'If Only for a Moment'

The first time he saw her, she was adjusting the sleeves of her crisp cotton kurta, oblivious to the conversations around her. The conference room was packed with employees, all gathered to welcome the newest member of their editorial team. Her introduction was brief, and she spoke with the kind of measured confidence that made people listen. But what stayed with him was the way she smiled—soft, reserved, as if she carried stories within her that she wasn’t ready to tell.

He was twenty-eight, she was thirty-two. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

From that day, a quiet admiration took root in him. She wasn’t just another colleague—she was the woman he found himself watching across the office floor, the one he noticed even in a crowd. She carried herself with grace, her laughter never too loud, her presence never demanding yet impossible to ignore.

They became friends in the way only colleagues do at first—casual lunch breaks, work discussions, shared frustrations over impossible deadlines. But soon, it deepened. They would linger after meetings, talking about everything but work. She introduced him to classic Hindi poetry; he made her listen to his favorite indie bands. It was effortless, yet unspoken—this connection that neither of them named.

He knew he had fallen the day she came to office drenched in rain, her dupatta clinging to her shoulder, eyes shining with a childlike thrill. She laughed at her own predicament as she wiped her hands on a tissue. And he, who had never struggled with words before, could only watch and wonder if she had any idea what she was doing to him.

But she was careful. Always careful.

She knew. She must have. The way he looked at her, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her—it wasn’t something she could ignore. And yet, she never crossed the line. Not once.

She was older. She had seen the world in a way he hadn’t yet. She knew that feelings like these, once acknowledged, could never be taken back. So she built walls—gentle, invisible ones—always keeping just enough distance so neither of them would have to face the truth.

And yet, there were moments.

Like when he would bring her a cup of coffee just the way she liked, without her ever asking.

Or when she would text him poetry at odd hours, knowing he’d understand its unsaid meanings.

Or the way he would sit on the floor beside her chair during late-night office hours, pretending to be engrossed in work while stealing glances at her.

It wasn’t love in the way the world defined it. It was something softer, something quieter—a love that existed in pauses, in silences, in everything they didn’t say.

---

That evening in her kitchen was one of those moments.

She had invited him over after work, something she rarely did. He had followed her, as he always did, slipping into her space like he belonged there. And he did, in a way neither of them acknowledged.

She busied herself with the induction stove, pretending not to notice the way he moved around her kitchen as if he had been there a hundred times before. When he jumped onto the countertop, she merely raised a brow, but said nothing.

"Suniye."

She turned to him, stirring the tea. "Ji boliye."

He opened the container of Amul powder and grinned. "Pass me a spoon from the cupboard. I want to have this."

She looked at him, then at the tin in his hand. "Amul? Aap chhote bachche ho?"

He nodded dramatically, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. "Want to be."

She watched as he scooped a spoonful and licked it, eyes shining with rapturous delight. He was a grown man, competent, intelligent, and yet, at times like these, he reminded her of something untouched by the weight of the world.

And then, before she could stop herself, she asked, "Will you miss me?"

It slipped out—soft, almost uncertain.

He paused. The spoon hovered in mid-air before he slowly closed the container, his face unreadable.

"Mere haan kehne se aap ruk nehin jaogi na?"

She felt something tighten in her chest.

She had put in her resignation two weeks ago. A better opportunity, a different city. He hadn’t said much when she told him, just a quiet nod, a flicker of something she couldn’t name in his eyes. But now, here in the stillness of her kitchen, the weight of unspoken words settled between them.

She wanted to say something—to offer comfort, to ease whatever ache he was trying so hard to hide. But what could she say? That she wanted to stay? That if things were different, she might have let herself love him the way he deserved to be loved?

She turned away, pouring the tea into two cups. The induction timer beeped, breaking the silence.

When she handed him his cup, their fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.

It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.

But for now, it was all they had.

And maybe, in another life, that would have been enough too.