Under Her Umbrella

Love, they say, can come like a storm—sudden, overwhelming, and often at the most unexpected times. It sneaks into the spaces between words left unsaid, in stolen glances, and in the moments we dare not speak of. For Andrew, it began in a way most things in life do—simple, ordinary, unnoticed. It was just another day at the office, just another colleague, just another routine. Until it wasn’t.

This story isn’t about love in the way we’re used to hearing it. It isn’t neat or polished, nor is it wrapped in the bow of certainty. It is messy, conflicted, and filled with the kind of longing that doesn’t fit neatly into words. It’s a tale of unspoken desires and impossible choices, where heart and mind are constantly at war.

Andrew is a man with a life many would envy—successful career, a loving wife, a beautiful child. Yet somewhere, in the quiet spaces of his soul, something was waiting. Tamannah, with her pretty eyes and her fierce desire to learn, wasn’t just a colleague. She became a catalyst, pulling him into a world of blurred lines and uncertain futures. Their connection was undeniable, yet impossible. It was the kind of relationship that couldn’t exist, yet it did, thriving in the shadows of what could never be.

This is not a story of villains and victims, nor is it a simple tale of infidelity. It’s a story about the human heart, about how we often find ourselves standing at the crossroads of duty and desire, and how the choices we make—whether to resist or surrender—define not just who we are, but who we will become.

In these pages, you’ll find the messiness of real life. The weight of secrets, the tension of suppressed emotions, and the bittersweet ache of knowing that some things, no matter how much we want them, are just not meant to be.

This is Andrew and Tamannah’s story.

And like all stories of the heart, it is far from simple.

It’s been exactly a week since life decided to throw this wonderful mess in my lap. I mean, isn’t it funny how complications sneak up on you? Today started off as one of those days, where you wake up and everything feels a bit off—the energy’s low, and for some reason, you’re mad. But at whom? No one, of course. Just me, being mad at me. Classic.

The office wasn’t any better. I’d made up my mind to avoid her. Brilliant strategy, right? As soon as I walked in and couldn’t spot her anywhere, my resolve crumbled. Almost instinctively, I texted, "Why aren’t you in the office?" No greeting, no fluff, just straight to the point. Out of care, I tell myself, but maybe it came across as something else. She's late—nothing new. “Sorry, just got in the lift,” she replies, and the moment she steps in, I make a grand show of ignoring her. Foolproof.

Except… it’s not. She sits right in front of me. And she has these eyes—very, very pretty eyes. The kind you can’t look away from, no matter how much you try. Every time I peel my eyes off the screen, there they are, like they’re waiting for me. It’s like the universe is determined to toy with me today. I keep trying to pretend I’m not looking, but my heart has other ideas. Does she feel the same? Maybe. Probably. Not. Who knows. My mind’s screaming, “Run!” but my heart’s whispering… well, something else.

She’s trying to break this weird silence, bless her. Talking, making small jokes, being her usual bubbly self while I sit there, playing the brooding iceberg. And it’s affecting me. After all these years, I’ve never been the type to let anyone get under my skin like this. So, what’s happening? How did I, of all people, end up in this tangled mess?

The day drags on, and I continue my Oscar-worthy performance of avoidance. But by the time she packs up to leave (or so I thought), I’m feeling something strange, like an ache. She didn’t even say goodbye. That’s not like her. So, obviously, I texted again. “Did you leave?” Her answer? “No, just leaving.” Classic me—I ask how she’s going, and she throws me the line that changes everything: “Do you want to come?”

Before my brain can catch up, I’m already typing, “Yes.” She waited for me, and when I caught up with her, she jumped straight in.

“What’s going on with you? Why are you avoiding me?”

How do you even begin to explain? We both know it’s not that simple anymore. Her smile is still there, and I’m staring like an idiot, lost in thoughts I can’t sort out. There’s so much I want to say, to ask, but I hold back. She doesn’t like questions. I, apparently, don’t like answers.

On the road, we started talking, and honestly, there was one part of the conversation that hit me more than anything else. I had given her something to learn a while back—something I’d been teasing her about, saying she wouldn’t be able to do it. Just playful ribbing, but I was half-serious, doubting if she’d really take it on. And then, out of nowhere, she just said it, all confident: “Now I’ll show you how it’s done.” And she meant it.

I was overwhelmed, honestly. Nothing makes me happier than seeing someone take a challenge head-on, especially when it comes to learning something new. That’s just… so me. To see her take it like that, with a fire in her eyes—it got to me. I wasn’t expecting to feel this proud, this… connected. It's like she gets it.

But then, she told me something that stopped me cold. Last night, her mom called. Her dad wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t say much, but the worry in her voice and the look in her eyes said it all. And then she added that my conversation with her last night only made her feel like everything was spiraling out of control.

I didn’t even know what to say. I could sense the weight of it all, like she was holding back tears. There was a thunderstorm that night, and for some reason, I imagined her crying quietly, with only the rain for company. I didn’t stay. I didn’t let her talk more. I was the one who insisted on no messages after that—just like I’d asked. And now, it’s haunting me.

On the way home today, I stopped to grab cigarettes. A small break, some air. When I went to pay, the bill came to exactly 143. Now, it's not like I’m the "I love you" type—far from it—but still, seeing that number, of all numbers, threw me off. Maybe my mind is just running away with me today. Worse, I didn’t even notice I paid 1,143 instead of 143 until the guy called me back. Brilliant, right? It’s just a coincidence, but everything feels like a sign when your head is this much of a mess.

I’m sure this whole situation is a disaster waiting to happen. It’ll hurt; it always does. And the irony? I don’t even really know her yet. Isn’t that how it goes? The things you don’t know are the ones that catch you off guard the most.

When she dropped me off, I thought about how there’s so much more I wanted to ask her, but I held back because she doesn’t like questions. There was a lot I wanted to tell her too, but I don’t talk much.

She waved goodbye with that same smile, and I thanked her for everything. She didn’t reply. We both agreed, no more texts—because I said so. Of course, I know she’d want to, and I also know she’s trying her best to stick to my ridiculous rules. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Now I’m home, feeling better for reasons I can't put my finger on. Maybe because the chaos has a strange comfort to it, or maybe… because I’m losing myself in her, and in those eyes I can’t seem to get out of my head.

Somehow, I’ve got tears in my eyes writing this. Not sure why. Just know it’s complicated.

Her name? Well, that’s the best part. Her name is Tamannah.

But wait, how did I meet her?

It all began on December 13th, 2016, when I interviewed Tamannah for the position of associate software engineer. She stood out—confident, eager, fun, and, most importantly, she had that hunger to learn. And for me, that’s the key. I admire those who challenge themselves, those who don’t settle, and Tamannah embodied that.

I selected her on the spot.

She joined the company on January 8th, 2017, and I didn’t see her again until the next evening. I remember thinking how work had been straightforward before she came into my life—never did I imagine that this same girl would throw my world into disarray.

She started working with another team, under the management of Priyadarshini, a no-nonsense leader. But technically, I was still her manager, which meant I handled her leave requests, approvals, and anything else that came my way. However, I kept a healthy distance, driving her requests to Priyadarshini instead of interacting with her directly. I preferred it that way. Keeping things simple. No complications.

But then things started to shift.

Tamannah had disagreements with Priyadarshini—who, to be honest, wasn’t the easiest manager to work with. One day, things escalated. Priyadarshini shouted at her in front of the entire office. Tamannah, with eyes glistening, came to me afterward, filled with frustration and barely holding back her tears.

“I don’t want to work on this project with her,” she said, her voice trembling.

I’m not one for confrontations, but something about seeing her upset stirred something in me. I can’t stand seeing people hurt, especially someone who has always been full of energy. I told her to leave, reassuring her that I’d handle it. Later that evening, I called Priyadarshini, and, though I’m usually calm, I was furious.

"We need to address this," I said firmly. "I’m stepping in to look into everything."

And that’s when the soft corner for Tamannah began to form.

A few days later, we reassigned her to another project, and her desk was moved—right in front of mine. I tried my best to avoid her after that, though. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t want to invite more chaos into my life. I was already feeling conflicted. I didn’t want to add to it.

I love my work. I believe in keeping things simple, focused, and professional. And most of all, I care deeply for my team. I’ve always treated them like family. I’d fight anyone, even my seniors, if it meant standing up for them. But this—this was different. This was complicated.

Tamannah, curious by nature, began asking questions, indirectly at first, trying to understand the dynamic within our team. She’d ask my friends, “How do you guys get along so well? Andrew is like a brother to all of you, even though he’s your senior.”

It was almost like she was trying to find her way into that close-knit bond.

Despite my efforts to maintain distance, work naturally brought us closer. We talked more often—always about work, always keeping it professional—until one day, things changed.

She asked me, “What should I do to grow in my career? Will you teach me this?”

I shared a link to a YouTube video that I found inspiring, just as I would for anyone else who came to me for advice. Her reply was different, though.

“That’s so sweet of you,” she texted.

I didn’t respond. I thought it best to leave it at that. But things didn’t stay professional for long.

One day, she mentioned that our team wasn’t very proactive on LinkedIn, that we didn’t engage much with posts from the company, seniors, or colleagues.

“If you can’t, then I’ll ask them to be more active,” she said, half-serious, half-teasing.

I knew Tamannah herself wasn’t active on LinkedIn, so I shot back with a casual, sarcastic reply.

“I won’t ask my team to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

She laughed—a loud, genuine laugh—and that was the turning point. From that moment, we crossed the boundary from formal colleagues to something friendlier.

We started chatting more, messaging each other late into the night. Whole nights, in fact. There were moments when we’d talk until one of us would fall asleep mid-conversation, only to pick things up the next morning. Yet, despite our closeness, we kept things different in the office. We tried to avoid each other, pretended not to notice the other’s presence, but it was impossible.

Ignoring her was the hardest part.

This went on for a week, a dangerous rhythm we both danced to. Each night, I felt the lines blurring between us, and eventually, I realized this wasn’t going in the right direction. It was like watching a car veer off course, knowing the crash was inevitable but being unable to stop it.

I knew I needed to distance myself before it all spiraled out of control. But every time I tried to step back, my heart pulled me closer to her. It was like the battle Mike Ross described in Suits: between knowing the right thing to do and what you want to do. And like him, I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to choose the right path.

This wasn’t just a work friendship anymore. It was becoming something more—a mess I couldn’t untangle myself from. And though I didn’t know where it would lead, I was sure of one thing: life as I knew it was never going to be the same again.

My name is Andrew, and I’m 34 years old. I’ve been married to Philann for seven years now, and we have a beautiful five-year-old son. Let’s set the record straight—whatever’s happening with Tamannah, it’s not because there’s some great, hidden rift between me and Philann. We’re happy. We’ve built a life together, one filled with all the things you’re supposed to have—a home, a family, the kind of stability you dream of when you’re a kid. No, the mess I’m in has nothing to do with my marriage falling apart. That’s not it.

I graduated in computer science, along with my brother, though we went our separate ways career-wise. I’ve been working at this company for six years, and I lead a team of 59 people. A team that isn’t just a bunch of coworkers—they’re my friends. I eat, drink, and smoke with them. There are no walls between us. I’m like a brother to them, and they’re like family to me.

If you met me in the office, you’d see a guy who laughs, jokes, and gets along with everyone. But beneath all that, I’m an introvert. I don’t open up easily to new people, and I’m not the type to enjoy parties or big social events. I prefer silence. It’s in those quiet moments that I find myself, that I can think clearly. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see this coming—this whole thing with Tamannah. I got too comfortable in the noise and missed the signs that my life was slowly shifting.

Mike Ross once said, “You can’t help what you’re attracted to, you can’t explain it, you just are.” And maybe that’s it. Maybe what’s happening with Tamannah is one of those things I can’t explain, one of those things that makes no sense on paper but feels too real to ignore. There’s no logic to it, no clear path to follow. It’s just there, like a storm you didn’t see coming, and suddenly, you're in the middle of it without an umbrella.

But here’s the thing—I’m a believer. I believe in doing what’s right, in standing by the people who matter, and in keeping the promises I’ve made. That’s who I am, at the core of it all. And that’s what makes this so complicated. Because even though I know what I should do, there’s a part of me that’s being pulled in another direction.

I don’t know how this will end. But I do know that, for now, I’m walking a fine line. And I just hope I don’t fall.

Her name is Tamannah. She’s 24, with a whole life ahead of her. She moved to Delhi from Mumbai, leaving behind her family—her mom, dad, and a brother six years older, who, in her words, “isn’t serious about life.” He’s the one her parents wish would settle down, get married, and take on some responsibility. But since he won’t, the weight of all those expectations has fallen on Tamannah. She doesn’t say it often, but I know it weighs her down.

Yet, she carries it well. If you didn’t know her, you’d never guess. Tamannah is a dreamer, a fighter. She’s one of those people who walks into a room and instantly makes it brighter, greeting nearly everyone she meets with the kind of smile that makes you feel like the world is still a good place. There’s something infectious about her energy—it draws people in, makes them want to be around her.

When I took her interview back in December of 2016, I saw it right away. She was confident, eager to learn, and you could tell she was just getting started. There was a spark in her that made me think, This one’s different. So, I selected her.

Since then, I’ve watched her grow. She’s new to this field, yes, but she’s hungry to learn. Always asking questions, always pushing herself. I’ve seen people like her before—the dreamers, the ones who can see where they want to be long before they’ve arrived. They’re the ones who change things, the ones who make it despite the odds.

But Tamannah… she’s more than just a dreamer. She’s also someone who fights, who pushes through the pressure from her family, from her work, from the expectations that seem to weigh her down more than anyone her age should have to bear. I see it sometimes, in the moments when her smile falters, when the sparkle in her eyes dims for just a second. But then, just as quickly, it’s back—like she won’t let anything stop her from reaching what she’s set her sights on.

And maybe that’s part of what makes her so different from everyone else in the office. She’s not just here to work and collect a paycheck. She’s here to become something. To prove to herself—and maybe to everyone around her—that she can do it.

When she walks by my desk, chatting with everyone, I see that light in her. She’s not afraid to be herself, to connect with people. She’s extroverted in a way that’s completely opposite to me, but somehow, that contrast has pulled me in more than I can admit.

I remember the first time I saw her greet the entire office in one sweep. It was her second week. She didn’t just blend into the background like most newcomers. She made herself known. And I—well, I was just watching from my corner, trying not to get too close.

She dreams, she fights, and she does it all with a smile. That’s Tamannah.

But beyond all of that, there’s something deeper. Something that makes me think… maybe she’s not just dreaming for herself. Maybe there’s a part of her that dreams for others too. For the people in her life who don’t see what I see.

She’s at the start of her journey. And I wonder where it’s going to take her.

It’s September 23rd, and I had an important meeting to attend. Yet, my mind was elsewhere. The previous day, I’d asked Tamannah not to talk to me. You already know the reason. This—whatever this is—has no future. It’s an entanglement that has left me questioning my every move. My mind knows it’s wrong, knows the mess this could become, but my heart? My heart doesn’t care. It’s gone rogue, refusing to listen to the rational side of things.

I was in a cab, heading home. Tamannah was messaging me, as usual. Asking about my day, small things, bits and pieces that we normally chat about. I wanted to respond. My fingers hovered over the phone, the logical side of me screaming, Don’t reply, Andrew. Just don’t. But I couldn’t help myself. One-word answers, at first. Trying to keep the conversation distant, keep her at arm’s length. But she kept going, and I kept replying.

She’s like that. Persistent. Charming. And when I’m with her—whether it’s over text or in person—I feel this rush, like she’s pulling me in without even trying. My mind kept telling me to stop, but my heart wouldn’t shut up.

Then, before I reached home, I broke.

“Tamannah, don’t message me,” I typed. My fingers lingered over the send button for a moment before I finally pressed it.

She paused, then asked, “Is something bothering you again?”

Yes, I wanted to say. Everything is bothering me. But all I could respond with was, “Don’t ask me anything. It’s a request.” And that was it. She stopped messaging.

I felt my chest tighten. My heart was waging war with my mind, and I was stuck in the crossfire. I was crying. I didn’t know if she was crying too, but somehow, I felt she was. We both knew this was wrong, but it didn’t make it any easier.

That night, there were no more messages. Silence. But my mind raced with thoughts of her, of the conversations we weren’t having, of the things I wanted to say but couldn’t. And it hurt—more than I thought it would.

By the time morning came, I’d convinced myself that maybe it was for the best. Maybe the silence would help. Maybe I could get through the day without thinking about her. But then, on my way to the office, we ran into each other again. And just like that, all my resolve evaporated.

Seeing her was like… breathing again. Everything about her was refreshing, like the world around me was dull and gray, and she was the only splash of color in it. She smiled, and I felt alive again.

I’d heard Mike Ross once say to Rachel, “I don’t just think about you. I dream about you. I can’t get you out of my head.” And in that moment, that was exactly how I felt. Tamannah was everywhere—in my thoughts, in my dreams. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

She’s my drug now. And I’m addicted.

I’m relieved whenever she’s around, and I’m falling harder than I ever imagined. There’s no stopping it. My mind is screaming at me to run, to escape before things get too messy, before I lose myself completely. But my heart? It’s already gone. It belongs to her, whether I like it or not.

In the quiet moments, I hear Stefan’s words to Elena from The Vampire Diaries: “You’re in my veins, and I can’t get you out.” That’s Tamannah now. She’s in my blood, in my mind, and I’m not sure I want her out anymore.

The irony is, I know how dangerous this is. I know that the deeper I go, the harder it will be to climb out. But when she’s with me, everything just feels right, no matter how wrong it is.

She’s so much a part of me now, I can’t stop. And honestly? I don’t want to.

I’m on my way home, the city lights blurring through the car window as the rain continues its relentless drumming on the roof. My phone buzzes. It's her.

"Did you reach?"

I glance at the message, debating whether to respond. But being me, I can’t ignore it.

"I’ll be home in 20. Let’s not message now."

She knows what I’m trying to say, but still, another buzz follows moments later. She can’t stop either, it seems. This back-and-forth is like a dance we don’t know how to end. When I finally reach home, I tell her firmly:

"I’m home. Do not ping me anymore."

But even as I say it, I know I don’t mean it. Neither of us does. It’s just words. Empty walls we try to build between us, knowing they’ll come crumbling down the next time one of us reaches out.

Earlier, while we were standing together, she had opened up about work again. She was frustrated, feeling like she wasn’t getting enough support to fulfill her responsibilities. I had assured her, as I always do:

"Whatever you need, just let me know. I’ll make sure it happens."

She nodded, but I could see it in her eyes—she wasn’t only talking about work. There was something deeper, something neither of us was addressing.

The next morning, she had mentioned she wasn’t coming into the office. She wanted the day off to rest. I told myself that was fine. I wouldn’t reach out, wouldn’t bother her. I’d let the day pass in peace. But who was I kidding?

As soon as I’m on my way to the office, I find myself texting her. At first, it’s all work—assignments, tasks, plans for the team. Stuff we could have discussed tomorrow or the day after. But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. Even in silence, there’s an urge to be connected. Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's her, but the distance feels wrong.

Then, I get her message:

"Where are you?"

It’s a simple question, but I know what she’s really asking. She wants to see me. And I know, deep down, I want the same.

"I’m on my way to the office," I reply. "It’s raining. I don’t have an umbrella." It’s a silly thing to say, but the words slip out.

Yesterday, we were standing together under her umbrella, huddled close as the world around us drowned in the downpour. It felt safe. Now, without it, without her, the rain feels colder, harsher.

Her response comes almost instantly:

"Do you want one? I’ll come and give it to you."

I can almost see her through the text, already getting up to come find me. But I stop her, even though part of me doesn’t want to.

"No, I don’t need it. I’m used to this."

Used to what? The rain? The cold? The silence? Or am I just trying to convince myself that I’m used to life without her, even as everything inside me screams the opposite?

And then, like fate stepping in to mock me, I realize I’ve caught the wrong metro. I’m staring at the station sign, some unfamiliar name glaring back at me. Perfect. Just perfect. I’ve been too distracted by my thoughts, by her, and now I’m on the wrong line, heading to who-knows-where. I feel a rush of frustration—why can’t anything be simple anymore?

I sigh, pull out my phone, and text her:

"Guess what? Caught the wrong metro. Now I’m stranded on the other side of the city."

She replies almost instantly:

"LOL. Only you could do that. How far are you now?"

Far. That’s all I can think. Far from her, far from the office, far from everything that makes sense. It’s going to take me at least another hour to get back on track, but that’s not the point. The distance between us feels bigger than ever. And yet, here I am, dragging out this journey, as if delaying the inevitable.

The rain is still pouring when I finally board the right train, soaking me to the bone when I step off. It’s almost symbolic now, this rain—relentless, inescapable, like the thoughts I can’t shake.

The day goes by in a blur of meetings and tasks, both of us pretending everything is normal. But it isn’t. Every glance, every word feels like it's hiding something more. We're walking on a tightrope, and neither of us knows when it will snap.

She’s talking about work, about deadlines and deliverables, but I can hear the tremor in her voice. I pretend not to notice. I keep it professional, keeping my distance. It’s the only way I know how to keep the walls up.

But at the end of the day, as I pack up my things and head out into the rain again, I can’t help but wonder how long we can keep this up. How long before everything we’re holding back crashes down on us?

Is this how it’s going to be? Rain-soaked streets, unspoken words, and half-hearted attempts to stay apart?

As I step out into the rain, I realize something.

Yesterday, we shared an umbrella. Today, I walk alone, but somehow, the memory of her, the warmth of that brief closeness, stays with me. The rain doesn't feel quite so cold after all.

September 26th. The kind of day that starts off ordinary and unassuming but slowly morphs into something you can't predict, much less control. By 5 p.m., the rain started, tapping at the windows like a reminder of the storm brewing inside me. The downpour was relentless, pouring down in thick sheets, turning the streets into rivers and the city into a maze of waterlogged roads. Trains halted. Traffic gridlocked. The office felt more like an island, stranded and cut off from the rest of the world.

She was still there. Tamannah. Of course, she was. Only two girls had stayed back. The rest had long since found ways to leave. I could see the subtle tension in her eyes, the way she fiddled with her phone, trying to book a cab with no success. Everyone else in the office had turned the situation into a kind of impromptu game night—carrom, table tennis, lighthearted distractions. But I wasn’t interested in playing. Not tonight.

I tried. I really did. Tried to be the friend, the mentor, the senior she probably expected. But as I sat there, phone in hand, refreshing the cab apps endlessly, something felt different. There was an urgency, but it wasn’t just about getting her home safely. It was something deeper. Unspoken. Like the rain outside, building in intensity, something between us was pushing beyond the surface.

“Play,” she texted me. “Don’t worry about me.”

How could I not worry? It was her. But the message was another reminder of the growing gap between what I was supposed to do and what I was actually feeling.

Finally, around 12:30, an auto showed up, and we made our way out into the storm, another colleague with us. We dropped him off first, the silence between us growing thicker with each passing kilometer. The usual casual exchanges felt hollow, like we were avoiding what was really going on. As we neared her stop, she turned toward me, her voice soft but clear.

“You’ll get home safe, right?” she asked, but I could see the flicker of something else in her eyes. It wasn’t just about safety.

I nodded. Of course, I would. But why did it feel like she wasn’t talking about just tonight?

When I got home, the rain had slowed but hadn't stopped. The city might dry up, but something inside me was still drowning. It was almost 1 a.m. when my phone buzzed with a message from her. She hadn’t even asked if I made it home safely. Furious, I typed back: “You could at least ask me if I got home safe.”

She replied almost instantly: “I was about to.”

Her words lingered, but so did the tension. Like something unspoken was still waiting to be acknowledged. Our regular night chat resumed, but it wasn’t the same. I could feel it in every message—there was an invisible line, one we were both dangerously close to crossing.

The next morning, she was late, as expected. She told me she had been busy deciding what to wear, and I, being the practical guy I am, told her to wear something simple. Her response, though, was classic Tamannah: “I’d rather do the opposite.”

And she did. She walked into the office dressed in black with a pink jacket, radiating confidence. She looked stunning, as always, but today, there was something different in her stride, in the way her eyes lingered on me when she thought no one was looking. I wanted to look back, to acknowledge it, but I couldn’t. Not here. Not now. There were too many eyes, too many people who wouldn’t understand. So I buried myself in my work, as if pretending nothing was happening would make it true.

By 7 p.m., she was ready to leave. I knew she was going, but I couldn’t let it end like that. In a flash of frustration, I texted her: “Did you leave? Please don’t go.”

And she came back.

We left together. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, a faint echo of the storm that had raged just hours before. The streets were quieter now, as if they too were holding their breath, waiting for something inevitable. We walked side by side, both of us pretending not to notice the electricity in the air.

Then, just as I was about to drop her off, she stopped me. The look in her eyes wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. She took a deep breath, then said the words that changed everything:

“Andrew, let’s end whatever this is. You have a family. A wife. A kid. People will talk about you.”

Her words hit me harder than I could have imagined. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like the rain had started up again, pouring down, drowning me in confusion and pain. I knew she was right. I knew this had no future, not in the way we’d both been pretending it did. But hearing her say it, hearing her acknowledge the unspoken, was like ripping open a wound I wasn’t ready to face.

“I’ll be leaving soon, going back to my hometown,” she continued. “It’s for the best.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong. But I couldn’t. All I could do was stand there, feeling the weight of everything I couldn’t say. She must have seen it in my eyes, the way I was breaking inside, because she smiled. But it wasn’t her usual smile. It was a smile that tried to hide the pain, to comfort me even when she couldn’t comfort herself.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I didn’t have answers. How could I? Ten times she asked, and each time I gave her the same empty reply: “I’m not used to talking like this.”

But I could feel it. She didn’t want to leave. Not really. And I didn’t want her to go. I wanted to tell her to stay, to forget everything and just be with me. But the words wouldn’t come. I wasn’t brave enough. Not tonight. Not like this.

“Please, just go home,” I said softly.

She looked at me one last time, her eyes searching mine for something—maybe the same hope I was looking for in hers. She wasn’t ready to leave, I could tell. Fighting with me, she said: “You leave first, only then will I.”

But the voice in my head kept telling me she didn’t want me to go, not really. Or maybe that was just my own wishful thinking, trying to fill the silence between us.

I pleaded: “It’s a request. Please leave. I don’t have anything else to say. Please, please, please leave.”

Finally, she did. She walked away, disappearing into the night, the sound of the rain slowly swallowing her footsteps.

And here I am, heading home. The road is dark, the city asleep. I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. I want to scream, but my voice is lost in the downpour.

Is this how it ends?

It’s Saturday. I’m on my way to the office—yes, on a weekend. Only seniors show up for planning and team management, but today, I’m distracted. I’m waiting for her message. I want to meet her on the way to the office, but no response. She's probably still sleeping.

I reach the office, trying to bury myself in work. Around 11:30, my phone buzzes. It’s her. "I was sleeping," she texts.

Me, being me, replies, "That’s fine, you need the rest."

But in truth, I want to see her, even if I don’t say it. We continue talking—different conversations about work, about life. She's probably in her bed, cozy while the rain pounds outside. It’s one of those days that calls for staying in. I’m at my desk, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.

Suddenly, I feel the urge to ask something that’s been lingering in the back of my mind.

"Somehow, I feel you’re still not ready to share everything with me. Like you’re hiding something, keeping some distance. You have different priorities," I type out. My fingers hover over the send button. Should I? I do. "But that’s fine. I get it—it’s your life, after all."

A few seconds pass, then her response comes: "No, I mean… I don’t know. I don’t like talking about some things. What do I say? You won’t get it."

I sit back, letting her words sink in. I feel my frustration building, though I keep my tone calm. "Yeah, yeah… You don’t trust me. But don’t judge me by saying ‘you won’t get it.’"

She pauses. The conversation, which had been flowing naturally for hours, suddenly halts. The silence stretches between us for what feels like forever.

I step outside for a smoke, the cool breeze hitting my face. I pull out the lighter she gave me, the one she playfully insisted I keep. As the flame flickers, I snap a picture of it and send it to her with the message: "Your memory."

“Keep it,” she replies quickly.

I smile, responding, “I can’t. I’ll leave it on your desk tomorrow.”

“You can. Just keep it.”

She doesn’t know, but I’m already keeping so much more than just the lighter. I’m keeping memories, feelings—things I shouldn’t. Things I can’t stop.

By now, it’s the afternoon, and I realize I’m not getting any work done. My thoughts are all over the place, and before I know it, I’m heading home early. But I don’t want to go home. I want to see her. I don’t know what’s happening to me. My body is on autopilot, and before I even realize it, I’m on the wrong metro, heading in the wrong direction. A mistake that’s going to cost me an extra hour of travel, but I don’t care.

While sitting on the train, I impulsively text her: "Let’s not talk anymore. It’s all my mistake. I’ll try not to ping you."

For a moment, I think it’s the right thing to do—cut it off before it goes too far. But almost immediately, I regret it. Her reply is swift, and I can sense the frustration through her words: "You know what? Let it be. Let it go."

I don’t respond. Not immediately, at least. I stare at my phone, my mind racing. This isn’t typical of me. I’m the one who always wants to talk, always wants to fix things, but this time, I’m frozen.

It’s nearly midnight when I cave in. I text her again: "Tamannah?"

Her reply comes just as quickly as before: "Yaa?"

We both know we can’t stop talking to each other. It’s like a pull we can’t resist. But her earlier frustration hasn’t faded completely. She hits me with something out of the blue: "If you want me to resign, just tell me. I will. But don’t take this out on yourself."

I stare at my phone, confused. "Where’s this coming from? Why are you saying this?"

“Just thought so, so I said it,” she replies, brushing it off.

And just like that, the tension between us melts away, as if it never existed. We return to our usual banter, our conversations flowing freely once more. But something about today feels different. The rain, the cold breeze, the lighter flickering in my pocket—it all feels like a moment suspended in time.

Maybe we’re normal again, or maybe we’re just pretending. Either way, the cycle continues.

It’s Sunday. I wake up, and naturally, there’s a text from her. This has become the norm now—texts the moment we wake up. The conversation flows, picking up where it left off last night. Whenever there’s a free moment, we fill it with each other’s words. Neither of us wants it to stop.

In the evening, she messages, “I’m going out to get some food.”

I can’t help but throw in a bit of sarcasm, “Are you telling me not to wait for your messages?”

She sends a smile. That smile. The one that says more than any words ever could. “Look out for you,” she replies.

So, I wait. I wait longer than usual. Midnight comes, and she finally replies. But her tone is off tonight, different. There’s a playfulness, a lightness, like she’s high on something, though she insists she doesn’t need anything. “Mike from Suits is enough for me,” she jokes.

She started watching Suits because I told her it’s my favorite show. It’s these little things that keep me hooked. Even when she’s not around, she’s finding ways to stay connected. Tonight, she’s in a teasing mood, making me smile with every reply. We chat until 4 a.m., as usual, until she stops replying. I don’t need to ask why. I already know—she’s fallen asleep. It’s become a routine for us now, talking until one of us drifts off, phones still in hand.

The next morning, it’s Monday. I wake up to her message: “Sorry, I slept.”

I reply, “I know.”

I remind her to get to the office on time, but I expect her to be late like always. Maybe I’ll catch her on the way in. But today, she surprises me. “I’m already on the way,” she texts.

“Wow, well done,” I reply, impressed. It’s been a while since she’s been on time.

When she walks into the office, she’s wearing red. I don’t know how to describe it, but she looks stunning—more than usual. I can’t help but notice. I want to look at her, but I can’t—not here. Not in the office. I don’t want anyone to notice.

She continues texting me, just like last night, as if everything’s normal. But something feels different today. There’s a tension between us, something unsaid, something pulling us closer. I try to push it out of my mind.

The day drags on. When it’s time to leave, she walks out without saying anything to me. She leaves with her friends, as she should, but I feel this strange frustration building up inside me. I wanted her to wait. I text her asking if she’s left.

“Yes,” she replies. And that’s when the frustration turns into something more—something like sadness. I don’t even understand it myself.

Sensing my mood, she messages again, “Everyone’s gone. Please come. I’ll wait for you.”

I don’t know why, but I decide to meet her. It’s like my mood shifts the moment I see her. There’s something about her presence that always puts me at ease. We talk for about an hour—just like that, everything feels normal again.

As we’re about to part ways, she suddenly says, “We should only talk in the office.”

There’s a seriousness in her voice this time, like she’s been thinking about it for a while. But there’s a part of me that knows she doesn’t really want that. Neither of us does.

“What do you think?” she asks, but I dodge the question with a smile.

She smiles back, but something’s different about it. Maybe it’s just me overthinking, or maybe it’s something else altogether. I don’t know.

But as I head home that night, the only thing I can think about is the unsaid pull between us—the thing neither of us is willing to fully acknowledge, but it’s there. Always there.

The next day was a holiday. The second of October, Gandhi Jayanti. A day when the world celebrated peace and non-violence, but I was far from it—locked in a battle against myself. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was racing with thoughts of Tamannah and my son’s words echoing in my ears, “I love you, Daddy.”

As usual, I woke up early, half expecting a message from her, but it didn’t come. Instead, there was silence. I checked my phone every five minutes, waiting for her to respond. We had spoken late into the night the day before, and she had fallen asleep in the middle of our conversation, leaving me with a half-finished thought and an unsettled heart.

The morning dragged on. I spent time with my son, watching cartoons with him, but my mind was elsewhere. Tamannah had said last night that she didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of this. It had hit me hard, but I didn’t let her know. I had promised her that I wouldn’t let her get stuck, but deep down, I wasn’t sure if I could keep that promise anymore.

Around noon, I finally got a text from her: “I was sleeping the whole day, didn’t go anywhere.” She had told me yesterday that she would be going out with her friends, and today she said she didn’t. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. The more she said, the more I felt lost in a whirlwind of confusion. She had no idea how much I cared—how deeply I was tangled up in this mess of feelings.

In the evening, as the hours ticked by, I broke down and asked her, “Do you want to talk?” She responded quickly, “Yaa. I’m out. I’ll talk to you later.”

I was tired of being patient, of waiting for her to tell me what was going on in her mind. So I told her, “It’s ok, you can tell me, I won’t bother.” But I knew it wasn’t okay. None of this was okay.

She came back late at night and messaged, “It’s not like that.”

I responded, “It’s ok, Tamannah,” but it wasn’t okay. And she knew it too.

“Don’t start again,” she replied.

There was something about her words, about this entire situation that felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on my chest. I had no one to talk to. Not about this. Not about her. Not about how deeply I had fallen for someone I had no right to fall for.

Tamannah didn’t want to get stuck, but the truth was, I was already trapped. Trapped in a mess I had created for myself. I was sinking in it, and every time I tried to claw my way out, I just got pulled deeper. The worst part was knowing that no one could save me from this—not my wife, not my son, not even Tamannah.

As I lay in bed that night, my son crawled over to me and wrapped his little arms around me, whispering, “I love you, Daddy.”

Those words broke me. I wanted to cry, to scream, to beg for a way out of this, but there was no one to hear me. The war I was fighting wasn’t with the world—it was with myself. I had built a life that seemed perfect from the outside: a beautiful wife, a loving son, a good career. But inside, I was crumbling. I had fallen for Tamannah, and there was no escaping it.

She was my drug, my addiction. And no matter how hard I tried to pull away, I kept going back to her.

I kissed my son’s forehead and held him close. I needed to be strong for him, for my family, but all I could think about was how deeply I had sunk into this emotional abyss. It was the kind of pain that no one could understand unless they had been through it themselves—a war with no winner, just casualties.

And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face what came next.

I made a decision. I wasn’t going to talk to Tamannah the way I used to. I couldn’t. Something had shifted, and I knew that trying to go back to what we were before—whatever that was—would be impossible. We could still talk, of course, but only about work. We’d exchange pleasantries, ask for updates, keep it professional. But the ease, the warmth, the connection... that was gone. It had to be.

There’s a certain kind of relief that comes when you cry alone. No one to see your face, no one to ask why, just you and your thoughts in the quiet darkness. It doesn’t solve anything, but for those few moments, the world feels lighter, and so do you. It’s a feeling that’s hard to explain, but I felt it deeply tonight. After weeks of pretending that everything was fine, I let go. And when I finished, I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and told myself this was it. This was how it had to be.

Tomorrow, I have an important meeting at the office. I know that as soon as I step in, I’ll see her. She’ll be there, standing near my desk, probably with that same curious look she gives me every morning. And I know she’ll try to start a conversation—something casual, maybe a question about work, maybe just a comment to break the ice. But I also know we can’t be normal, no matter how much she wants it, no matter how much I might want it too.

She’s asked me repeatedly in the past few days, "Can’t we just go back to how we were? Can’t we be normal again?"

But what does "normal" even mean anymore? Before all of this, we were just two people in the same office, sharing laughs, trading messages, playing in the gray area between friendship and something more. But now, we’re standing on opposite sides of a line, and crossing back feels impossible.

Deep down, I think she knows it too. We can’t be normal because too much has happened. Too much has been said, and too much has been left unsaid. There’s a tension between us that wasn’t there before, an unspoken weight in every glance, every word. I feel it. She feels it. But neither of us wants to admit it.

Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. I’ll see those eyes—the ones that used to make me forget everything. But this time, I’ll have to remind myself that things have changed. I can’t let myself get pulled back in, no matter how much I want to. We’ve gone too far, and there’s no turning back now.

We can’t be normal again. I know it. And somewhere, deep inside, I think she knows it too.

But for now, I'll let the silence linger between us. Sometimes, silence says more than words ever could.

It’s the morning of October 3rd, and I’m torn. I don't want to go to the office with Tamannah today. The weight of what I’ve been feeling presses down on me, but at the same time, the other side of me—the side that craves her presence—wants to see her. Every day, this internal battle rages. I want to spend as much time as possible with her, even when I know it’s not realistic. But the desire persists.

Yesterday, I told myself I didn’t want to talk to her. I had every intention of keeping things distant. But then I saw her. The moment she started talking, all those thoughts vanished. Her voice, her smile—it’s like everything bad in the world fades away. I’m completely lost in her, and I know it.

This week begins the Navratri celebration, nine days where we worship Goddess Durga, and each day is dedicated to a different avatar. At the office, we’re all supposed to wear specific colors to mark the occasion. I didn’t participate the first day. I was feeling low, detached from it all. But then there she was, convincing me to join in. And just like that, I gave in. For the remaining eight days, I wore the colors, and I knew it was because of her. She can convince me of anything.

We started going to the office and leaving together more often. It was becoming our routine. Even though we’d have small arguments, we’d always find a way back to talking like nothing happened. It was like a cycle we couldn’t break. We fought, we made up, and we kept going.

As Navratri came to an end, I had a business trip planned for Singapore the following week. I tried to find a way to bring her along, to have her come on the trip, but it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t convince her. On October 14th, the night of my flight, I asked her if she wanted me to come to the office one last time before I left. She didn’t say it outright, but I could tell she wanted me there. I should have been at home, preparing for the trip, but I couldn’t resist. I went to the office with my bags packed, just to see her.

That day, we chatted a lot, more than usual. As the evening approached, I got emotional. I didn’t want to leave. It felt wrong. When it was time for her to go, I couldn’t even talk properly. I just asked her to come by my cabin to say goodbye. When she did, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I didn’t want her to leave. I didn’t want to leave her. She left, and I sat there, alone, not ready to face what was coming.

A few minutes later, I got a message from her: "Do you want to meet outside?" Without hesitation, I said yes. We met up for coffee, had a small chat, and then she left for home. I couldn’t stop myself from telling her she should have come with me to Singapore. And for the first time, she admitted, "Maybe I should have tried." There’s a lot between us, but somehow, there’s also nothing. It’s a strange kind of emptiness, one that no one else would understand.

I arrived in Singapore early the next morning. To my surprise, she was still awake. I don’t know if she was up for me, but I told myself she was. Maybe that’s just me lying to myself, but I needed the comfort. That week, we talked a lot—over calls, video chats. I stayed up late, sometimes until two in the morning, just to hear her voice. It became a ritual, one I couldn’t break.

But during those days, my emotions kept swinging back and forth. There were moments where I told her we shouldn’t be talking like this anymore, that it wasn’t right. And every time, she’d tell me we could just be normal and talk at the office. I’d always respond with the same thing: "We can’t be normal. I can’t be normal."

When I came back from Singapore, it was a Saturday. I spent more than an hour on the phone with her before the flight took off. And the first thing I did when I landed was message her, asking if she wanted to meet. She didn’t refuse. She suggested coffee or a smoke. I knew she had plans and wouldn’t be able to stay long, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to see her, even if it was only for 10 minutes. But it started raining, and she canceled, telling me to go home and spend time with my family. That was it. No more messages that night. I kept waiting, but there was nothing. That’s just how she is, though. She lives in her own world, carefree. And I know I should accept that, but I can’t. Everything about her bothers me—her late replies, her casual approach, her hanging out with others. It all gets to me. This attachment I have for her has gone too far. I’m not sure I can pull myself back.

Yesterday, when we were heading home from the office, I was venting to her about work. Out of nowhere, she told me to "shut up" because her chest was hurting. In my head, I thought, "Dil toh mera toota hai, dard aapko kaise ho sakta hai?" But I didn’t say it out loud. I dropped her off, said goodbye, and held back the tears that were threatening to spill. She looked at me, I looked at her, and I turned away. The moment I left, my eyes filled with tears.

It’s been a month since I started writing all this down. A month of confusion, frustration, and happiness. A month with her. And yet, even now, I feel like she’s still hiding something from me. She doesn’t open up, not about herself, not about her life. It’s what I want the most, but I know I can’t force it. I’ve told myself a hundred times that I need to stop, that I need to let her go. But this time, it feels different. I’m always the one suffering in this, or maybe she is, and I just don’t see it.

There’s something about her that makes me want to stay, despite the pain. But I know I can’t drag her into this any further. I’ll try to be normal again, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

One month with her. One month of looking into her eyes and forgetting the world. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But for her? I’m not so sure.

It was October 28th, just two days before she’d be leaving for her hometown for almost two weeks. The thought of the office without her felt strangely hollow. She’s the one who somehow makes everything feel normal, even on the days when nothing feels right. We talked a lot that day, maybe more than usual, trying to stretch time into something that felt like enough.

When she decided to leave early, I felt that familiar frustration bubble up inside. I had wanted to join her, and her leaving without me was like a dismissal. I said things over chat I knew I shouldn’t have, my own agitation getting the best of me. I ended up leaving alone that day, my thoughts spiraling. I told myself I didn’t want to talk to her. But, as usual, it wasn’t that simple. There’s something about her that draws me back in, despite everything.

Later, we talked over the phone. She made me calm down, reminded me that I couldn’t keep reacting this way. Her words settled over me, a reminder of the balance I kept tipping away from. I told her I wouldn’t talk to her like this again, wouldn’t let things spiral. But even as I said it, I knew I’d likely end up the same way. It’s a routine now, a cycle I can’t seem to break.

The next day, we had a traditional attire event at the office, a Diwali celebration. We’d both come in together. She looked different, somehow lighter, her smile radiant in her traditional dress. She was busy managing the event, her usual spark lighting up the whole place. I spent the day trying to enjoy myself, not letting the thought of her leaving cloud over everything. We went out for coffee afterward, and she was talking a lot, her eyes bright, her voice filling the gaps I knew would be there soon. For a moment, it was like she wanted me with her, though I knew her words would say the opposite. Or maybe it was just what I wanted to hear.

I told her I’d drop her at the station the next day, but she resisted. She knows me well enough by now, though—she could tell I wasn’t going to listen.

On the morning of the 30th, I waited for her outside, my mind tangled with things I knew I wouldn’t say. When she showed up, she looked at me, exasperated. “Why didn’t you go to the office?”

“I wanted to drop you,” I said, and she didn’t say anything else, just rolled her eyes in that way she does. We got into a cab, the quiet between us filled with everything unspoken. At the station, we made our way to the train, the crowd around us just background noise.

She settled her bags and came back to the door, standing there, watching me as I stood on the platform. Her lips were moving, saying something, but I couldn’t hear her over the hum of the station. I could only see her eyes, catching something deeper, something I’d only caught glimpses of before.

The train started moving, and she stayed by the door, holding my gaze as long as she could. I tried to lock this image of her in my mind, but it didn’t stop the ache that grew as the train pulled away. I watched until she was out of sight, feeling a loneliness creep over me that felt heavier than I’d imagined.

I stayed on the platform a long time, letting the emptiness sink in. She’s gone for two weeks, but it already feels like something’s shifted.

The train is gone, but I'm still on the platform.

That's how the first day feels. And the second. And every day after that.

I go to the office the next morning because there's nowhere else to go. Her desk is in front of mine, the way it always is. Her chair is pushed in. Someone has left a file on it. I want to move it. I don't.

Nobody else notices she's not there. That's the strange part. The printer still jams. The pantry still runs out of milk by eleven. Fifty-nine people carry on like the world is exactly the same size it was yesterday.

It isn't.

---

My phone buzzes at 9:40.

"Reached office?"

"Yes. It's very quiet."

"It's always quiet. You just don't notice because I'm talking."

"That's what I said."

She sends a laughing face. Then a photo. A window, green fields running past, a cup of chai on the little folding table.

"Your memory," she writes.

My own words. Sent back to me.

I put the phone down and stare at my screen for a full minute before I can read the email in front of me.

---

Two weeks.

I thought it would be the longest two weeks of my life. In a way, it is. In another way, it's the closest we've ever been.

We talk in the morning before her house wakes up. We talk at lunch, when I take my food to the terrace so no one sees me smiling at my phone. We talk in the evening, when she goes up to her roof to "get some air", which I've learned means "to call you".

Her mother's voice in the background. A pressure cooker whistling. Her brother arguing about cricket. A whole life I've never seen, coming to me in pieces through a cheap phone speaker.

"What are you doing?" she asks one night.

"Nothing. Lying down."

"Liar. You're smoking."

I am. On my own balcony, with her lighter.

"How do you know?"

"You breathe differently."

I laugh, and I have to cover the phone, because the house behind me is asleep. Philann. My son. The quiet I'm supposed to be guarding.

Some nights we don't even talk. We just stay on the call. I can hear her fan. She can hear the traffic. Neither of us says goodbye. One of us falls asleep and the call keeps running until a phone dies.

---

She comes back on a Monday.

I know it the moment I step out of the lift. I don't even have to look. There's a kind of noise she brings into a room, and it's back.

She's at her desk. She looks up. She looks down. She smiles at her keyboard.

My phone buzzes.

"Don't look at me like that."

Some things don't change.

---

It happens a few days later.

It's evening and the roads are jammed, so we take an auto. The two of us in the back, close because the seat is small, the city smearing past in red tail lights. A drizzle. Not proper rain. Just enough to make everything shine.

We're quiet. Not the bad kind.

And I ask her. The way I've asked her before. A hundred times, maybe more. In texts at two in the morning. On calls. Half joking, half not.

"Don't you feel anything for me?"

I expect the usual. A laugh. "Andrew, stop." A change of topic. A sticker of a cat rolling its eyes.

She doesn't laugh.

She looks out at the road for a long time. Then she says it, softly, almost to herself.

"What I feel for you is something I have never felt for anyone else. Till now."

And then nothing.

The auto rattles. A bus honks somewhere. The driver's radio is playing an old Kishore Kumar song, too loud and a little off the station.

Neither of us says anything.

I don't trust my voice. So I don't use it.

I take her hand. I hold it firmly, like it might go somewhere if I don't. She lets me. Her fingers are cold from the rain.

Then I do something I've never done. I rest my head on her shoulder.

She doesn't move.

And for those few minutes, that's the whole world. Not the office. Not the gossip. Not the ring on my finger or the boy waiting at home or the thousand reasons this can never be. Just a small, shaking auto in the rain, her shoulder, her hand, and a silence that finally doesn't hurt.

I have looked for peace my whole life. In work. In quiet rooms. In cigarettes on balconies at night.

I found it in the back of an auto, for maybe ten minutes, in November.

---

I drop her near her place.

We stand under the tin roof of the paan shop at the corner and share a smoke, passing it back and forth like we're teenagers. I light it with her lighter. She notices. She doesn't say anything. She just smiles at the flame.

"Go home," she says. "It's late."

"I know."

"Reach safe."

"I always do."

She walks away. She doesn't look back. She never does.

I stand there until the cigarette burns down to my fingers.

---

On the way home, I keep replaying it.

Something I have never felt for anyone else. Till now.

I hold the words the way I held her hand. Firmly. Like they might go somewhere if I don't.

I don't know yet that this is the happiest I will ever be in this story.

Nobody ever knows that at the time.

The 12th of November is a Sunday.

I know because I'm at home, sitting on the floor with my son, helping him colour a dinosaur that he insists must be purple.

My phone buzzes.

"I have to go home. Urgently. A relative is not well."

I read it twice. Then I call. She doesn't pick up. A minute later:

"Can't talk. Packing. Train in two hours."

"Which station? I'll come."

"No. Don't."

"Tamannah, I'll just come and drop you."

"Andrew. No. Please."

The purple crayon is still in my hand. My son is tugging at my sleeve because I've stopped colouring.

"Daddy, the tail."

"Yes. The tail."

I colour the tail. I don't know what colour I use.

---

Here's the thing.

She has to go. I know that. Someone she loves is in a hospital bed, and she has to be there. Any decent person would understand. I understand.

But I know her now. I know the way she types when she's happy, all small letters and too many h's in "haha". I know the way she types when she's tired. I know her full stops.

These messages have full stops.

They're short. Correct. Polite. Like someone wrote them with the door closed.

Something is off.

I can't say what. I can't prove it. I just know it, the way you know it's going to rain before the first drop.

---

She doesn't meet me.

That's the part I can't get past. The last time she left, she shouted at me for skipping office, and then let me stand on the platform until the train disappeared. This time, there's no platform. No door. No eyes.

Just a message from the train at 9 p.m.

"Boarded."

"Ok. Take care. Tell me how they are."

"Ya."

That's it.

Ya.

I sit on the balcony with her lighter and I don't light anything. I just turn it over and over in my hand until it's warm.

Two weeks ago she said what she feels for me is something she's never felt for anyone.

Tonight I'm a "Ya".

---

She comes back. Of course she comes back. She has a job, a desk, a manager who asks when she'll be in.

But she doesn't really come back.

Some days she's there, fully there. She laughs at my bad jokes. She sends me a reel at midnight with "this is you" written under it. We take an auto together and for five minutes it feels like November again.

And then the next day she's gone. Not gone from the office. Gone from behind her own eyes. She says good morning like she says it to everyone. She leaves at six without a word. My messages sit on "delivered" for hours.

On. Off. On. Off.

Like a tube light that's about to die. You keep thinking it's fixed, because for a second it comes on bright. Then it flickers again.

---

"What happened?" I ask her, one night in December.

"Nothing happened."

"Something happened. After you went home."

"Andrew, nothing happened. I'm just tired."

"You're always tired now."

"Then let me be tired."

I want to push. I don't. I've learned that much.

She doesn't like questions. I, apparently, don't like answers.

I wrote that line in September, about her. I didn't know then it would become the whole story.

---

I start counting things I shouldn't count.

How many minutes before she replies. How many times she looks up from her screen. Whether she says "bye" when she leaves, or just goes.

I hate myself for it.

I am thirty-four years old. I have a team of fifty-nine people. I have a wife who leaves dinner covered on the table for me, and a son who thinks purple dinosaurs are real.

And every evening I'm watching a green dot next to a name, waiting for it to say "online", like a boy outside a school gate.

---

New Year's Eve, she sends me a message at exactly 12:00.

"Happy new year, Andrew. Stay happy. Always."

Always.

It reads like a goodbye.

I tell myself I'm overthinking. I tell myself it's just how people write on New Year's.

I reply, "Happy new year. You too. Always."

Then I sit in the dark and listen to the firecrackers going off across the city, every one of them louder than it needs to be.

If I had known it was the last time, I would have done everything differently.

That's what everyone says, isn't it. I used to think it was just a line from films.

It isn't.

---

The 28th of January. A Sunday, cold, the kind of Delhi winter where the fog sits on the road like it has nowhere else to be.

She'd been off for weeks. I'd been patient. Or that's what I told myself. Really, I'd been storing everything up, every unanswered message, every "ya", every evening she left without looking at me, folding it all into a small hard thing in my chest.

And that day, it came out.

I don't even remember how it started. Something small. She was late replying. She'd gone somewhere with friends and hadn't told me. Something that wasn't mine to be angry about.

We were standing near the chai stall. The same tin roof. The same corner where she once said "everyone left, please come."

"You've changed," I said.

"I haven't."

"You have. Ever since you went home. You won't even tell me what happened."

"Because it's not your problem, Andrew."

"Everything about you is my problem."

I heard it as I said it. How it sounded. Not like love. Like a claim.

She looked at me, and something closed in her face. Like a shutter coming down on a shop at night.

"That's the issue," she said quietly. "It shouldn't be."

---

I said things then.

I won't write all of them here. Some of them were true. Most of them were just loud. That she didn't care. That she'd only been passing time. That I'd given her everything and she'd given me full stops.

She didn't shout back. That was the worst part. She just stood there and let me finish, holding her cup with both hands, the steam going up between us.

When I was done, she put the cup down on the counter.

"Go home, Andrew," she said. "Your family is waiting."

And she walked away.

She didn't look back. She never does.

I didn't know that was the last time I would see her face.

---

She doesn't come to the office the next day. Or the day after.

Work from home. Leave. Client site. There's always a reason. Her manager mentions it in a meeting and I nod like it's nothing, like I'm her senior and it's just attendance.

We still text. That's the strange thing. She doesn't block me. She replies. Short, polite, sometimes even kind.

"Did you eat?"
"Yes. You?"
"Ya."

But every time I ask to meet, the answer is the same.

"Not now."
"I'm busy."
"Let's see."
"Andrew, please."

Let's see. I learn to hate those two words.

---

February.

I ask her for ten minutes. Just coffee. Just to say sorry properly, face to face.

"I've read your sorry. It's fine."

"Then why won't you meet me?"

"Because it's better this way."

"For who?"

No reply.

---

March.

I try waiting. I really do. I read somewhere that if you love something, you give it space. So I give her space. Three days without a message. I count every hour of all three.

On the fourth day, I break.

"Tamannah?"

It's what I wrote that night in September. The night after I said "let's not talk anymore", and she answered "Yaa" in seconds, like she'd been waiting too.

This time it takes her eleven hours.

"Hmm."

---

April. May.

It becomes a pattern. I chase. She steps back. I chase harder. She steps back further.

I tell myself she's going through something. I tell myself she'll come around. I tell myself that what she said in the auto can't just disappear, that feelings like that don't have an expiry date.

Then I tell myself to stop. To be a husband. To be a father. To be the man my son thinks I am.

Then I pick up the phone again.

---

The lighter is still in my pocket.

I don't smoke as much now. But I check that it's there, the way you check for your keys. Every morning. Every night.

Sometimes I light it and just watch the flame. Small. Warm. Still working.

I think, as long as this keeps burning, there's still something left.

I know that's stupid.

I keep it anyway.

I find out from an email.

Not from her. From HR. The kind of email that goes to the whole floor.

"Please join us in wishing Tamannah all the very best as she moves on to her next adventure. Her last working day will be 31st May."

Next adventure.

I read it in a meeting room with six people talking about a release plan. Someone asks me a question. I say "yes, that works." I have no idea what I agreed to.

---

Her desk is in front of mine. It still is, technically. But it's been mostly empty since January. A notebook. A pen stand. A small plant she named something silly that I can't remember now, which hurts more than it should.

On the 31st, she comes in.

I know before I see her. The noise she brings into a room. It's back, one last time.

She doesn't come to my side of the floor.

She goes around. Hugs her friends. Takes photos with her team. Cuts a cake someone has bought, chocolate, her favourite. Laughs that full laugh, head thrown back.

I sit at my desk and watch it all through the glass of my cabin like it's a film I've already seen the ending of.

---

At four, I can't take it anymore.

"Can I see you before you go? Two minutes."

Delivered.

Seen.

Nothing.

At five, I walk past the pantry where she's packing her things into a cloth bag. Our eyes meet for maybe one second.

She looks away first.

I keep walking. I don't know where. I end up on the terrace, the same terrace where I used to take my lunch so nobody would see me smile at my phone.

It's May. No rain. Just heat and a white sky and the sound of the highway.

When I come back down, her desk is empty. The plant is gone. The notebook is gone.

She left.

Without a word. Again.

---

That night, I tell myself: that's it. Let her go. Don't call. Don't text. Give her the one thing she has been asking for since January.

I last two days.

Then, at 1 a.m.:

"Hope your first day at the new place goes well."

The next week:

"Saw a Suits clip today. Harvey. Thought of you."

The week after:

"Tamannah, can we just talk once? Properly. I won't ask for anything else."

"Please."

"Just once."

Some get a "ya". Most get nothing.

I know what I'm doing. I know exactly what it looks like. A man who can't take no for an answer. I would tell anyone on my team to stop. To respect it. To walk away.

I can't follow my own advice.

---

The 12th of July is my birthday.

I wake up before the alarm. I tell myself I'm not checking. I check.

Messages come all day. My team. My brother. Old college friends I haven't spoken to in years. Philann has hidden a cake in the fridge, and my son has made a card with a purple dinosaur on it, because of course it's purple.

Every time the phone buzzes, my heart jumps. Every time, it isn't her.

I keep the chat open in the evening, the way you keep a door open for someone who's late. I watch the top of the screen, waiting for her name to pop up. Just "Happy birthday." Two words. I'd have taken one.

At 11:58, I'm still looking.

At midnight, the 12th is over.

Her name never comes.

---

August. Her birthday.

I know the date the way I know my own phone number. I've known it since the day I read her joining form, long before any of this, when she was just a new hire with a hunger to learn.

I write the message twenty times. Too long. Too much. Too sad.

In the end, I send the simplest one.

"Happy birthday, Tamannah. Stay happy. Always."

Her words. From New Year's.

Delivered.

Seen.

Nothing.

I tell myself she's busy. Out with friends. Cake on her face. I tell myself that a lot of things.

---

August goes. The rains come back.

The last message she sends me is in September.

It's long. Longer than anything she's written me since November.

"Andrew, please stop. I'm asking you nicely. You have a family. I have to build my life. If we keep doing this, it will only get worse for both of us. I don't hate you. I could never hate you. But I need you to stop. Please be happy. Please let me go."

I read it standing in my kitchen, with the tap running, because I'd been about to wash a cup.

I type a reply. I delete it. I type another. I delete that too.

By the time I've decided what to say, the profile picture is gone.

The last seen is gone.

Messages show one grey tick.

She's blocked me.

Not just here. Everywhere. Instagram. LinkedIn. The number I've had saved under her name since January of last year.

The tap is still running.

I turn it off.

---

I'd like to say I was angry. That would be easier.

I wasn't angry.

I stood in the kitchen and thought about the back of an auto in November. Her cold fingers. Her shoulder. The radio playing something slightly off the station.

Something I have never felt for anyone else.

And I understood, finally, that she wasn't running away from me.

She was running away from that.

It's September again.

The rain is back. The heavy kind, that turns the roads into rivers and makes the metro smell like wet umbrellas. The same rain that stranded us in the office one night a year ago, until an auto came at half past twelve.

I notice it the way you notice an old song playing in a shop. Before you even know what it is, your body remembers.

---

I took the wrong metro this morning.

I don't know why. I've taken the right one every day for months. Today I got on, sat down, looked up, and I was going the wrong way, toward a station I didn't know.

An extra hour.

A year ago, I'd have texted her. She'd have replied, "LOL. Only you could do that. How far are you now?"

I take my phone out. I open the chat.

One grey tick, from last week. Still sitting there.

I put the phone back.

---

Everything that started between us started in September.

The late-night messages. "Tamannah, don't message me." The umbrella I refused. The cloudburst. "Is this how it ends?" The lighter. "Your memory."

And it ended in September too. Not with a fight. Not with a goodbye. Just with the quiet of a number that doesn't deliver anymore.

There's an irony in that I'm not clever enough to name. I just feel it.

---

People think the opposite of love is hate.

It isn't. It's this. Silence that doesn't speak. A name you can't type. A desk in front of yours with someone new sitting at it, a young guy who greets everyone in the morning, who doesn't know whose chair that was.

I'm happy for him. I really am.

I just wish he'd move the chair a little to the left.

---

I've been trying to understand her. I've had a year to try.

She showed the world a strong face. Loud laugh. Jokes. Hands in her pockets, walking off into the night without looking back.

But I saw the other one. The girl who went quiet when her father was unwell. The girl who said "Don't take it personally on you" when she offered to resign, as if her leaving was a favour she was doing me. The girl who said "go home, your family is waiting", every single time, even when she wanted me to stay.

She was never cold. She was kind. So kind that she chose to be the villain in my story so I wouldn't have to be the villain in my own home.

I don't think the world will ever understand that about her.

I don't think it needs to. I do.

---

Tonight I go up to the balcony with her lighter.

My son is asleep. Philann is asleep. The rain is coming down so hard the street lights look like they're underwater.

I take out a cigarette. I hold up the lighter.

Click.

Nothing.

Click. Click.

A spark, and then nothing.

It's out of gas. After a year. After all those nights of checking it was still there, still warm, still working.

I sit there with the dead lighter in one hand and the unlit cigarette in the other, and for the first time since that night in the kitchen, I cry. Properly. The kind of crying that comes up from somewhere you didn't know was there.

There's a certain relief in crying alone. I wrote that once, too.

It's still true.

---

When I'm done, I don't throw the lighter away.

I put it in the drawer of my desk at home, at the back, behind old bills and my son's first drawing of me, the one where I'm taller than the house.

Not to keep it burning. That part is over.

Just to keep it.

---

Tamannah,

You'll never read this. You've made sure of that, and I understand why.

I don't know if you think of me. I tell myself that you do, on some nights, in some rain. Maybe I'm lying to myself. I've done that before. But the way we understood each other, the way a full stop could tell me you were sad, I don't believe that just disappears. I don't believe you've forgotten. I don't believe you don't miss it, even a little, on some days.

And I know why you left. If we had carried on, it would have broken more than just us. You saw that before I did. You were braver than me.

So here is the only thing I have left to give you.

Be happy. Keep smiling, that full, head-back laugh. Get everything you wish for. You deserve every bit of it.

And if, somewhere far away from this crowd, years from now, our paths cross again, on a platform, in an auto, under some stranger's umbrella, I hope you'll look back this time.

Just once.

---

The rain doesn't stop tonight.

I go inside. I check on my son. He's kicked off his blanket again. I cover him, and he mumbles something in his sleep.

"Love you, Daddy."

I sit on the edge of his bed for a long time.

Then I go to my room, and lie down next to the life I chose, and listen to the rain that never stopped.

It just learned to stay.

The End