and eucalyptus. She stood at the bottom step and remembered everything. The stolen kisses. The fights. The way he once traced her name in chalk on the wall like it was something sacred.
She leaned against the railing, closed her eyes.
“I walked away because I didn’t know how to love you right.”
But she wasn’t that girl anymore. And he wasn’t that boy. Love wasn’t a poem now—it was a decision, a discipline, a daily choice.
On Monday, Vihaan was in her cabin before her. He had two coffees, one already half-cold.
“I thought you might want one.”
Aisha sat down slowly. “I don’t want to do this halfway, Vihaan.”
His brows rose slightly.
“If we’re going to work together,” she continued, “we need to define our lines. Not blur them.”
“I agree.”
She looked at him carefully. “And if—if someday—something more happens, it won’t be because of leftover feelings. It’ll be because we’ve both grown into different people. People who choose each other again, deliberately. Not because of nostalgia.”
Vihaan nodded, quiet. “You always were the more mature one.”
She smirked. “Still am.”
They both laughed, and it felt real. Not like the past—like something new being born from it.
He stood to leave but paused. “Aisha… thank you. For even this much.”
She didn’t reply. But as he walked out, she reached into her drawer and pulled out the letter again. She smoothed its folds and whispered, “Don’t make me regret this.”
***
It started small. Vihaan no longer hovered like a ghost from the past, but began to exist in her present—visible but not intrusive. In meetings, he deferred to her insights. In strategy calls, he cited her reports. And when team members praised her, he never took credit. It wasn’t flattery. It was recognition. And that subtle shift in dynamic unsettled Aisha more than she admitted. She wasn’t used to softness from him—not anymore. She was used to silence, sharp exits, closed doors. But now, he was showing up. Without excuses. Without trying too hard. Just… present.
A week later, they traveled to Bangalore for a client presentation. She had prepared every slide, rehearsed every data point. Vihaan had let her lead it all. The hotel was sleek, minimalist, and cold—much like the city’s corporate skyline. They barely spoke during the flight. Work was their shield now, a language they could both speak without feeling exposed. But that evening, after a successful presentation and a round of polite client dinners, they ended up in the rooftop bar. Not planned. Just two exhausted people with sore feet and too much history.
Aisha sipped her mocktail, staring out at the twinkling sprawl below. “Ten years ago, I imagined we’d travel together. Backpack across Europe. Sleep in train stations. Not stay in corporate suites and negotiate margins.”
Vihaan chuckled softly. “I remember. You had a Pinterest board full of train windows and raindrops.”
“You hated Pinterest.”
“I hated how obsessed you were with it. But secretly, I saved that photo of you at the station with your braid tangled in your headphones.”
She turned to look at him, surprised. “You did?”
He nodded. “Still have it. Hidden deep in an old Gmail folder.”
A silence settled, soft and complicated. Then she asked the question that had hovered between them for days. “Was it just your father’s heart attack, Vihaan? Or was that fight the excuse you needed to leave?”
He looked down at his glass, the condensation forming a ring on the table. “It wasn’t just the fight. Or my father. It was me.”
“That’s vague.”
“I didn’t think I was enough for you,” he said finally. “Not then. You were already becoming someone. You had vision, hunger, clarity. I was still figuring out how not to disappoint everyone. Including myself.”
Aisha’s chest tightened. She had waited so many years to hear something close to this. Not for validation, but for truth. And now that it was here, it didn’t feel victorious. It felt… heavy.
“I would’ve understood,” she said quietly. “If you’d just said it.”
“I know. But I didn’t know how to say ‘I’m scared’ without sounding weak.”
“You could’ve said it to me,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “I was yours. I would’ve held that fear with you.”
He nodded, regret thick in the air. “I know. And that’s what makes it worse.”
They sat in silence for a while, the music from inside floating around them like a dream they’d once had. Eventually, Aisha stood up. “I’m going to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
Vihaan didn’t stop her. But just as she reached the door, he called out. “Aisha.”
She turned, brows raised.
“I still remember the exact shade of lipstick you wore that night in Delhi. Rust with a hint of rose.”
She blinked. “That was ten years ago.”
“I remember what matters,” he said.
She didn’t smile. But she didn’t frown either. She just left, her heels clicking softly against the stone.
In her room, she stood before the mirror longer than she needed to. She traced her lips, thinking about rust-rose, about old memories buried in the layers of matte finish. Why did he still remember? And why did it matter?
The next morning, they worked seamlessly. The client signed the deal. Aisha led the final call. Vihaan stood beside her, not in front. As they headed back to the airport, he turned to her and said, “You’re remarkable.”
“I’m effective,” she replied.
“You’re both. And I see that now.”
On the flight, they sat two seats apart. She glanced at him once. He was asleep, head resting against the window. He looked younger, almost like the boy she used to draw in the margins of her notebooks. And in that moment, she allowed herself a dangerous thought: what if people could truly change? Not just grow older, but become worthy of the love they once mishandled?
Back in Mumbai, she returned to her apartment with a dull ache she couldn’t place. It wasn’t longing. It wasn’t regret. It was something in between. A transition.
Later that night, her phone pinged again.
Vihaan:
You were the bravest person I knew back then. You still are.
She didn’t reply. But she didn’t delete it either.
Instead, she opened her drawer, took out his letter again, and for the first time—smiled.
***
By the following week, the office was buzzing with news of the company’s upcoming anniversary gala. It was Vihaan’s first major event as CEO, and the buzz had turned electric—decor vendors were scouting the venue, designers were sending style lookbooks, and everyone was secretly wondering what drama might unfold after hours, once the champagne began to flow. Aisha tried to stay out of it. She disliked social events masquerading as networking. People drank too much, laughed too loud, and remembered too little. But as part of the leadership team, she had to attend. Not just attend—she was helping organize.
On Thursday morning, she was finalizing the guest list when a soft knock broke her focus. Vihaan stood at the door, a folder in one hand, the other resting against the frame as if unsure whether to enter.
“Got a minute?”
She gestured wordlessly, eyes still on her screen. He stepped in and placed the folder on her desk.
“Venue layout. Final changes. Also—” He hesitated, then continued. “I’ve assigned you the keynote slot after mine. You’ve earned it.”
She looked up. “You don’t have to hand me public praise to prove anything.”
“This isn’t about proving,” he said. “It’s about making sure the right voice is heard.”
For once, she couldn’t argue. She accepted with a quiet nod.
Before he could leave, he paused again. “It’s a black-tie event.”
“I know.”
“And—well—you always hated sequins.”
A smile threatened her lips. “Still do.”
He smiled, turned, and walked out.
The day of the gala arrived like a soft storm. The venue, a luxury hotel by the bay, shimmered in warm golden light and glass chandeliers. The sea whispered against the edges of the lawn, and the indoor hall had been transformed into something between elegance and dream. Aisha arrived in a minimalist ivory saree with a halter blouse that turned heads not because of the skin it revealed, but the confidence with which she wore it. Her hair was in a loose bun, her lips painted rust-rose—deliberately, rebelliously.
She had barely stepped into the hall when Vihaan saw her. The crowd around him disappeared like a silent wave retreating from the shore. He blinked once. Then again. Then smiled—not the sly, self-assured smile she remembered, but something softer, slower. Like gratitude.
“You look—” he began.
She raised an eyebrow. “Finish that sentence carefully.”
“Like memory and fire,” he said.
Her laugh broke the tension. “You’ve become poetic in your old age.”
“Only when I’m around you.”
She was about to respond when a junior executive tugged him away for photos. She turned to the bar, ordered a mocktail, and tried to breathe. The lights were warm, but her body had gone cold. She wasn’t used to being seen this way by him anymore. Not admired. Not adored. Just… seen.
The event proceeded with speeches, laughter, polite nods. Vihaan’s keynote was brief, sharp, surprisingly moving. He spoke about transformation, about letting go of past systems, about the courage to adapt. But Aisha heard what most others didn’t—his words weren’t just about business. They were about them.
When her turn came, she stepped onstage with a calmness that masked her pulse. Her voice didn’t waver. She spoke about teamwork, about belief, about the invisible effort behind every visible success. And at the end, just before stepping down, she said, “Sometimes, people leave. Sometimes, they return. The question is not whether they changed. The question is—did you?”
She didn’t look at Vihaan. But she knew he was watching.
The applause was polite, then strong, then steady. She stepped offstage and was immediately swallowed into a sea of handshakes and compliments. But one voice reached her above the rest.
“That last line. Was it for me?”
She turned. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, eyes amused but aching.
“I don’t write monologues for anyone, Vihaan.”
“I used to be the exception.”
“You used to be a lot of things.”
The music changed then—soft jazz morphing into something bolder. A few people began dancing. He offered her a hand.
“Just one dance?”
She hesitated.
“Just one,” he repeated.
She placed her hand in his.
They moved quietly, slowly. His hand rested lightly on her waist. The music faded into the background. The rest of the room blurred. They weren’t twenty-one anymore. They didn’t have stars in their eyes or time on their side. What they had now was scar tissue and space. And the question neither had dared ask: was it still love? Or just the ghost of it?
“You know,” he whispered, “I still don’t forgive myself for walking away.”
“I don’t need you to punish yourself, Vihaan. I need you to stay honest.”
“I will.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you let me.”
She looked up at him. “And if I never do?”
He smiled. “Then I’ll keep earning that chance.”
The song ended, but they didn’t move apart immediately. Just stood there, her hand in his, as the room around them shifted into another tune, another mood.
When she finally pulled back, her hand lingered. “I’m not ready.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll wait.”
“And while you wait,” she said, “don’t stop being the man you are now. Because that man… I could someday trust.”
He touched his forehead gently to hers, not as a kiss, not as possession—just closeness. “Deal.”
And just like that, they stepped apart. Not as lovers. Not yet. But no longer strangers in a storm either.
Just two people, rewriting a history—one truth at a time.
***
Monday came with rain. Not the romantic kind that inspired poets, but the stubborn Mumbai drizzle that clung to your skin and made everything smell like wet concrete. Aisha reached the office just as the clouds cracked open completely. She was drenched before she could get from her car to the elevator, her kurta sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She laughed quietly to herself—how many times had she run through storms in college with Vihaan, pretending she didn’t care about getting soaked? Now, she was thirty-one, department head, and completely waterlogged before 9 a.m.
By the time she stepped into the office, her hair was frizzed, eyeliner smudged, and her mood equally damp. But even in this mess, she walked tall.
Vihaan was already in his cabin. She could see him through the glass, his jacket on the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, pen tapping against a file. He glanced up, caught her eye, and raised an eyebrow.
She mouthed, Don’t say it.
He didn’t. But his grin was audible even through the silence.
Twenty minutes later, a knock. A steaming cup of masala chai was handed to her by the peon. On it, a sticky note: Still hate umbrellas, I see.
She smiled despite herself. He remembered everything. That was the dangerous part.
The day passed in a blur of work—deadlines, feedback loops, client calls. But underneath it all, there was a current between them again. Not flirtation, not apology—something else. A cautious rebuilding. Brick by brick, word by word. She didn’t fully trust him yet. But for the first time, she didn’t flinch when he was around.
That afternoon, as she reviewed budget plans with the finance team, her phone buzzed. A calendar invite from Vihaan. Subject: “Offsite Proposal Discussion.” Location: Marine Drive office, 6:30 p.m.
Her eyes narrowed. The Marine Drive branch was their smallest—barely operational. There was no “proposal” scheduled there.
Still, she accepted.
At 6:27, she stepped into the dimly lit office, the sea roaring outside. Vihaan stood near the window, sleeves rolled up again, the city lights reflecting off the glass. He didn’t turn immediately.
“I knew you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I would’ve waited anyway.”
Aisha walked to the window beside him. Outside, the sea crashed endlessly against the wall. Relentless. Familiar.
“You picked this place on purpose,” she said. “This is where we used to come after class.”
“You once said the city only told you the truth when the waves were loud enough to drown the lies.”
“I was dramatic.”
“You were honest.”
They stood in silence for a long time. Then she asked, “Why now, Vihaan? Why are you trying so hard now?”
He turned to her. “Because I don’t want to be the man who only shows up in memories.”
She looked away. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“Not just by leaving. But by letting me believe I wasn’t worth a goodbye.”
He exhaled. “You were worth everything. I just… wasn’t ready to be the man who could hold all of that.”
“And now?”
“I’m not asking for you back, Aisha. I’m asking for your belief. Just once. If I mess it up, I’ll walk away forever. But give me one chance to prove I can be the version of me you deserved.”
Aisha felt the pull in her chest again. The one that came not from nostalgia, but from the quiet knowing that some stories weren’t over—they had just paused.
“I don’t know if I can love you again,” she said finally.
“Then don’t,” he replied. “Just trust me to be in your life. Even if it’s as a friend. A colleague. A silent promise in the background.”
She stared at him for a long time. Then—slowly, cautiously—she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. The letter he had written. The one she had read a dozen times and never thrown away.
“I carry this,” she said. “Not because I forgive you. But because it reminds me that sometimes, even pain can be beautiful.”
He didn’t speak.
She placed the letter on the desk and stepped back. “I’ll give you one chance, Vihaan. Not as a lover. Not yet. But as someone trying to earn their way back. Don’t waste it.”
“I won’t.”
She turned to leave, but he called out softly, “Aisha.”
She paused.
“You still wear rust-rose.”
She didn’t reply. She just smiled over her shoulder and walked out into the night, the rain waiting to greet her again.
Outside, she didn’t open her umbrella. She walked slowly, letting the drops soak into her, heart steady, feet firm. For the first time in years, she wasn’t running from the past. She was walking alongside it.
And maybe—just maybe—the future had started again.
***
The next few weeks moved like monsoon rivers—unpredictable, but steady. Aisha and Vihaan found their rhythm again, though this time it wasn’t wrapped in stolen glances or midnight texts. It was found in clarity, in shared respect, in conversations that didn’t always bleed nostalgia. They became, strangely and almost peacefully, partners. Not romantic, not yet. But something just as valuable. She no longer avoided rooms he was in. He no longer searched for her gaze like a guilty man begging for redemption. Instead, they worked—side by side, thought by thought, idea by idea.
On a Tuesday afternoon, their startup collaboration pitch was approved by the board—something they had both fought for for months. Aisha walked out of the conference room, her face calm but her eyes alive. Vihaan followed, two steps behind.
“You didn’t even smile in there,” he said as they reached the corridor.
“I’ll smile when the funds reach the account.”
“That’s cold,” he teased.
“That’s experience,” she replied.
He laughed. “You’ve become impossible to impress.”
“Or maybe I just stopped expecting magic where there’s none.”
Vihaan stopped walking. “That’s not true. You still believe in magic. You just don’t trust it anymore.”
She paused, tilted her head, then walked away without answering.
The following Friday, the office planned a casual off-site—an evening at a coastal retreat an hour outside the city. It was meant to be low pressure, all team-bonding and no performance reviews. Aisha didn’t want to go. Too many eyes, too much pretending to be relaxed. But Kritika practically dragged her into the group chat.
“Come on, Aisha,” she pleaded in person. “Even your hair needs a break from being pulled back so tight.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s a beach, not a battlefield. Just show up.”
In the end, she did.
The resort was quiet, tasteful, set against a moonlit shoreline. The sound of the waves rolled in like background music as colleagues played antakshari around a bonfire and passed around cups of warm, spiced lemonade. Aisha stood a little away, arms folded, watching them laugh and stumble through 90s songs.
Vihaan found her there. “You hate group singing.”
“I hate forced nostalgia.”
He chuckled. “You’re here, though.”
“Against my better judgment.”
He stood beside her, not saying anything for a while. Just letting the night breathe.
Then he said, “You were the first person I ever wrote poetry for.”
She looked up at him. “And the last?”
“I stopped writing when I lost you.”
She didn’t speak.
He added, “But I started again. Recently.”
“Still rhyming ‘fire’ with ‘desire’?”
He smiled. “Some things never change.”
They stood like that for minutes, in the soft glow of firelight, before someone called Vihaan to join a game of charades. He gave Aisha a small nod and left. She stayed back, staring at the ocean. It had always comforted her, the endlessness of it, the way it absorbed sound, hurt, memory.
Later that night, the group dispersed into rooms, drowsy from laughter and food. Aisha remained by the beach, barefoot, walking along the wet sand. The tide was low. The air smelled of salt and quiet.
Behind her, she heard footsteps. She didn’t turn.
“You always walked ahead of me,” Vihaan said softly.
She half-smiled. “You always lagged behind.”
“I was looking at you.”
She sighed. “You were always better with words after the damage was done.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Then: “You scare me, Aisha.”
She stopped walking. “Why?”
“Because you remember everything. You don’t forget. You forgive, maybe, but you never forget.”
She turned to him. “Would you prefer I did?”
“No,” he said honestly. “But I’m afraid I’ll spend forever trying to be better than the version of me you remember.”
She looked at him for a long time. The moonlight softened his features. Gone was the sharp jawline of ambition, the confident shoulders of a CEO. Here stood the boy who once held her hand during a blackout and whispered, “Don’t let go.”
“Then be better,” she said. “Don’t try. Just be.”
“I’m trying not to love you again,” he confessed.
Aisha’s breath caught.
“But it’s happening anyway,” he continued. “And this time, I won’t ruin it with fear.”
She didn’t move. The waves licked at her ankles.
“I’m not there yet,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I may never be.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll love you quietly. From here. Without rushing. Without asking. Just… staying.”
Aisha closed her eyes. The sea, the moon, the man in front of her—it all blurred into one aching, beautiful possibility. She wasn’t ready to say yes. But she didn’t want to say no anymore.
She opened her eyes. “Then stay.”
He stepped closer, but not too close.
“I won’t ask for anything,” he said.
“Good,” she replied, her voice softer now. “Because if I ever give myself again, it won’t be to the boy who left. It’ll be to the man who stayed.”
He smiled. “Then let me stay.”
She nodded.
And for the first time in years, they watched the waves not as strangers, not as ex-lovers, but as two people finally standing still in the same moment.
Not chasing the past. Not running toward the future.
Just standing.
Together.
***
Aisha had always believed healing was quiet. That it came like mist over a scar—gentle, unnoticed, inevitable. But with Vihaan back in her life, healing was loud. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was present. It came in the awkward pauses, in the almost-touches, in the silence that filled the elevator rides. It came when she caught herself waiting for his laugh in a meeting. When he looked at her during someone else’s presentation and knew she had a better idea. Their language had changed—but the fluency remained.
One Monday morning, as the team assembled in the conference room for their monthly review, Vihaan walked in late, apologizing briefly, sleeves rolled up, eyes slightly tired. He carried with him a worn leather journal, not his usual device. Aisha raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.
“Trying to write longhand again. Feels more honest.”
As he opened it, a small folded piece of paper slipped out. He didn’t react quickly enough. It fluttered onto the table, stopping near Aisha’s folder. She picked it up before anyone else noticed. It was a note, scrawled in Vihaan’s unmistakable handwriting.
“Some truths don’t need timing. They just need courage.”
She didn’t say anything. She tucked the note back into his journal as she passed him a file. He met her eyes and gave her a small, private nod.
After the meeting, she walked back to her cabin, but didn’t sit. She stood by the window instead, watching the monsoon clouds roll in again. There had been more rain this season than most years. And strangely, more peace in her life than she expected.
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock.
Vihaan entered without waiting.
“May I?”
“You’re already in,” she said, not unkindly.
He walked in, closing the door gently behind him. “I didn’t mean for you to read that note. But maybe it’s good that you did.”
“I think you wanted me to.”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“What was the truth you were referring to?” she asked, turning to him.
“That I still feel more when I’m around you than I’ve ever felt with anyone else. And not just love, Aisha. Respect. Admiration. A weird kind of calm.”
“And what do you want to do with that truth?”
“Not ruin it,” he said. “Not this time.”
Aisha stepped closer, arms folded. “You know what I hate most about what happened between us?”
He waited.
“That you made me question myself. My instincts. My ability to judge character. I doubted everything because of you.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “And that’s the worst part for me too.”
She looked at him, eyes steady. “But you’ve changed. Not in the grand, rom-com way. In the smaller, steadier way. You listen more. You don’t try to fix me. You let me be.”
“I had to lose you to learn that.”
“And now?”
“I just want to build something again. Even if it’s different.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she walked to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out the old letter—the one from the library stairwell. She handed it to him.
“I kept it. Not because I believed every word. But because it reminded me of the version of you that once tried.”
He took it slowly, like it was sacred. “Do I get to write a new one?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re writing it for me, or for your own redemption.”
Vihaan laughed gently. “You never make it easy, do you?”
“Love isn’t easy.”
He looked down, folded the letter, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Would you have lunch with me? Just… lunch. No heavy conversations. No metaphors.”
“Depends. Where?”
“There’s this tiny café across town. You once said their mushroom risotto was better than falling in love.”
Aisha smirked. “Still quoting me, I see.”
“I listen more than you think.”
She picked up her phone. “Send me the location. I’ll see if I’m free.”
He nodded, not pushing further. “I’ll wait.”
As he turned to leave, she called out, “Vihaan.”
He looked back.
“You still carry the journal?”
“Every day.”
“Then maybe,” she said, “you should write something new. About now. Not then.”
He smiled. “Starting today.”
That afternoon, they sat in the corner of a small café tucked between two bookstores. The risotto was exactly as she remembered. Vihaan didn’t bring up the past. He just asked about her favourite books, her current playlist, whether she still wrote poetry. She told him she didn’t. That something inside her had gone quiet after he left.
“Then let it speak again,” he said. “Write a new ending.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “Or maybe I’m still writing the middle.”
They ate slowly. The world outside blurred through the rain-streaked glass. And when the bill came, she paid without giving him a choice.
“That was very unromantic,” he joked.
“That was very fair,” she replied.
When they stepped out, the rain had stopped. The city was soaked, glowing, alive.
“Do you want to walk?” he asked.
She looked at her heels. “Five minutes.”
They walked without touching, without speaking much. Just steps falling in rhythm, hearts slowing into something that felt dangerously close to peace.
Before parting, he turned to her.
“Aisha. If you ever love me again, let it be because of the man I am now.”
She nodded. “And if I do, it won’t be quiet.”
He smiled. “I’ve waited long enough. I’ll wait a little more.”
Then he left, turning just once to look back.
And this time, she didn’t look away.
***
It was a Sunday afternoon when it finally happened—not the confession, not the grand declaration, but the moment that shifted everything. Aisha was curled up on her couch, sipping strong coffee and reading an old book she’d nearly forgotten she owned. The windows were open, the air heavy with the scent of rain on soil. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her phone was on silent. The world was still.
Until her doorbell rang.
She opened it to find Vihaan standing there, slightly breathless, a brown paper parcel in his hands. No umbrella. His hair wet. Shirt sleeves rolled up in familiar rebellion. She didn’t ask why he was there. Somehow, she already knew.
“Hi,” he said, almost sheepishly.
“Hi.”
He held out the parcel. “I wasn’t sure if you’d open the door. But I brought this just in case.”
“What is it?”
“A book. Sort of.”
She took the package, slowly unwrapping it. Inside was a thin hardbound journal. The title, handwritten in gold ink, read: Letters I Never Sent.
She opened the first page.
April 3, 2013 — London.
You would’ve hated this café. Too pretentious. But they had those almond cookies you used to like. I ordered one, just in case.
Aisha flipped through the pages. Each one was dated. Some were short, a line or two. Some filled entire pages. All written to her. All unsent.
“This is…” she began.
“Every time I missed you, I wrote to you. I never mailed them. I thought maybe it would hurt less if I wrote instead of called.”
“And did it?”
“No. But it kept you close. Even when I didn’t deserve to be near you.”
Aisha held the journal against her chest. “Why give this to me now?”
“Because I’ve said everything I could to win your trust back. But maybe you needed to hear what I said when no one was listening.”
She looked up at him. “Vihaan… this is ten years of ghosts.”
“And maybe we can bury them now. Together.”
She stepped aside. Let him in.
They sat by the window, the city breathing slowly around them. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t lean in. He just sat. And in that space between them, something quiet bloomed. Not forgiveness, not quite. But a softness. A return.
“I don’t know how this ends,” she said, eyes still on the journal.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to end. Maybe it just changes.”
“I’m not promising forever.”
“I’m not asking for it. Just… today.”
Aisha reached over and placed her hand gently on his. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It was enough.
He looked at her, his eyes softer than they’d ever been. “Can I say it?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“That I love you.”
She blinked, once. Then again. “You can say it. But I might not say it back. Not yet.”
“I can wait.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here.”
The rain began again, a gentle hum against the window. She leaned back into the cushions, the journal still in her lap.
“You wrote me letters,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s time I write one too.”
He smiled. “I’d like that.”
She got up, pulled out a pen and a plain notebook. Then she turned to him and asked, “What date should I write?”
Vihaan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Start with today. Let’s not go back anymore.”
She nodded. “Today it is.”
As she began to write, he stood, made her another cup of coffee, and returned without a word. She kept writing, the scratch of her pen the only sound between them.
He didn’t read over her shoulder. He didn’t ask questions. He just sat beside her, quietly, gratefully, like a man who had once broken something and had now been allowed—not to repair it fully—but to be present while it healed.
When she finally stopped, she closed the notebook and placed it next to his journal on the table. Two books. Two timelines. Finally aligned.
And in that moment, she knew—this wasn’t a second chance in the romantic sense. This was a continuation. A pause that had waited patiently to become a sentence again.
Vihaan looked at her, unsure. “So what happens now?”
She smiled, that soft, rare smile that once undid him entirely. “Now? Now we stop rewriting the past. And start editing the future.”
He reached out slowly, touched her fingers. She didn’t pull away.
Outside, the city rumbled back to life.
Inside, they sat—two people who had once fallen apart and had somehow found the language to begin again.
Not with promises.
But with presence.
The End
