Falling Into You

Avni never imagined introductions in a new office could change her life. But when she met Rupesh, something clicked. They spoke like they had been friends for years, laughing, teasing, sharing small pieces of themselves without hesitation. It was effortless, natural, almost fated.

When their postings took them to different cities, she thought distance would fade the bond. But it didn’t. Rupesh—ambitious, younger, already celebrated as one of the “youngest achievers”—never let silence stretch between them. He would call her out of the blue just to ask, “What’s going on?” Avni, studious and reserved, always marveled at how he had room in his busy, soaring life for her. And yet, she found herself waiting for those calls, for the familiar warmth of his voice.

One evening, after a long frustrating day at work, Avni finally gave in to her exhaustion and texted him: “Can we talk?”
His reply came instantly: “Yes, should I call now?”

She stared at the screen, touched. She had not expected such urgency. “No, wait till evening,” she typed.
A moment later came his typo: “No problem, I am not always there for you.”

She burst out laughing, the heaviness of the day dissolving in that one line. The truth was, he was always there—maybe more than anyone else had ever been.

That evening they spoke for hours, her pouring out every frustration, him listening and reminding her she was stronger than she believed. And somewhere in the middle of their endless talks, a new kind of conversation bloomed.

It started casually—about love. “You know,” Rupesh said one night, his voice softer than usual, “love doesn’t always have rules. You can love anyone, it can happen unexpectedly. Sometimes you don’t even have to name it… just feeling special is enough.”

Avni went quiet, her heart racing. “Yes,” she whispered, “boundaries don’t really exist if the feeling is real.”

Something shifted that night. Neither of them said the words, but from then on, their messages carried a new electricity. The anticipation grew—each waiting anxiously for the other’s texts, smiling secretly at their phones.

Their conversations deepened. The banter became more playful, the silences more charged. One evening, Rupesh teased, “Do you think I can send you a kiss smiley, or will that ruin our respectable image?”
Avni felt her cheeks warm, but she replied quickly: “Only if you’re brave enough.”

Soon they were sharing photos of each other at their desks—him, sleeves rolled up, a mischievous grin; her, hiding behind files but eyes shining. Their mornings began with “Did you wake up yet?” and often ended with calls that stretched late into the night.

Weekends were the hardest. They had agreed—no messages then, families took that space. But that only made Mondays sweeter. The longing, the wait, the delicious anticipation of seeing his name light up her phone again—it made office feel less like work, more like a doorway to him.

Rupesh, who had always been the achiever, began writing poems. One evening, he sent her a line that made her breath hitch:

“Your words wrap around me like dawn,
 gentle, unspoken, yet burning deep.
 I walk through days with the echo of you—
 a rhythm my heart refuses to forget.”

Avni read it again and again, heart trembling at the rawness of his words. In return, she began writing letters—soft, romantic confessions she would never have dared to speak aloud. Letters that carried pieces of her heart and the growing desire she could no longer deny.

Their slow romance became a rhythm of its own—burning desire under restraint, the urgency to talk, the anxiousness when a message didn’t arrive, the ache of missing each other desperately, and the relief of hearing a voice that felt like home.

It was not something they had named. It did not need a label. It lived in the space between words, in laughter that lingered, in the unspoken ache of distance. And in that tender, secret place, Avni and Rupesh found a love that was quiet but consuming, patient but urgent—an unfinished story they both carried close to their hearts.

After the poem, something shifted even more deeply between them. Words became their secret love language, and each message carried a little more of their hearts.

Rupesh would send her teasing notes out of nowhere:

“Stop working so much, Avni. You’ll turn into a report one day and I’ll have to staple you.”

She laughed at her screen, replying: “At least then you’ll finally read me carefully.”

Sometimes, late at night, he’d type: “If I call right now, will you pick up? Or will you pretend to be asleep and let me suffer?”

Avni’s fingers hovered, heart racing, before she’d write: “Try me.”

Their letters became even more intimate—soft places where they allowed their emotions to breathe.

Avni once wrote:
“I don’t know what this is between us, but every day I wait for your voice, your words. It feels like you’ve become the only constant rhythm in my life. Even when I’m drowning in work, I feel calmer knowing you’ll check on me.”

Rupesh’s reply was short but devastatingly tender:
“You are my calm, Avni. Do you know that? The world may clap for my achievements, but it’s your words that I wait for, your voice that I crave. With you, I’m not the ‘youngest achiever,’ I’m just… me. And I’ve never liked being me more than now.”

Their flirting, too, began to carry an edge of desire.

Rupesh once teased: “If I send you a kiss smiley, would you send one back? Or will you file a complaint against me?”
Avni blushed furiously at her desk, typing back: “Maybe both. Depends on the size of the kiss.”

The emojis that followed made her giggle all afternoon.

Mornings turned into a ritual. She would wait for his “Good morning, Avni” before opening her laptop, and he admitted once that hearing her sleepy voice was his favorite part of the day. And though weekends belonged to their families, those two days of silence created an ache that made Monday messages taste sweeter than anything else.

One evening, he sent her another piece of himself, a half-finished poem that felt almost like a confession:

“Sometimes I wonder—
 if distance didn’t keep us apart,
 would I still ache like this?
 Or would I have already
 found a way to hold you,
 to silence this burning
 with the simple truth of touch?”

Avni read it with trembling fingers, her chest tightening at the honesty hidden between the lines. She didn’t reply immediately—she couldn’t. But later that night, she sent him a letter, her first real confession:

“I don’t know where this will take us. I don’t even know if I should be writing this. But when you call, when you listen, when you make me laugh after a day that breaks me… I feel something I can’t name. And maybe we don’t need names. Maybe we just need this—this endless waiting, this urgency, this quiet fire that refuses to die.”

And so, their slow-burning romance grew—through poems and letters, missed calls and urgent replies, laughter that masked desire, and silences that held more than words. It wasn’t something either of them had planned, but it had become something neither could walk away from.

It was the longing that defined them—the ache of missing, the thrill of hearing, the desperate joy of belonging to someone in ways they could not explain.

Weekends were the hardest. The silence pressed against Avni like a weight. No morning pings. No sudden calls. No teasing emojis. By Saturday evening, she would find herself staring at her phone, fingers itching to type, yet pulling back—boundaries had to be respected.

Rupesh confessed once, the following Monday: “Do you know I almost break the rule every weekend? I stare at your chat window ten times a day. It feels like someone’s taken the oxygen out of my room.”
Avni’s chest tightened, her lips curving into a helpless smile. “I feel the same,” she admitted softly. “Mondays are my new favorite day… only because of you.”

The longing was unbearable, but it only made their weekdays burn brighter.

Then came the training. Avni’s team was scheduled for a week-long program, and she checked into the hotel, resigned to days of presentations and late-night reports. She hadn’t told Rupesh—there was no reason to.

But fate played differently. At the last minute, Rupesh was called into the same training. He arrived tired, expecting nothing unusual, until he stepped into the hotel lobby—and froze.

There she was. Avni. Not on a screen. Not on a phone. Real. Alive. Standing just a few feet away.

His breath caught in his throat. She was wearing a simple white kurta, a red dupatta flowing lightly at her side, silver jhumkas swaying as she tucked her hair back. But to him, she looked breathtaking—so much more than the filtered photos she had nervously sent him.

Avni turned, and her world tilted. Rupesh stood tall, impossibly tall, six feet of presence in a mauve shirt that fit him perfectly, his eyes widening the moment they met hers. For a second, neither moved. Neither spoke. Just the stunned recognition that this—they—were real.

Avni felt her breath stumble. Her pulse hammered in her ears. This was Rupesh, her voice on the phone, her poems, her laughter, her silences—and now he was here, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

“Avni…” he whispered finally, his voice almost reverent.

She laughed nervously, clutching her dupatta tighter. “Rupesh… I can’t believe this.”

What followed was a blur of joy. They ended up walking to the training hall together every morning, their easy banter spilling over like it always had on calls, only now their shoulders brushed, their laughter echoed in real corridors. During breaks, they slipped into corners, sharing inside jokes and stories, as though the world had finally aligned just to let them breathe in the same space.

Every meal, every shared walk back to the hotel, every glance across the training room carried that charged undercurrent—the one they had both felt but never named.

And though nothing was said outright, both of them knew: something had shifted again. The distance had kept their fire alive, but being close—seeing each other, feeling the warmth of presence—ignited a new urgency neither of them could ignore.

By the third evening of training, the exhaustion had given way to a strange exhilaration. Days were packed with presentations and group exercises, but nights carried a freedom neither had expected. That night, after dinner, Rupesh suggested casually, “Bar?”

Avni hesitated. She wasn’t someone who frequented bars, but something in his eyes—the mischief, the quiet invitation—made her nod. “Okay. Just for a while.”

The hotel bar was dimly lit, golden light bouncing off glasses and polished wood. They found a corner table, tucked away, where the music was soft enough to let words flow.

Rupesh ordered his whiskey neat. Avni, unsure, asked for a light cocktail. When the drinks arrived, he raised his glass toward her. “To… coincidences that aren’t coincidences.”

She smiled, clinking hers gently against his. “To surprises,” she whispered.

Conversation spilled as easily as the drinks. They spoke about everything—office frustrations, old college memories, silly dreams, half-kept secrets. But somewhere between the second drink and the third, the talk shifted. His gaze lingered longer, hers dropped shyly before meeting his again.

“Avni,” he said, leaning slightly forward, voice lower, “you know what’s strange? I’ve known you for months now. Your voice, your letters, your laughter… but tonight, sitting here, it feels like I’m meeting you all over again. And you’re… even more than I imagined.”

Her heart stuttered. She tried to laugh it off. “Don’t flatter me, Rupesh.”

“I’m not flattering,” he replied softly, his eyes holding hers. “You have no idea how you look right now. Alive. Beautiful. Like the poem I could never finish.”

Her breath caught, heat rising in her cheeks. She sipped her drink quickly, trying to mask the storm inside her chest. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“But I want to,” he said simply.

The silence that followed was thick, charged. She fiddled with the edge of her dupatta, and he reached out—just barely brushing her hand where it rested on the table. The touch was fleeting, accidental enough to be denied, deliberate enough to be remembered.

They laughed again after, shifting the talk to lighter things, but the air between them had changed. The drinks loosened her, and she found herself teasing him more boldly, telling him his mauve shirt made him look like he had walked out of a magazine. He grinned, leaning back with his whiskey. “And your jhumkas? They’re a hazard. I can’t concentrate when they move.”

By the time they left the bar, the night outside was cool, the city lights distant. They walked back to their rooms side by side, shoulders almost brushing, neither daring to step closer—yet both aching to.

At her door, Avni turned, her heart pounding. “Goodnight, Rupesh.”

He looked at her for a moment too long, his voice quiet but firm. “Goodnight, Avni. Sleep… if you can.”

She closed the door with trembling fingers, leaning against it, her lips curving into a smile she couldn’t stop.

And for the first time, the distance between them wasn’t miles—it was just a few rooms apart.

I lay in the hotel bed, eyes wide open in the dark. Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her—Avni’s smile as she raised her glass, the sound of her laugh curling into my chest, the sway of her jhumkis when she tilted her head. And worse, that one moment in the bar when she leaned forward, her kurta dipping low, her cleavage peeking out from the neckline of her top.

God, I’d tried to look away. I’d forced my eyes to the floor, to the beer in my hand, anywhere but her. But the image seared itself into me, branding me with equal parts hunger and shame. I wanted her. Badly. And yet it wasn’t just want—it was everything. The way she existed had imprinted itself onto me, and I couldn’t scrub her out no matter how hard I tried.

I reached for my phone. My thumb hovered over her name, traitorous.
Still awake? Typed. Deleted.
You looked so beautiful tonight. Typed. Deleted.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Typed. Deleted.

Every time I came close to hitting send, my heart seized with fear. I tossed the phone aside, ran a hand over my face, groaned into the pillow. I was a wreck.

I wondered if she was asleep, peaceful. Or if she was like me, tossing and turning, fighting a war inside her skin. The thought alone made my chest ache.

The walls closed in on me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed air. I needed distance from the ghost of her laugh that still haunted the room. So I headed to the terrace.

The night was heavy with the hum of the city. I paced, hands in my pockets, mind a mess. But then I heard it—the soft click of the terrace door.

She stepped out. 

“Avni…” I whispered, her name breaking out of me like a prayer I wasn’t supposed to say.

I should’ve stopped there. I should’ve walked away, put distance, built back the walls I’d spent months hiding behind. But I couldn’t. My eyes refused to obey, clinging to her face, to the way the night breeze tangled in her hair, to the rise and fall of her chest as though even her breathing pulled me closer.

Every nerve in me screamed restraint. Don’t touch her. Don’t ruin this. Don’t let her see how badly you want her.

But I couldn’t. God, I couldn’t.

The memory of the bar clawed back—her leaning forward, the curve of her cleavage teasing from the neckline of her top, the heat that had surged through me in that instant. I had forced my gaze away, drowning my shame in the rim of a beer glass, but the image was carved into me. I could still feel the burn of it, the guilt, the helpless ache.

Now, with her standing inches away, looking at me with those unguarded eyes, I was unraveling. My heart pounded, my throat locked. If I touched her, I’d lose myself. If I didn’t, I’d die wanting her.

Her hand twitched against her dupatta, and in that small, uncertain movement, something inside me snapped.

I broke.

Two strides and I was in front of her, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. My hand lifted, trembling, and hovered near her cheek. I hesitated—one last, desperate fight against myself. Don’t. Don’t do this.

But when her wide eyes met mine, shimmering with the same longing I’d been hiding, every wall came crashing down.

I cupped her face—rough, trembling, desperate—and I kissed her.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was an explosion.

Her lips were soft, trembling under mine, and the moment they touched I lost all sense of restraint. I kissed her with months of hunger, years of silent ache, every unsent message, every secret glance that had scorched through me. My mouth pressed hard, urgent, devouring, like I could swallow the distance that had suffocated us for so long.

She gasped against me, and the sound wrecked me. Her hands fisted in my shirt, dragging me closer, her body colliding with mine. I wrapped my arms around her, crushing her against me, terrified she’d slip away if I didn’t hold her tight enough.

I kissed her like a drowning man clawing at air, like she was both salvation and sin. Her lips parted, and I deepened the kiss, tasting her, drinking her in like I’d been starving my whole life for this one moment.

And still—still, beneath all the hunger, something gentler bled through. My lips softened, slowed, lingered. I kissed her like a secret, like a promise, savoring her as though I could memorize the taste of her forever.

When I finally tore away, gasping, I rested my forehead against hers. The night hummed around us, but inside me there was only silence—shattered, sacred silence.

My voice broke, barely more than a whisper.
“I… I can’t stop.”

Her grip on my shirt tightened, her breath hot against my lips. And then she whispered, trembling, “Then don’t.”

Her grip on my shirt tightened, her breath hot against my lips. And then she whispered, trembling, “Then don’t.”

Something in me shattered.

I pulled her into me again, holding her as though the world outside might rip her away. Her body fit against mine like it had always belonged there, like we’d been carved for this moment. I kissed her slower now, deeper, tasting every second, knowing I would never forget the way she felt against my mouth, the way her heartbeat thudded wild against my chest.

When I finally forced myself to break the kiss, I didn’t let her go. I couldn’t. Our foreheads stayed pressed, our breaths tangled, our hearts thundering in sync.

And in that stillness, I knew.

I knew there was no going back. No pretending this was just a slip, just a moment of weakness. This kiss had undone me, rewritten me.

I had crossed the line I’d drawn a thousand times in my head, the line I swore I’d never step over. And yet, standing there with her in my arms, I felt no regret. Only clarity.

Everything had changed.

I would never again be able to look at her and see “just a colleague.” Never again hear her laugh without feeling it tug at the place her lips had touched mine. Never again walk away without leaving pieces of myself behind.

She wasn’t just in my head anymore. She was under my skin, in my blood, etched into me.

And as I held her, trembling and breathless, one thought consumed me—
This was the beginning. The moment my world stopped being mine, and became hers.