Threads of Trust

It was a slow-burning summer in the bustling halls of Fairflex Media House, the kind of summer that left smudged headlines and half-drunk coffees on every reporter's desk.

She, older by a few years, carried the weight of deadlines and expectations: an important interview with the Home Minister that loomed like a shadow, colleagues who shifted in and out like frames in a film reel, and a loneliness that sometimes pressed against her ribs at night.

Roshan was younger by three and a half years, with a boyish smile that refused to fade even on the hardest days. His laughter was a bridge she could cross, a place where her burdens felt lighter. He'd started as an intern but quickly proved indispensable, handling everything from editing to field assignments with a quiet dedication that made him stand out.

They'd connect through circumstances neither could control; two colleagues had left: one her best friend and the other his. In the messy aftermath, they'd found each other, like two puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit anywhere else.

She'd always been the emotionally unreachable one, the one who held her secrets like a shield, afraid of showing too much to anyone. She'd never imagined herself opening up to someone, certainly not to a colleague three and a half years younger. But Roshan was different. He saw through her silences, reading her thoughts before she could shape them into words, a gift she didn't recognize until much later.

From the formal talk in the bustling newsroom, she hadn't even realized when she had become so comfortable sharing her life with him, enough to discuss her hidden fears, to go out shopping for shoes and dresses, or to eat ice cream with him in front of the office gate without caring who might be watching.

One evening, as dusk settled, they shared an ice cream cone on the curb outside the office gate. She'd always been terrified of ghosts, of the unknown that hid in the dark corners of her mind. And in the hush of that evening, she'd told him, though hesitantly, about how her fears sometimes kept her awake. He had laughed softly, not mocking but comforting.

'Didi,' he said, 'even the ghosts would be afraid of how strong you are.' And he'd held his cone carefully, savouring every bite like it was something precious.

They would slip away from the office sometimes, walking down alleys lined with rickety shops and street vendors selling everything from second-hand books to sweetened soda in glass bottles. He took her to a small restaurant she would never have set foot in alone; greasy menus, cheap plastic chairs, a place that smelled of frying oil and cardamom. But with him, it felt like a warm corner of the world, safe and real.

She'd never opened up to anyone before. No one else had been willing to listen, to understand. Roshan was the first person to catch the unspoken words in her eyes, to read the tremble in her voice before she could hide it. And in that small, hidden way, she realized she had started to trust him.

He would help her shop for simple things, dresses she never thought to wear to parties she never attended. She'd help him choose shoes he never bragged about. Sometimes, they'd talk about the kinds of people they liked and even hated.

While talking about the romantic pursuits with a ever-single girl like her, he'd smile and playfully guess about her being into bearded men. Her mind had automatically travelled to Swapnil Anand, the Editor, with a toned physique, chiseled jawline and short-boxed beards accentuating his handsome looks. She has borne her secret infatuation alone, ready to carry it with her to the grave. Nobody ever knew. She was a bit surprised.

It was weird that some days, amidst a regular office conversation, Roshan would forget Swapnil Anand's name, probably, on purpose, as if he knew that erasing the name from her story would save her from the ache it might bring in a hypothetical scenario. She had laughed it off, never knowing how much Roshan already understood.

Some days, he'd talk about her honesty and naivety: 'You're too good for this world. People will try to change you.' And he'd shield her from office gossip with the gentle defiance of a younger brother who knew the world's cruelty too well.

One night, as the city lights blurred outside her window, he texted her at 1 a.m. He was fighting with his girlfriend, some girl who didn't understand his world, his struggles as the sole earner, the boy who carried his family's hopes like a secret weight. 'No one else would listen to me now," he wrote. 'Only you.' She wanted to sleep, but kindness is a stubborn thing. She stayed. She stayed until the words blurred and the night softened around them.

When she finally bought him a Rakhi, a thin, fragile thread, she'd meant it as a way to seal the bond she didn't have the words for. He'd refused at first. Perhaps, he didn't want to name the bond they have in terms of worldly relationships; but, she'd insisted. Better to have a thread than nothing at all, she'd thought.

When her contract ended and the office didn't extend it further, she parted from the institute and everyone associated with it and the newsroom's chaos receded like a tide, Roshan would still call her, expressing how he was missing those fun days. She, on the other hand, had a strange ego. She wanted to close off every possible tie with Fairflex Media House. He'd answer his calls but only waiting for the moment it would end without her showing any sign of being uninterested.

He came to see her once as well. But, she hated any consolation or sympathy from anyone belonging to Fairflex. She played it cool, trying not to ponder upon the fact that how hurt she was knowing she isn't a part of the company she gave her heart and soul to.

Fighting her own frustrations, she finally managed to open her own blog and put her talent, experience and efficiency to some good use. It did well. She was slowly recovering from the pain. And then, the news came.

Roshan was leaving the city for better prospects. She was surprised knowing it was big decision in his life and he hadn't even told her once about it. Of course, they weren't that close as before. He was an employee of Fairflex Media House, after all. But, she also knew the big probability of Roshan never returning to this city again.

She called him, a bit annoyed and feeling a sense of betrayal within. What he said, however, was beyond the realm of her thinking.

 'If I tried to call and tell you about it..' he said, 'I'll break down.' She could sense him smile and picture that boyish smile that had always made the world feel a little less bitter.

He left.

After some time, she was called back by the CEO of Fairflex Media House. Despite initial resistance, she decided to join the post vacated by him a couple of months ago.

Her life became busy again. After all, she had her own battles to fight; an exclusive interview with the newest Padmashree Awardee of her state and it demanded every ounce of her focus. She had scripts to edit, stories to file. But as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks into months, she found herself reaching for her phone at odd hours, wanting to share a joke or a secret, wanting to know if he was eating well or if he'd finally sorted things with his girlfriend. But, the call never connected.

It was only then, after he'd left, after his voice had grown faint in her memories that she realized just how important he had been. He had been the quiet place where she could rest her weary heart, the brother she had chosen in a world that often felt like a battlefield.

After the town had emptied and his number being reduced to only ten digits, she wondered how had he always guessed her heart's secrets. Could she ever know? It didn't matter now. What mattered was that in a world that had offered her too many closed doors, he had been a window, brief and shining.

She still missed him. Sometimes, on lonely nights, she'd imagine him standing at the gate, a paper cone of ice cream in hand, eyes bright with mischief.

Tears would come unbidden, warm and unstoppable, and she whispered to herself, 'Roshan, I miss you more than I ever thought I would. You were the one who listened, really listened the words I myself never heard.'

And so the thread remained, delicate yet unbroken, reminding her that sometimes the truest family is the one we find, not the one we're born into.