A Memory in the Margin

She had never been in a relationship before. New and young at Fairflex Media House, Mitali Bose felt like a blank page waiting to be written on. She was shy, preferring to watch from the sidelines rather than step into the limelight. But then he appeared.

A brief glance across the newsroom struck her like a spark in the darkness. Mr. Swapnil Anand, Editor-in-Chief, carried himself with a quiet authority that turned the steady hum of the office into mere background noise. With his carefully arranged hair and broad shoulders, he exuded a magnetism that drew every eye, and Mitali's more than most. From her angle, he seemed sculpted by time and patience: sharp yet softened by a smile that rarely surfaced.

She found herself admiring his every movement: the easy grace with which he navigated the corridors, the resolute set of his jaw, the silent strength that didn't demand attention but commanded it all the same. To her, he seemed like a hero from an old tale - enigmatic, distant, and forever just beyond her reach.

Mostly, he was all business. He spoke volumes in silence. Mitali, with her quiet nature, found herself stealing glances when she thought he wouldn't notice. But a couple of times, she felt his gaze catch hers, a quiet challenge that left her cheeks burning. Their worlds rarely intersected, separated by different tasks and duties.

Then, one afternoon, as if fate itself had woven them together, he approached her desk. His voice, calm and confident, asked, 'Hey, Miss! Can I have your phone number? Got to send a few pamphlets.' Even though the request was purely professional, her heart thrummed with something she didn't fully understand. She handed him her number, her fingers trembling.

He left as quietly as he had arrived. Yet her world had shifted, and for two long days, her heart beat to the rhythm of anticipation. But no pamphlets ever arrived. Still, she found herself watching him, captivated by the way he carried himself, and noticing that he rarely spoke to women except his secretary, Miss Prakriti, and then only about work. It made his request for her number feel even more special, even if she knew better.

Three months later, her phone rang. It was him, asking for her help with a professional matter. After that, he called her occasionally, always about work. Yet in those brief moments, she glimpsed a different side of him: more open, warmer, with a smile that was gentler than she had imagined. It was as though winter had given way to a brief spring.

He began greeting her, 'How are you, Miss Bose? – almost everyday when they crossed paths, sometimes even twice in one afternoon. She couldn't tell if it was mere politeness or something more. He would walk by her workstation, linger near the corner where she and Roshan sat. His steps were silent, but they echoed in her heart. She tried to ignore the flutters, but the heart has a mind of its own.

One afternoon, as she was leaving the office in a cab, she saw him through a window. He waved, smiling, a warmth that surprised her so deeply that her heart leaped. That night, she replayed the memory over and over, each detail a secret treasure.

Hope bloomed inside her, a fragile garden. But gardens have thorns. One evening at a girls' get-together, the topic turned to Swapnil, and a senior colleague casually mentioned that he was married. The words cut deep, like a cold wind on a spring day. She felt foolish, but not angry at him but only at herself for imagining a love story that was never real. He had never hinted at anything, never promised, never misled. It had all been in her own head.

A few days later, she passed a meeting where he sat with Miss Prakriti. He still greeted her with that warm, familiar smile. 'How are you, Miss Bose?' Her heart beat wildly, but the sweetness now felt like ash. She nodded politely, hiding the storm inside. She caught Prakriti's eyes flickering between them - surprise, maybe annoyance. A small ache settled in her chest.

When contract renewals came around, hers wasn't renewed. The position she had poured herself into was handed to a board member's cousin's son. The loss was a heavy weight on her chest, and shame wrapped itself around her like a shroud. What would they think of her now? What would Swapnil Anand think of her? Why should she care what Swapnil thought? He had been nothing more than a distraction that blurred the lines between reality and foolish hope.

She blamed herself for losing focus. She buried herself in her work, determined to forget him. Besides, he was a married man.

She learned later that Swapnil had left Fairflex Media House to become CEO of SRT Corps - a new chapter that would definitely never include her even as a professional courtesy. The knowledge stung, but she refused to dwell on it. When Fairflex called her back, she returned with a clearer mind. She had learned what lay behind the curtains. A year later, she stood at the height of her career, ready to interview the state's newest Padmashree Awardee at the company's golden jubilee.

And that's when she saw him again - seated in the second row. A sudden glimpse made her heart falter, and memories came rushing back. She felt his gaze again. It was like an arrow aimed at a heart she thought had long turned to steel. She turned away, seeking her dignity in the small strength she had gathered.

Minutes later, he appeared near her, lingering like a question she had no answer for. Their eyes met, but her heart stayed guarded. Perhaps he had come with a silent hope to reconnect. She didn't want to guess anymore. She felt too tired to pick up pieces of a love that had never really existed. She grasped the hand of a younger colleague as an anchor, determined to walk away this time.

No longer caring about his feelings or the armour of his professional persona, she left; unmoved, unbound and untangled. That day, she felt proud of herself.

Coincidentally, they met again a few months later, side by side with no easy escape. Strangely, both of them leaned away as if trying to untangle the threads of a past that had never truly existed. She spoke first, her voice steady: 'How are you, Mr. Anand?'

He smiled, formal and polite. 'How are you?' he asked, thus time, skipping his usual adjunct 'Miss Bose'.

And for the first time, she found the strength to smile back and say, 'Never been better.'

The air between them felt heavy with unspoken memories, yet light with the promise of a new beginning. The tension was palpable, yet fragile.

Mitali felt a lightness she hadn't known before, uncertain of what to expect from either of them. Mr. Upendra, the Finance Manager, arrived just then, speaking animatedly about his newborn baby. His arrival was a lifeline out of the awkwardness. She rummaged through her purse, found a box of face wipes, and handed it to Upendra. 'For your lovely son,' she said with a small smile. Then, as if on impulse - or perhaps as a carefully chosen gesture - she handed one to Swapnil too, a silent nod behind her trembling hope for closure.

It was her parting gift, a small way of saying: Thank you for those unspoken conversations, those stolen glances, those fragile dreams.

She knew she could never hate him, could never be repulsed by the memory of him. Some lights, she realized, shine too bright to last forever. They burn briefly, beautifully, before the universe, in its wisdom, tucks them away.

Some things, she learned, are best left as memories, delicate as paper cranes, soft as dandelion seeds carried by the wind. Because reality, harsh and unyielding, can shatter even the most delicate dreams. And so she chose to keep it as a memory: a fleeting star in her night sky, forever out of reach, yet eternally bright.