Simran’s POV

The first thing I did after stepping inside was exhale.. not the tired kind, but the kind that happens when your mind’s been running all day.

Mumma was still in the living room, talking to Aarav. She looked up as I entered.

“Kaafi der laga di tum dono ne,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

{“You two took quite a while.”}

I smiled back, hiding the warmth that had been sitting in my chest since the café. “Traffic tha, Mumma.”

{“There was traffic, Mom.”}

Aarav gave me that grin, the one that means he’s already decided he’ll tease me later. “Haan, traffic mein coffee milti hai na,” he said.

{“Yeah, you get coffee in traffic, right?”}

Before I could glare at him, Mumma smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Bas, zyada mat bol,” she warned, but she was smiling too.

{“Just don’t speak too much.”}

Typical Aarav. Typical Mumma. Normal. Everything is so normal.

But I am not.

I went to my room and shut the door, leaning against it for a second. My heart was still not done replaying everything his voice, the way he looked at me, the car ride. It was like my brain had recorded every second and refused to stop playing it.

---

When I’d come down the stairs earlier that evening, I hadn’t expected him to look at me that way.

He was sitting in the living room, talking to Mumma and Aarav, his voice polite and calm exactly like I’d remembered.

But when I appeared at the top of the stairs and our eyes met, he just… stopped mid-sentence.

It wasn’t something huge but I felt it. The stillness.

The way his eyes followed me as if the world had slowed down for a heartbeat.

I had looked away, pretending to adjust my dupatta, but I’d felt the air shift, a quiet awareness between us.

It wasn’t about beauty or looks. It was something else.

Something about being seen.

And then later, in the car…

I’d caught him stealing glances when he thought I wasn’t noticing.

Once, when I turned to look out the window, I could feel his eyes on me.

It made my heart race.

I wanted to look back, to meet his gaze, but I didn’t. I just smiled faintly at my reflection in the window.

When the music played softly in the background and streetlights washed through the car, I saw him grip the steering wheel a little tighter, almost as if he was stopping himself from doing something.

And for a brief second, our hands had been close just inches apart on the gear console.

I remember thinking, kash woh haath pakad le…

and then immediately scolding myself for it.

But even now, standing alone in my room, that thought felt like it had stayed with me, stubborn, quiet, impossible to ignore.

---

The next few days were… strange.

Not in a bad way just quieter inside me.

He’d text sometimes. Simple things.

“Reached back?”

“Hope your day’s going fine.”

“Don’t skip lunch, okay?”

I’d reply with equally normal things.

“Yes, just got home.”

“You too.”

“Haha, I won’t.”

But every message carried more than it said.

Every time his name flashed on my screen, my heartbeat picked up.

Every time he used my name Simran, just like that, no extra words I found myself reading it twice.

We didn’t talk about the café or the car.

But I knew he’d felt it too that quiet, growing pull that wasn’t love yet, but wasn’t nothing either.

---

A few evenings later, we spoke on the phone for the first time.

He’d called for something casual to ask about some family arrangement but the call didn’t end at that.

We talked for twenty minutes. Then forty. Then an hour.

He told me about his work site in Jodhpur, how the monsoon had delayed a few projects. I told him about my job, about the chaos of planning small wedding details already.

Somewhere between those lines, it didn’t feel like two people trying to get to know each other anymore. It felt like… ease.

Like this was the start of something that would build quietly, layer by layer.

---

That night, after hanging up, I lay in bed and thought of how he’d said my name near the end

“Simran… take care, okay?”

The words were simple. But the way he said them low, sincere made it feel like something had changed between us.

I don’t know if its love yet. But I  know it's something real.

Something that made me smile even into the dark.

___

The next week slipped by in small, ordinary moments that somehow didn’t feel ordinary anymore.

It’s funny how someone can walk into your life quietly and, without making any noise, begin to rearrange the way your days feel.

Every morning, I’d wake up to a normal routine tea with Mumma, helping Aarav with some document, checking messages.

But when my phone buzzed and it was his message, there would be that split second where I’d smile without meaning to.

“Good morning, Simran.”

“You have a busy day ahead?”

“Don’t forget to take a break between work.”

I wasn’t used to it someone remembering small things, someone checking in without a reason.

He wasn’t being overbearing. He is just present and that quiet presence had started to feel… comforting.

---

One afternoon, Aarav caught me smiling at my phone.

“Bhaiya ne message kiya kya?” he said teasingly, and before I could react, he added, “Naam toh save hai na Sarthak bhaiya se?”

{“Did brother message you?”}

{“You have saved the name with Sarthak Bhaiya, right?”}

I rolled my eyes. “Aarav, kaam kar na apna.”

{“Aarav, do your work.”}

He laughed and left, but I knew the teasing wasn’t ending anytime soon.

Still, I don’t mind. Maybe because for the first time, the teasing felt sweet like I was part of something that is actually mine.

---

In evening, I sat on the balcony, the sky painted in shades of orange and fading blue.

He called again.

“Hi,” his voice came, calm as always. “Free thi kya?”

{“Were you free?”}

“Thodi si,” I said, smiling. “Bas chai pee rahi thi.”

{“A little bit,”}

{“I was just drinking tea.”}

He chuckled softly. “Karnal ki chai toh waise bhi famous hai.”

{“Karnal's tea is famous anyway.”}

“Haan,” I said, “lekin karnal ki sham ke bina incomplete lagti hai.”

{“Yes, But it seems incomplete without  the Karnal's evening.”}

There was a pause on the line a soft one, filled with amusement. “You’re getting good at this.”

“At what?”

“Talking like me,” he said.

I laughed quietly. “Then you’ll have to talk a bit more to balance it out.”

He hummed, like he was smiling on the other side. “Fair enough.”

The conversation drifted then from tea to his brothers, to Mumma asking about him, to little things.

He told me about his younger brother’s habit of hiding the car keys just to irritate him. I told him about Aarav’s teasing.

And somewhere in between the laughter, there were pauses that meant more than words the kind where neither of us rushed to fill the silence.

---

A few days later, he sent a photo of his mother’s handmade laddoos.

“Maa made these. She said she’ll make some for you when you come next.”

I stared at the message for a few seconds longer than I should’ve.

He was thinking ahead about me being there, about us being part of each other’s routines.

That simple message, so normal on the surface, made something inside me warm.

I replied,

“Then please tell aunty I already love her laddoos.”

He sent a smile emoji, then

“She’ll be happy to hear that. I told her you’d say something like this.”

You’d think it’s just talk, but it felt like a promise  of the small, homely warmth I’d soon belong to.

---

Sometimes, at night, I’d catch myself thinking of that car ride again.

The way his hand had hesitated near mine, how he had chosen to hold back.

There was something deeply respectful about it like he knew exactly where the line was, yet cared enough to make me feel safe within it.

And maybe that’s what made it so hard to shake off, that quiet sense of being understood without saying anything.

---

A week turned into ten days.

Every call, every text, every glance across the video call screen (yes, we had started that too now) added small details to the picture I was building of him.

He was reserved but attentive.

He remembered what I said casually  about the shade of my favorite dupatta, about how I liked the sound of rain.

And sometimes, that’s the most dangerous kind of affection - the kind that grows silently until it fills all the spaces inside you.

---

One night, while we were talking, he said something that stayed with me.

We were discussing random wedding things  colors, locations  when he suddenly said,

“Simran, I don’t know how this will go… but I want you to know I’ll never rush you into anything. Take your time. Jo pace tumhe sahi lage.”

{“Whatever pace feels right to you.”}

It wasn’t a big confession.

But the sincerity in his voice made my throat fluttered a little.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He said softly, “You don’t have to thank me for something that should already be there.”

That line that should already be there stayed with me long after the call ended.

It reminded me why, out of all the people I’d met, he was the one I could imagine trusting without second thoughts.

---

That was the last night before things got busier.

Before wedding lists, fabric choices, and guest calls started to fill every spare minute.

But even then, whenever my phone buzzed and it was his name, my day would somehow slow down  like time knew it needed to make space for him.

And that’s how it began

a connection not defined by declarations, but by quiet understanding, by the way he made me feel seen.