Hiding feelings was harder than feeling them.
Aakrati had learned that very quickly.
In an office where rumours travelled faster than emails, silence felt safer than honesty. She worked among four other interns—girls who smiled sweetly at her face and sharpened their words behind her back. She knew it. She had always known it. Their laughter lowered the moment she entered a room, their whispers grew louder the moment she left.
Still, she stayed calm.
Because she knew one thing for sure—if she ever spoke about him, even once, those smiles would turn into labels. And in that office, labels were dangerous.
Characterless.
Too ambitious.
Trying too hard.
She had seen it happen to others.
Everyone knew the unspoken rule of the workplace:
Work hard. Stay invisible. Avoid rumours.
And Arsh—
He was already a rumour.
Popular. Confident. Talked about.
Girls noticed him. People assumed things about him.
And she… she didn't want to be added to that list.
So she became careful. Very careful.
Their first conversation didn't turn into something big.
It turned into small, ordinary moments.
"Good morning."
"Is your work done?"
"Let me know if you need help."
Always said in a friendly tone.
Always said with ease.
And every time he spoke, she responded politely—but briefly. No extra words. No unnecessary smiles. She kept her eyes neutral, her expressions calm, even when her heart felt anything but.
She never smiled at him first.
Never greeted him openly.
Never let herself linger.
Because she knew—
Even a smile could be misread.
Even a greeting could become a story.
After two or three such conversations spread over two weeks, she would return to her desk pretending nothing had happened, while inside she floated quietly, carefully, on happiness she wasn't allowed to show.
Those moments stayed with her longer than they should have.
But as days passed, the weather changed.
And so did she.
Cold mornings, late evenings, exhaustion from overworking—everything caught up with her. Her throat burned, her head felt heavy, and her body finally asked for rest she had been denying.
At home, she was alone.
She lived in a rented room, paid her own bills, managed her own life. Independence had taught her strength, but it had also taught her silence.
Low BP.
A slight fever.
Weakness she tried to ignore.
She still came to office. Still worked. Still pushed through—until before one day's lunchtime, when the room started spinning.
She finally went to her boss.
"I'm not feeling well," she said calmly. "May I take half day leave?"
He nodded.
While packing her bag, the office floor was unusually empty. Lunch hour had pulled everyone away. She was alone near her desk, gathering her things slowly, carefully.
Then—
"Hey."
She looked up.
Arsh stood there, adjusting his hair absent-mindedly, his tone casual, almost concerned.
"What's up?" he asked.
She hesitated, then answered honestly.
"I'm sick. Low BP… and a little fever."
"Oh," he said immediately, surprised. Then smiled slightly.
"We're so alike. I have low BP as well."
That made her pause.
In the silence that followed, her phone slipped from her hand and landed softly on the desk.
He picked it up and held it out.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes," she said.
He handed it back, then—almost thoughtfully—asked,
"Can I have your number?"
She didn't overthink it.
Maybe because she was sick.
Maybe because the moment felt harmless.
Maybe because no one was around.
"Okay," she said simply.
He blinked once with a smile but with a questionable face she asked, "You don't have your phone with you. How will you save it?"
"I'll remember," he said easily. "I have a good memory."
She told him the number.
He repeated it—once, twice—perfectly.
She looked at him, surprised.
"So… can I text you?" he asked, polite, not assuming.
"Sure," she replied. "But please after seven. I'm free after that."
A smile touched his face.
"So am I," he said. "I'm also free after seven."
Nothing dramatic followed.
No promises.
No extra words.
She picked up her bag.
"Take care," he said.
"You too," she replied.
She walked out feeling weak—but calm.
Happy, but not overwhelmed.
Relieved, mostly—because during all of this, no one had been there to see.
And for the first time, something important had happened quietly.
Safely.