Strings Of Rain & Heartbeats!!🌧♥️💞
Bangalore, 10:28 PM
The city was wrapping itself in a soft hush. A light drizzle blurred streetlights into amber halos. Metro shutters were down, puddles rippled at every turn, and the distant hum of traffic felt like a memory.
Somewhere in Koramangala, behind blue grills and thin curtains, life was unwinding.
Her World
Ira, 25, Software Developer at a mid-sized firm.
Introvert by nature, gentle by default.
Her world was books with yellowing pages, indie playlists no one else had heard of, and a drawer filled with chai packets she never shared.
She lived on the second floor of a shared flat — Flat 204 — with two girls louder than her playlists.
They laughed about HR policies, swapped sheet masks, and tried to get Ira to say more than five words at dinner.
She never minded the noise.
She simply existed between it — like silence in a well-written line.
That day, work had dragged longer than usual. Deadlines, Jira tickets, and one broken build later, she stepped out into the smell of wet mud and tired neon boards.
Her Uber dropped her a lane away.
She stepped out —
White chikankari kurti, edges now softly soaked.
Black leggings, slightly muddied.
Open hair, wild from the wind.
Her laptop bag hung to the right, just as always.
Silver jhumkas swayed like tiny bells.
Her glasses fogged and cleared with every breath.
The rain had started again — not too loud, not too light.
The kind of rain that knew how to make a moment last.
And Then… Him
As she turned the corner near her building, the road split into quiet shadow and yellow light.
And that’s where she saw him.
Aarav.
(Though she didn’t know that yet.)
He stood at the chai tapri outside the building gate.
White formal shirt, clinging at the shoulders, sleeves rolled up.
Wet hair, carelessly pushed back, the kind that looks better messy.
Brown eyes, behind rectangular glasses, lit up from within.
He was laughing — not loudly, but freely, the way extroverts do when the day hasn't crushed their joy.
His teammates stood around him with half-filled chai cups, still talking tech and teasing each other.
Ira froze mid-step.
Just a few feet away.
The sound of his laugh cut through the night and her breath.
Something about him — the rain on his lashes, the warmth in his eyes, the way he held his cup like it belonged there —
made her feel like the world had tilted just a little.
Not dizzy.
Just different.
He hadn’t seen her yet.
And in that moment, she liked it that way.
Because watching him was easier than being seen.
She turned her eyes away, but not before they met his for a blink.
A pause.
The kind of glance that leaves a glow even behind closed lids.
Upstairs, in her room...
She didn’t say anything to her roommates that night.
But she did open the window slightly, letting the cool rain air in.
And on the last page of her notepad, she scribbled:
"He laughed like the world was still beautiful.
And for a moment, I believed him."
She remembered his laugh. He remembered her silence. But today, silence shattered.
Bangalore Metro Station | 8:03 AM
Morning rain in Bangalore had its own music.
Puddles mirrored passing umbrellas, jackets swayed like rhythm, and coffee stalls steamed like tired dreams.
Ira had barely slept.
That boy from last night… his face kept coming back in flashes.
Not because he smiled.
But because she couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like if he did—at her.
Wrapped in her oversized beige scarf, her hair loosely tied, and specs slightly fogged, she stood under the metro station shed.
Same white kurti from last night, but now paired with a navy blue denim jacket.
Laptop bag over her shoulder, earpods in, eyes low.
She was waiting quietly, the drizzle blurring the metro lights, when
him.
A few steps away.
He stood in front of the vending machine, scrolling his phone.
Same messy hair, slightly puffier eyes, a navy-blue formal shirt this time.
He looked tired, but his presence still stood taller than the crowd.
She felt her breath hitch.
“Don’t stare,” her mind whispered. But eyes have their own will.
She shifted forward slowly… and in a sudden ripple of the crowd, someone pushed her from behind
Her elbow brushed his hand
His phone slipped.
It hit the floor with a sharp crack.
He bent immediately.
She turned pale.
“Oh.. I’m so sorry… I didn’t”
He picked it up. The screen had a small crack on the corner.
He looked at her finally.
Those same brown eyes, now confused, slightly irritated.
“You could’ve said excuse me instead of storming in,” he snapped, wiping his phone with his shirt edge.
Ira froze.
She opened her mouth, but words stuck like wet leaves in the throat.
Her hand shook as she tried to gesture.
“I..I didn’t see someone behind pushed”
He sighed, clearly in a rush. “Fine, whatever. Just… watch it next time, okay?”
She stood there, shoulders low, her ears burning.
She hated confrontation. And now this.
With the boy who laughed like poetry last night, and now sounded like a storm.
He walked away, merging into the slow-moving metro crowd.
She didn’t follow him with her eyes.
Not this time.
But inside her heart, something shifted
the warmth of admiration turned into a shiver of realness.
That Evening…
She sat by her window, watching the rain.
In her notebook, she wrote:
“You were a monsoon dream yesterday.
Today, you became thunder.
And still,
I’d like to meet you again…
Maybe on a quieter day.”
The metro moved. So did something between them—messy, rainy, and unforgettable.
Inside the Metro | 8:11 AM
The train hissed into the platform like a sigh swallowed too late.
The crowd surged in with umbrellas, office bags, and Monday energy.
Ira stepped in, heart still stung from their brief fight.
She clutched the center pole, the world around her swaying slightly with the movement of the train.
And there he was again.
Standing on her left.
Aarav.
Phone in hand, eyebrows furrowed, trying to make sense of the screen’s glitch.
He had a small cut near his knuckle, probably from the fall.
His white earphones looped like vines around his neck, and the rain still lingered on the collar of his navy-blue shirt.
She didn’t know whether to say something. Or just stay still and breathe.
The metro jolted gently.
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, trying not to look at him.
But as the coach turned and swayed again, her long open hair brushed lightly across his cheek.
He flinched. Pulled back.
Her heart skipped. “Oh no…”
He looked at her sharply.
“Seriously?” he snapped.
“Is it that hard to tie your hair if you’re in a crowd?”
She froze. Embarrassed.
A few people turned. Not many. But enough for her to look down, fingers curling at the hem of her kurti.
“I didn’t mean—sorry… the metro moved,” she whispered, barely audible.
He shook his head slightly, muttered, “Every morning some drama,” and turned his face away, eyes now on the glass reflection.
She bit her lower lip. Not out of sadness
But because she wasn’t used to being noticed like that. Even if it was in irritation.
Two Stops Later...
He got off. Didn’t look back.
She stayed still, shoulders quiet, holding everything she wanted to say in the space between her lips and her breath.
And yet
her fingers reached up and slowly began to tie her hair into a loose bun.
Later, at her desk...
As Jira tickets piled up and Slack pings buzzed, she sipped her chai quietly.
No sugar.
She opened her notes app, and typed:
“He told me to tie my hair.
He doesn’t know—
That was the first time someone saw them dancing too close.”
Sometimes, we realize too late how harsh our words were. And sometimes, fate takes someone away before we can say goodbye.
[9:48 AM – Aarav’s Office, Indiranagar]
The conference room was all glass, chrome, and caffeine.
Aarav, dressed in a clean white shirt and grey trousers, leaned forward with ease as he explained the backend restructuring for a new logistics app to a US-based client. His voice was calm, sharp, but kind.
As the call ended and people started to step out, one of the junior developers Rishi grinned and said casually:
“Sir, honestly, if I ever get scolded, I hope it’s by you. You sound too soft to be mad.”
Laughter echoed in the room.
Aarav smiled politely, but his mind froze.
Softspoken?
His mind flicked back
To that morning,
To that girl with the white kurti and soft voice, whose hair had brushed against him in the metro.
Her eyes.
They weren’t angry. Just… startled. Hurt.
He remembered the way she had quietly tied her hair afterward.
How her shoulders had seemed to shrink inward.
And suddenly—guilt crept in like a quiet mist.
He sighed. Rubbed his temple.
“Damn. I was unnecessarily harsh.”
He didn’t even know her name.
But something about her—fragile and fierce in the same frame—stayed with him.
“If I see her again,” he thought, “I’ll say sorry. Genuinely.”
But work pulled him back into its rush again.
Emails, Git commits, code reviews. The world of clean logic, messy bugs, and fast deadlines.
[12:31 PM – Ira’s Office, Koramangala]
The glow of the screen blurred her teary eyes.
She had been pushing through the day quietly, silently, just like she always did.
Then, her phone vibrated.
"Maa Calling"
She stepped out to the terrace, the soft drizzle still hanging like threads from the grey sky.
“Hello?”
Her mom’s voice cracked before words even formed.
“Ira beta… Dadaji is no more.”
Silence.
Her knees felt weak.
“What…? When?”
“Early morning… in his sleep. Peacefully.”
“He kept asking about your job last night. He was so proud.”
Her world stopped.
Dadaji.
The man who gave her her first notebook.
Who sat on the terrace with her every evening in Delhi, telling her stories of stars, teaching her to observe instead of speak.
The one person who never told her to be louder.
Who always said
“Tumhare jaisi khamoshi mein bhi baat hoti hai, Ira. Duniya bas sunn nahi paati.”
She didn’t cry on the phone.
But the tears rolled down before she could even change.
Within an hour, her flatmates had booked her tickets.
By 3 PM, Ira was on a flight back to Delhi, the city of warmth, grief, and memories.
[Next Morning – 8:20 AM | Metro Station, Bangalore]
The rain had softened overnight. Now, it was a faint drizzle—like the city itself was tired.
Aarav, dressed in his usual muted tones, stood at his usual metro platform, earbuds in but no music playing.
In his hand, a small paper bag—blueberry muffins from the café near his office.
He didn’t really eat sweet things.
But something about her stayed.
The girl from the white kurti. The one with the soft voice and untied hair.
He hadn't seen her before that morning. Not in meetings. Not in corridors.
They likely worked at different companies.
Maybe on different streets.
Maybe in parallel lives.
But today, he stood there a little longer. Just in case.
Maybe she took this train daily.
Maybe she was just late yesterday.
Maybe… he'd get to say sorry.
But as train after train came and went, she didn’t appear.
No flutter of white.
No glimpse of foggy specs or loose hair.
Just the usual rush of strangers and schedules.
He took the metro anyway.
Quiet. Thoughtful.
A little heavier than usual.
The muffins stayed untouched in his bag.
[Meanwhile, in Delhi – Ira’s Family Home | 10:47 AM]
The Delhi sky was a dull, aching grey.
Ira sat by her grandfather’s old reading chair, wearing a cotton kurta and her college hoodie. Her hair was tied in a hurried bun, her eyes swollen but dry.
Family members had begun to leave.
Some for work. Some for distance.
But her mother stayed beside her, offering silent company.
Her nani brought her chai, just the way Dadaji used to make it—no sugar, strong masala.
In the hall, the air still smelt faintly of incense sticks and rose petals.
Framed pictures of her with Dadaji decorated the shelves.
One of them her, age 9, sitting in his lap, reading a storybook.
He used to say:
“Ira, your silence will one day speak louder than others’ noise.”
Today, the silence felt too loud.
She opened her phone.
Dozens of messages.
None from the boy she had met by chance.
But she wasn’t expecting any either.
Still, she remembered the last look in his eyes.
Sharp. Then slowly unsure.
She shut her phone.
Closed her eyes.
And let the rain patter gently against the glass window.
Somewhere in Bangalore...
He was coding,
She was grieving.
Both unaware…
that this wasn’t the end of their story.
Just the pause before the next monsoon drop.
Sometimes, strangers carry stories you didn’t know you’d remember.
[Delhi – Ira’s Family Home | 7:30 PM]
The day had passed in silent rituals, whispered condolences, and endless cups of tea served in steel glasses.
Ira sat in her Dadaji’s room, now untouched since the morning.
It smelled like him.
Old books, sandalwood soap, and peppermint balm.
She reached toward the side table and picked up a dusty journal—the one where he used to scribble Urdu couplets and half-written poems.
One page was open, with his handwriting:
“Zindagi ki asli daulat, rishton ke pal hoti hai,
Kuch log chale jaate hain, lekin saath reh jaate hain.”
Her eyes welled up.
She missed him not in dramatic sobs, but in quiet, cutting waves—
like the ache of something you'd learned to lean on without even realizing it.
Her mom entered slowly with a folded dupatta.
“Beta, rest for a while. You haven’t eaten since morning.”
Ira nodded faintly.
Dadaji ki kahaniyaan, Ira ke dil mein hi toh rehti thi.
Now, they'd just live there, forever.
[Bangalore – Aarav’s Office | 5:45 PM]
Aarav placed the packet of muffins on his desk.
He hadn’t eaten them. He hadn’t known why he bought them.
And he hadn’t stopped thinking about that girl.
He was debugging a chunk of backend code when his teammate, Rishi, peeked over and said:
“Muffins? What’s the occasion, boss?
Promotion or secret admirer?”
The rest of the team grinned.
Tanya, their designer, chimed in:
“Oh my god… is it finally someone? Aarav and feelings? Stop the code push!”
Aarav sighed and gave in with a reluctant smirk.
“I met someone in the metro yesterday.”
Now all eyes were on him.
“White kurti. Silver earrings. Long open hair. Specs.
She accidentally dropped my phone. I… kind of scolded her. Twice.”
Rishi: “Twice?!”
Aarav: “Yeah. Once for the phone. Once for her hair touching my face…”
Dead silence. Then chaos.
Tanya gasped. “You didn’t. Aarav! She's not your intern!”
Rishi clapped: “And here I thought you were Bangalore’s softboi.”
“You owe her a bakery, not just a muffin.”
Aarav chuckled, rubbing his forehead.
“Yeah, yeah. I was going to say sorry today. Waited at the same spot... but she didn’t come.”
There was a pause.
Then Tanya whispered dramatically:
“Bro, she’s your monsoon plot twist. Just don’t mess it up .”
[Next Morning – 8:15 AM | Metro Platform]
Aarav stood again, this time without muffins.
Just a coffee, and maybe a little more hope.
He looked up as each train arrived. Scanned faces.
A flutter of white. But it was a man’s shirt.
A glint of silver. But not her earrings.
Still no sign of her.
His chest felt heavy in a way he didn’t quite understand.
He didn't even know her name.
Yet, something inside him kept telling him she'd be back.
Or maybe… he simply hoped she would.
Back in Delhi, Ira sat on her grandfather’s swing, rereading his old poems, unaware of the boy in Bangalore who now looked for her in every passing train window.
Some connections don’t need labels. Just quiet crossings under a sky that remembers.
[Three Weeks Later – Bangalore Metro | 8:16 AM]
It was one of those pale mornings where the sun seemed tired.
Ira, now visibly thinner, wore a baby pink salwar kameez, her hair tied in a low braid, kajal faded, eyes heavy with untold stories.
She stood at the metro platform like a shadow of the girl in the white kurti—shoulders a little lower, spirit tucked inside.
She waited quietly, not expecting anything, just letting life move again.
And then…
He arrived.
From the far end of the platform, Aarav, in his olive-green jacket, spotted her.
His heart skipped. Time stuttered.
It’s her. It’s really her.
Without a second thought, he sprinted.
Dodging a child, a briefcase uncle, someone with a suitcase.
But the train arrived before he could reach.
She stepped in.
The doors closed with a cold, mechanical sigh.
She didn’t see him.
Or maybe… she did. And just didn’t know how to react.
He stood there, chest heaving, heart full.
Train gone.
The space felt lonelier than before.
[Office – That Morning]
He dropped the half-warm muffin on his desk.
Didn’t eat it.
His teammates noticed.
Tanya raised an eyebrow, “No white kurti today?”
He sighed and told them everything.
Rishi leaned back with a teasing grin:
“Aarav... you don’t run like that for someone who’s ‘nothing like that’.”
Aarav didn’t reply.
But in his silence, they all saw it—
he was slowly falling.
[Elsewhere – Ira’s Office | Same Day, 11:03 AM]
The manager’s voice was clinical, emotionless.
“Ira, you’ve exhausted your leave balance.
We understand your loss, but your pending modules are behind by two weeks.
I’m afraid we’ll have to let you go.”
It hit like a punch she didn’t see coming.
She nodded quietly. No arguments. Just picked her things and left.
She walked home alone. No umbrella. Just her tears and the stubborn drizzle.
At her flat, she crashed onto her bed, sobbing into the pillow, fists clenched, breath uneven.
Her flatmate, Meera, peeked in gently after an hour.
“Ira... I know things are messy. But there’s an opening in my company. You’re good at what you do.
Come tomorrow we’ll fix your résumé.
You’ve got an interview in two days.”
Ira blinked, still teary, but whispered:
“Really?”
Meera smiled, “Yes. Big company. Good team. You might just need a little fresh air.”
[Two Days Later – Metro | 8:19 AM]
The sky was grey again. Almost poetic.
This time, Aarav was already inside the metro, headphones in, scrolling on his phone, unaware of the girl who just walked in.
Ira, in a plain navy-blue kurti and clutching a folder, stepped into the coach.
She saw him.
Heart skipped, but she didn’t react.
She was focused. Determined. Worn-out, but still trying.
The train jolted forward.
He didn’t notice her until they reached Indiranagar Station.
As they stepped off, she walked ahead.
But then...
He turned, just in time.
“Hey! Wait...!”
She turned. A little surprised. Eyes uncertain.
Aarav came close, slightly breathless, then softly:
“I’m sorry. For the other day. For everything. I shouldn’t have… spoken like that.”
She blinked. Said nothing at first.
Then, softly:
“It’s okay. It’s been a rough month.”
A slip of paper slid from her folder—he caught it before it hit the wet platform.
He looked at it.
“Interview Letter ”
His company.
His eyes widened.
“You’re coming to my office?”
She nodded, gently taking it back.
“Yeah... my interview’s at 10.”
He smiled… and for the first time, she did too just a faint curve, but enough.
“Then maybe... I’ll see you again. This time... with a muffin.”
Some mornings begin like any other—until they don’t.
[Bangalore | 9:15 AM]
The office buzzed like any usual weekday keyboards clicking, lattes steaming, fluorescent lights humming.
But not for Aarav.
Today, he walked in humming the tune of "Tumse Hi" from Jab We Met, bag casually swung over one shoulder, shoes tapping a beat, heart slightly dancing.
Tanya raised her eyebrow as he dropped into his chair with a ridiculous grin.
“What’s with Tumse Hi at 9 in the morning? Did someone propose?”
Rishi chuckled, “He’s glowing. New moisturizer or… someone on the metro again?”
Aarav smiled sheepishly and just replied:
“She’s here. For the interview.”
Dead silence.
Tanya dropped her pen. “White kurti girl?”
He nodded.
“I hope she gets the job… I think the company needs someone like her.”
No one teased.
They just felt it he wasn’t flirting. He was invested.
[Interview Room – 9:30 AM]
Ira sat across from the panel.
Her hands trembled slightly as she passed her résumé. But her voice was steady. Clear.
She spoke of backend integration, automation scripts, and cloud deployment.
Her eyes sparkled softly when she talked about UI transitions she once designed at 2 AM “because it just felt right.”
One of the interviewers smiled and said:
“You don’t just write code, do you? You build with heart.”
She smiled for the first time that day.
After a few minutes, the HR head handed her the offer letter:
“Congratulations, Ira. Double your last salary. Join from Monday.”
For a second, her brain blanked. She couldn’t process. Then, a small gasp escaped.
She had made it. After weeks of grief, rain, missed metros, and falling apart…
She had made it.
[Outside the Cabin – 12:15 PM]
She stepped out of the interview room, a little stunned. Paper still in hand. Smile faint but real.
But her body weak from days of skipped meals, sleepless nights, and emotional exhaustion was giving up.
She gently asked someone, “Is the canteen this way?”
They pointed.
But before she could take five steps...
Everything around her blurred. Her knees went weak. The hallway spun.
Just as she was about to collapse
Arnav, one of Aarav’s teammates, caught her.
He gently helped her to the bench near the canteen and rushed to get water.
[Canteen – Lunch Hour | 12:30 PM]
The team walked in, laughing over a bug Rishi had accidentally deleted.
Aarav, still smiling like a boy with a secret, stepped in last only to freeze.
Across the room, he saw her—head resting back, eyes fluttering open.
Arnav was holding a paper cup to her lips.
“Drink slowly… you almost fainted.”
Aarav’s heart stopped.
In two seconds, he crossed the distance.
“What happened?”
Ira opened her eyes fully, dazed but conscious.
She was too weak to react.
Arnav glanced up, “Boss, she’s the interview girl. Nearly fainted outside. Might be exhaustion.”
Aarav looked at her. Carefully. Gently.
“Sit back. Just breathe. Do you need anything?”
She shook her head faintly.
But tears gathered at the corners of her eyes not out of weakness, but quiet relief.
She had made it.
She had found a new beginning.
And maybe, unknowingly, a connection too.
Outside, the rain began again—soft, rhythmic, like a lullaby meant for those who’d finally survived the storm.
Sometimes, the universe doesn’t shout it whispers in juice bottles and silent glances.
[ Monday Morning | 9:00 AM]
Aarav didn’t take the metro that day.
Instead, he hopped onto Rishi’s bike, hair ruffled by the wind, earbuds plugged in, listening to “Phir Le Aaya Dil,” lips moving faintly with the lyrics.
Rishi teased, “Too cool for metros now?”
Aarav grinned, “Just... changing the route. Feels like something might change today.”
[Elsewhere – Ira’s Apartment | 8:22 AM]
Ira stood before the mirror, adjusting the sleeves of her lavender kurta.
Minimal kajal. Light lip balm. A tucked-in strand of hair.
Her laptop bag hung neatly on her shoulder. Her silver earrings shimmered faintly under the dim yellow bulb.
She wasn’t excited. She wasn’t nervous.
She just was—a girl beginning again, silently telling herself:
"Let’s just show up. That’s enough for today."
[ 9:50 AM]
Ira stepped into the HR floor, escorted into the Manager’s cabin.
The man smiled politely and slid her offer letter across the table.
“Welcome. You’ll be working with our elite senior development team.”
She nodded, pen gripped tightly, unsure if her fingers were trembling again.
Then he said:
“Your team sits in Cabin 7C. That’ll be your new space. You’ll love working with them—they’re tight-knit, efficient... and fun.”
She walked toward 7C.
Deep breath.
[Cabin 7C – 10:15 AM]
The door creaked open softly.
She stepped in.
The room buzzed with quiet activity—keyboards clicking, coffee mugs half-full, wire tangles and a sleepy cactus on one desk.
And there, right in the center, speaking confidently on a video call, sleeves rolled up, spectacles perched, voice calm and charismatic
Aarav.
Her heart skipped.
He hadn’t seen her yet.
“Mr.Sharma, that module needs to be restructured there’s a latency lag we’re ignoring,” he spoke into the screen, his voice steady, low, and incredibly composed.
She’d never seen someone speak like that so sure, so thoughtful.
She froze near the door, quietly awestruck.
Just then, the person on call addressed:
> “Thank you, Mr. Cont”
But before the word finished, Aarav muted the call, shut his laptop halfway, and his eyes lifted
Right onto her.
She hadn’t even blinked.
They stared for a second. Just a second. But enough to hold a beat.
No smile. No surprise. Just a stillness.
Aarav straightened his chair and ended the call.
Without saying anything, he got up, walked to the pantry near the desk, picked a glass, poured it with fresh orange juice, placed a 1-litre water bottle, and beside it, a post-it note that read:
“Stay hydrated. Stress-free start.
Welcome onboard, Team.”
Then, he returned to his desk like nothing had happened.
She walked in slowly. Sat down at the empty seat beside him.
She saw the juice. The water. The note.
Her lips twitched into a real smile for the first time in weeks.
And she thought:
Maybe some people don’t need to say sorry out loud.
Maybe they just bring you juice when your world feels dry.
Sometimes a heart opens through kindness. Sometimes it cracks from its own storm.
[Same Day – Cabin 7C | 2:30 PM]
By post-lunch, the AC buzzed quietly, and keyboards danced in sync.
Tanya, the ever-bold teammate, leaned towards Ira with a soft grin.
“So, new girl... here’s the jungle code of Cabin 7C.”
She passed her a pink sticky note, filled with scribbled names and one-liners:
Rishi: Debug king, chai addict
Tanya: UX hawk & gossip queen
Arnav: Calm until 6 PM
Aarav: Our Mr. Cont. No typos allowed, and no excuses
Ira smiled faintly, tucking the note into her diary.
Tanya spoke again, this time genuinely:
“Hey... relax. You’re doing great already. Just ask if you need help.”
Ira nodded, softly: “Thank you.”
She quietly immersed herself into the task—a backend optimization script.
With headphones plugged in, she entered a zone. Time blurred.
By 6:45 PM, when everyone stretched and sighed, Tanya looked over her screen.
“You did that... already?”
Ira nodded.
Rishi peeked in too, “Damn, girl. Aarav’s gonna eat his words. You’re fast.”
No loud pride. No “I told you so.”
Ira just blinked tired eyes and saved the file with a calm breath.
[8:00 PM – Dinner, Nearby Café]
It was a ritual—first-day dinner with the team.
They chose a street-side rooftop café, dimly lit with hanging fairy lights and open views of Bangalore’s slow cityscape.
Everyone chatted, laughed, pulled legs.
Except her.
Ira sat quietly, sipping her butter milk, taking in the vibe.
Tanya nudged her, “Too many extroverts in one room?”
She nodded.
Then, amid the laughs, Arnav mentioned:
“Aarav bhai, apne block se aayi hai yeh na? Same apartment complex, na?”
Everyone turned. Ira looked up, surprised.
“Which block?” Tanya asked.
“Block D,” Ira whispered.
Aarav, who was playing with his phone screen, looked up with a half-laugh.
“Block B here.”
And just like that, the table hummed with new conversation—about housing societies, lifts that don’t work, and whose milk vendor cheats the most.
Ira didn’t say much. But she listened. And somewhere inside, she was… included.
[That Night – Aarav’s Home | 11:42 PM]
Aarav sat at his desk, staring blankly at his screen, phone buzzing with missed calls from “Maa.”
The argument had flared again between his parents—years of buried fights boiling up in silences and words not meant to be said.
He had tried talking. Tried calming.
But not everything was fixable by logic—not even for a coder.
He leaned back, covering his face with his hands, eyes tired, voice dry.
“Not tonight. Please.”
[Next Morning – Office, Meeting Room | 10:00 AM]
The glass-walled meeting room had a different energy today.
Papers. Presentations. Coffee cups untouched.
Aarav sat at the head of the table—sharp shirt, unreadable face, eyes clouded with fatigue.
Tanya presented a UI change.
Rishi made a small joke about API delays.
And then
“Why are we always behind schedule?” Aarav snapped.
The room froze.
“Why is everything always half-ready? Tanya, this was supposed to be synced with the dev logs. And Rishi—don’t even start.”
His voice was sharper than anyone had ever heard. Cold. Not him.
Ira’s eyes widened. Not in fear. But in confusion.
This wasn’t the man who left a juice glass with a smile.
Tanya muttered, “Rough night?” under her breath.
Aarav stood abruptly and walked out.
The door clicked behind him like a thunderclap.
Not every connection begins with fireworks—some begin with silence, a pen, and a folded paper heart.
[That Afternoon – Office Pantry | 1:15 PM]
The mood after the morning meeting was still heavy.
No one said it aloud, but the silence around Aarav had changed. His fingers tapped restlessly on the table, and he had barely touched his black coffee.
Ira sat across the cabin, quietly observing.
She didn’t know what had happened in his life.
But she had known grief.
She had known what silence after a storm felt like.
And she knew gestures spoke more than words—especially to those who didn’t ask for help.
During lunch, she tore a small piece of her notepad.
Folded it once. Wrote slowly.
"Don’t let a storm inside you drown the sunshine you create outside.
It matters. You matter.
Also… the team misses your sarcasm." ☕🙂
She slipped the note under his closed laptop when he was out refilling his bottle.
No name. No sign.
Just the note and a small pack of Chocopie beside it.
[Later That Evening – Aarav’s Apartment | 10:40 PM]
He came home late.
Exhausted.
Still thinking about the call from his mother, his dad’s harsh words echoing in memory.
He tossed his bag, changed into an old grey college hoodie, and sat by the window.
That’s when he saw it again.
The note.
Still in his pocket. Folded. Softened by the day.
He opened it again. Reread it. And for the first time in hours—he smiled.
It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t dramatic.
But it was real.
“Team misses your sarcasm, huh?” he whispered, a little laugh escaping.
He sipped on hot water, staring at the fairy lights strung outside his window.
"Maybe not everyone leaves."
His thoughts drifted briefly to Sanya, his ex from college—the one who had loved him loudly and left quietly.
She had said, “You’re always in your head, Aarav. I need someone... more expressive.”
He had stopped being expressive since.
But maybe Ira… didn’t need words.
Maybe quiet was okay.
“Just friends,” he muttered to himself, half-convincing. “Just teammates. That’s all.”
[Next Morning | 10:00 AM]
The air was different.
Aarav, a little fresher, a little less tense, greeted the team. He even mock-scolded Rishi for using Comic Sans on a presentation draft.
Everyone sighed in relief.
Ira, silently, smiled behind her screen.
They had a client meeting at 2 PM—an important demo. Aarav was prepping, but by noon, his throat was raspy, and his sneezes became frequent.
“I’ll mess up the pitch,” he admitted, sipping warm lemon water.
So Tanya volunteered to lead, and Ira joined her as backup.
[Client Meeting – Online Presentation | 2:00 PM]
The client joined. A middle-aged man from New York, sharp and quick.
Tanya began the demo. Ira followed, explaining the backend flow.
At first, all went fine.
But mid-way, the screen froze. Tanya mis-clicked a slide, and Ira’s voice cracked while explaining a crucial data flow.
The client interrupted:
“Sorry, this sounds disjointed. Who designed this integration flow?”
Ira paused. Tanya answered nervously, “Our lead—Aarav. He’s unwell today, so…”
The client sighed. “Let’s reschedule. I need clarity. Too many gaps here.”
Call ended.
There was a long pause.
Tanya looked at Ira. “Shit... we blew it.”
Ira’s shoulders dropped. Guilt, heavy and suffocating, rushed in.
[Back at Cabin 7C | 3:45 PM]
The mood was thick again.
Aarav walked in, sipping on hot water, voice rough.
“So?” he asked gently.
Tanya hesitated, then said it—honestly.
“It didn’t go well. I stumbled. Ira couldn’t explain one part clearly. The client wants a redo... with you.”
Aarav looked at Ira. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast.
He nodded, said nothing harsh.
Just walked to his desk, took a long breath, and said:
“It’s okay. We learn, yeah?”
He looked at Ira, and added—quieter this time:
“We all crash on first take.”
Her eyes slowly met his.
“Sorry…” she whispered.
“You wrote that I mattered,” he smiled faintly. “Now you remember that—you do too. One bad meeting isn’t a definition.”
She nodded. The weight lifted—just a little.
Some people don’t ask. They observe, understand, and choose to stay.
[That Night – Office Pantry | 10:47 PM]
The client pitch was rescheduled for the next morning, and Team 7C was burning the midnight oil.
Tanya managed content. Aarav fixed the integration. Ira rewrote half the backend script.
They were exhausted.
Aarav sneezed again.
“I swear,” Tanya sighed, “you’ll fall ill before the demo.”
Ira got up quietly, walked to the pantry, and returned 12 minutes later—holding a cup of steaming haldi wala doodh in her ceramic green mug.
“Here. For your throat,” she said softly, placing it beside Aarav’s laptop.
Aarav blinked, surprised.
No one's ever done that at work. No one's ever noticed.
His mind flashed back—his mother making the same drink every time he had a cold in college.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, eyes softer now. “You’re... like her.”
Ira didn’t respond, just smiled faintly and went back to her screen.
The work went on till 1:30 AM.
[Next Morning – Conference Room | 11:00 AM]
The client joined.
This time, Aarav led.
Tanya followed with key points.
Ira, calm and sharp, handled the Q&A.
No freeze. No fumbles.
By the end, the client smiled and said,
“This was what I expected last time. Good job, team.”
Relief. Laughter. Joy.
Even Aarav cracked a real smile.
[Later That Afternoon – Rooftop Terrace | 6:20 PM]
“Where’s Aarav?” Tanya asked.
“Meeting with the boss,” Rishi replied.
“Perfect.”
The team was planning. His birthday was in two days.
“We'll do it in his apartment,” Tanya whispered, pulling everyone close.
“Midnight surprise. Cake. Balloons. Speakers. And NO telling him anything.”
Even Ira got assigned her task: write something personal for him.
She nodded, unsure… but something within her already had words.
[12:01 AM – Aarav’s Apartment | Birthday Night]
The door opened.
“Happy Birthdayyy, you cranky genius!” Tanya yelled as everyone burst inside with cake and music.
He was stunned.
He had almost forgotten it was the 26th.
There were muffins (again), a playlist with “Phir Le Aaya Dil” playing low, dim lights, and laughter echoing in the hall.
They cut the cake. Played “Truth or Dare.” Danced like college kids. Laughed till the walls forgot they were once silent.
Ira watched from the corner.
Aarav danced, smiled, joked—but something in his eyes lingered.
A tiredness. A shadow.
She’d seen it before—in her dad, the night her grandfather died, pretending everything was fine.
She knew it wasn’t the day.
It was the call from home the night before. The old argument between his parents. Again.
She quietly slipped away, found her bag, and pulled out a folded handwritten note.
[The Note – Slipped Under His Laptop | 2:12 AM]
*"Some people smile because they’re happy.
Some smile so no one asks why they’re not.
You’re not alone.
You don’t have to be the joke when you are the story that deserves softness too.
Happy Birthday, to the one who hides pain in puns."*
–Ira 🕊️
[Later That Night – Aarav’s Room | 2:45 AM]
Everyone left. The cake box was empty. His hoodie was half-hanging off his shoulder.
He opened his laptop to mail a file—and the note slipped out.
He read it once.
Then again.
And a smile formed—not the forced kind.
A real, slow, warm one.
The kind you give when someone sees through everything… and chooses to stay anyway.
Just then, his phone rang.
“Aarav beta, Happy Birthday!” his mother said.
“We love you. And… I’m sorry about yesterday.”
His voice cracked just slightly.
“It’s okay, Ma. I love you too.”
After the call, he looked back at the note.
Folded it gently. Kept it inside his journal.
And for the first time on his birthday in years… he didn’t feel alone.
Some friendships begin in silence. Some in sugar. And some in mornings that feel a little less heavy.
[Next Morning – Office | 9:05 AM]
The celebration was over, the surprise a success.
Aarav walked into the office, still humming “Tumse Hi” under his breath, his steps lighter than usual. His table was decorated with birthday post-its, mini muffins, and one small tiffin box wrapped in a floral cloth.
He raised a brow. There was a note on it:
"For the one who hides behind black coffee and silence.
Just a sweet start today.
– Ira ☕🍰"
He smiled, opened it, and inside was a neatly cut slice of homemade café mocha cake—moist, rich, and dusted with cocoa.
Right then, Ira walked in, adjusting her laptop bag. Tied-up hair. White kurti. A soft look in her eyes.
Aarav raised the tiffin box slightly.
“This is criminal. You can’t just bake like this and not open a café.”
She smiled gently, sitting opposite him.
“Well… consider it a bribe.”
“Bribe?” he blinked.
She looked at him earnestly.
“To be my first guy friend. Ever.”
He laughed—loudly.
“Wait, what? First guy friend? You mean… till 25 you’ve had no—”
“No. I’m not anti-social,” she defended with a slight grin. “I’m just… selectively social.”
“And you selected me?” he teased, folding arms.
She nodded with childlike honesty.
“You have a nice silence. And nicer playlists.”
He chuckled, bit into the cake, and gave her a thumbs-up.
“Then yes, Miss Introvert. I officially accept this friendship… with cake-based clauses.”
[Late Morning – Office Lounge | 11:45 AM]
It was a light workday. Most teammates were caught in a design review loop. Aarav and Ira had finished early.
They sat in the lounge chairs beside the tall glass windows, warm light streaming in.
Aarav turned a little serious.
“So… if I’m your first guy friend… let me be the first to tell you I had a really messy breakup.”
She blinked, surprised. But didn’t interrupt.
“College girlfriend. Six years. Thought we’d get married. She left. No closure. Said I was too silent… too unavailable emotionally.”
He sipped his black coffee.
“Since then, I’ve been more loyal to deadlines than people.”
Ira didn’t speak. Just listened.
“My parents… well, they never got along. Still don’t. But they pretend for society. That’s worse than fighting sometimes.”
He looked out of the window.
“That’s why birthdays suck. Pretending to be fine.”
Ira placed her hand lightly near his cup—not touching, just close enough to feel.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”
Aarav turned toward her, eyes softening.
“That’s dangerously kind of you.”
[Afternoon – Cafeteria Table | 1:23 PM]
After lunch, she finally opened up.
“I lost my Dadaji last month. He raised me more than anyone else ever did.”
Her voice faltered, but she kept going.
“My father… he was in the Navy. Retired now. Still walks like he's inspecting a ship. But Dadaji… he was my constant.”
She looked down, fingers trembling slightly on the table.
“He taught me to write poems. The day he died, something in me stopped moving.”
Aarav’s hand instinctively reached toward hers—but then stopped midway. He pulled it back slowly.
“Just a friend,” he reminded himself silently.
“He sounds like someone who raised a girl strong enough to bake and be brave on the same day,” he said quietly.
She smiled through a tear.
“He would’ve liked you, Aarav.”
And in that sentence, something small and invisible passed between them.
Not love. Not yet.
But trust.
A shared kind of loneliness. A mutual pause.
[Later That Evening – On Their Way Home]
They didn’t take the metro. Both had missed the timing.
Instead, they walked home together, through Bangalore’s soft golden hour.
Rain misted faintly on the edges of the sky.
No umbrella.
He looked up, closed his eyes, and let the drizzle kiss his face.
She smiled, looking at him—really looking.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“Just… glad to have found a friend who feels like a quiet song.”
He didn’t reply. But that night, Aarav saved her number in his phone under the name:
“Ira – Sweet Song ☁️”
Ira’s family visit brought new warmth to her flat. Her mother’s soft humming in the kitchen, her father’s old navy stories, her brother’s chatter—it filled the silence she had been living in since her Dadaji’s passing. They all adored Bangalore, especially the rain.
Aarav, meanwhile, had started finding comfort in the small moments Ira created for him. A cup of chai when his throat hurt, a sticky note with a coding shortcut he had missed, or just a calm smile when the team was drowning in unresolved bugs. Their work bond had become a strong pillar.
One day, a major bug crashed the system hours before a live deployment. Panic erupted. Tanya handled the client, Aarav started debugging, and Ira coordinated backups. They worked tirelessly for hours. At 3 a.m., when the system was finally stable, they all sat together outside their office building, sipping roadside tea. Laughter returned, tension dissolved.
In celebration, the team planned a short weekend trip to Ooty.
The hills welcomed them with fog-kissed trees and the scent of eucalyptus. Ira wore a navy-blue cardigan, her hair braided softly. Aarav looked at her and smiled unconsciously.
They visited rose gardens, shared ice cream, and even got drenched in a sudden drizzle near Avalanche Lake. That evening, the team lit a bonfire outside their cottage.
Ira sat beside Aarav. He looked lost in flames.
That’s when she decided.
The next evening, in a quiet patch of pine trees, Ira called him.
He turned, confused. She stood there, a paper in her hand, trembling slightly.
"Aarav," she began, "I never thought I’d say this… but here I am, like a character from those cheesy films you laugh at. But this… this is not cheesy for me. This is real."
She read a poem she wrote, her voice shaking:
“You came like a whisper in monsoon breeze, Untangled my silence, with such subtle ease. No promises, no grand design, But somewhere, Aarav, you became mine.”
He stood silent, unable to meet her eyes.
“Ira… I can’t,” he finally said. “I’m still stuck in a past I haven’t fully left behind.”
She nodded slowly, eyes moist but steady. “Okay.”
The rest of the trip they spent like friends, but something had shifted.
Back at the office, two days later, the air was filled with post-trip laughter—until they saw Aarav packing his essentials into a cardboard box.
"Where are you going?" Tanya asked.
"Boss asked me to assist the Hyderabad branch for a few months," he said simply.
Ira stood frozen near her desk, her hands clenched.
He looked at her once. She looked away.
In Hyderabad, he stayed alone in a studio apartment. One afternoon at a café, he unexpectedly bumped into sanya—his college ex. They talked politely, sharing updates about life. Sanya had moved on and was getting married soon.
"You haven’t moved on, have you?" she asked softly.
Aarav didn’t answer.
Sanya smiled. “She must be really special. Don’t let her go.”
That night, Aarav sat on his balcony, rain sliding down the railing. He whispered Ira’s name to the clouds.
Back in Bangalore, Ira had no contact with him. Days turned into weeks. Her mother started staying with her, noticing Ira’s quietness.
One evening, her mom found an old photo of Ira and her Dadaji in a drawer next to a scribbled sticky note—"Don’t skip lunch – A."
Her mother sat beside her on the bed. "You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?"
Ira hugged her tight and finally let the tears fall.
Now, all that was left was time—and hope that Aarav would return, not just to the city, but to her.
Aarav looked his father in the eye, firm and unwavering. “Your no means nothing to me,” he said, gently reaching out to hold Ira’s hand. “She’s the one I’ll marry. That’s final.”
His father walked away without another word. Ira’s mother stood silent but hopeful. That night was heavy—but love stood strong.
Weeks later, Ira’s elder sister’s wedding was scheduled in Delhi. Ira invited the entire team. The vibrant chaos of the wedding home, fairy lights twinkling on balconies, laughter spilling through corridors—it was all magic.
Haldi was a giggle-filled affair. Ira wore a mustard-yellow kurti with white embroidery, her cheeks glowing with turmeric and joy. Aarav stood at a distance, watching her laugh. Tanya nudged him, “Still pretending to be just a friend?”
Mehndi evening was draped in green and orange. Ira sat with her feet up, mehndi artists working their art, when Aarav secretly whispered, “Where’s my name?”
She smirked, “If you find it, you get a brownie.”
He did find it—tucked on the inside of her wrist.
That night, under a lantern-lit tree, she gently hummed a song, her eyes meeting his for just a second longer than necessary.
Sangeet was pure Bollywood. The team had prepared a dance skit—Tanya, Arnav, and others performing a medley on “Desi Girl,” “Gallan Goodiyan,” and “Tera Ban Jaunga.” Aarav and Ira were pulled in for a duet, and they shyly danced to Raabta, stealing glances with every step.
On the wedding day, Ira was in her room getting ready—draped in a soft rose saree for the morning rituals. Aarav walked in, bringing her a small flower bracelet. Their hands brushed. Silence. Eyes met.
“I never believed in destiny,” he said, “until it rained that day.”
Just then, her father walked in. His face turned furious. “What is this, Ira?”
He raised his hand, but before it reached her, Aarav held it firmly.
“No, sir. You don’t have that right.”
Everyone rushed to the room. A storm brewed. Voices rose. But that night, something shifted. Seeing Aarav support Ira so deeply, her mother spoke, “Maybe... he’s the one.”
A day later, her father came to Aarav quietly and said, “If she’s happy... then yes.”
Months passed. On Ira’s birthday, Aarav rang her doorbell at midnight. Dressed in a charcoal coat, holding white roses, he stepped in and read:
“Your eyes don’t just see the world, They mend broken skies inside me. Your silence isn’t quiet, It speaks the language I call home.”
She teared up and hugged him gently. The next evening, their engagement was set.
It rained.
The venue was open air, softly decorated in pastels and fairy lights. Ira wore a baby pink lehenga with a white sheer dupatta. Her hair in soft waves, minimal makeup, silver jhumkas—she looked ethereal. Aarav, in white sherwani with a soft blush stole, couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Their teammates danced again—this time to Tum Hi Ho Bandhu, London Thumakda, and Dil Dhadakne Do. Flowers were showered, rings exchanged under a flower arch, and the rain added a poetic rhythm.
No words were needed when they held hands.
Later, while everyone laughed and danced under the stars, Ira handed him a folded note. It read:
A Poem by Ira for Aarav
In your chaos, I found calm. In your smile, my sunrise. You were just a stranger in rain, Now, you’re my forever surprise.
You taught me to laugh again, To breathe between lines. With every missed heartbeat, You made all the wrongs fine.
So here I stand, no vows to fake, Just my truth—no make-believe, I love you, not as magic or a tale— But as breath I’d never leave.
Their fingers locked. The world faded.
This isn’t an ending. This is just the breath before the next chapter. Rain might return. So will trials. But two hearts that met under a chai tapri, in drenched clothes and shared glances—will always find their way back.
Because some stories don’t end… they just continue.
Dedicated,
To all the hearts who’ve ever waited in silence,
To the little gestures that speak louder than grand declarations,
To the ones who find love in quiet coffees, missed metros, and rainy evenings...
May you always believe that something as gentle as a drizzle
can shape something as eternal as love.
With love,
Vidhi 🤍
