Mumbai felt angry today. The monsoon had finally stopped, but the air was still heavy and sticky. Windows were covered with water drops, and traffic wasn't moving at all. I kept my head against the taxi window, watching tall buildings pass by in a blur.
My face in the window looked back at me—tired eyes, pale skin, lips that had forgotten how to smile. I looked like a ghost wearing my clothes.
It was my first day at the new office.
Again.
Not that I'd changed many offices. This was only my second job since moving to Mumbai from my small hometown in Uttarakhand three years ago. But it felt like I'd been running forever.
I closed my eyes and let the emptiness fill me like cold water. This time would be different because this time, I felt nothing. No hope. No fear. No, stupid wish that maybe this place would be better.
Nothing at all.
It was safer this way. Safer than letting anyone close enough to leave.
"Welcome to R Media!" The HR lady's voice was too loud for a Monday morning. I'm Priya, and I'm so excited you're joining our creative team! Seventh floor. Someone will show you around."
I nodded, my fingers touching the old leather strap of my bag—something I did when nervous. The woman kept talking about benefits and lunch timings, and team activities, but the words just bounced off me.
Just survive today. Then tomorrow. Then the next day.
The lift went up slowly. Each floor felt like a small death. When it opened on the seventh floor, I saw pastel walls and positive posters everywhere—"TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK" and "FAILURE IS JUST A STEP TO SUCCESS."
I wanted to burn them all.
Some people looked up from their desks. Some smiled politely. Others didn't bother looking. I liked the ones who ignored me. At least they were honest.
My desk was in a quiet corner, near the emergency exit. Even the universe knew I'd need a way to escape.
The desk was clean—a new computer, a comfortable chair, and a small plant someone had kept there to welcome me. I touched one of its thick leaves and felt nothing. Not thankful. Not happy. Not even annoyed.
Good. Stay empty. Empty means safe.
Thirty-seven minutes into my first day, my hands were shaking for a cigarette. The open office meant too many eyes watching, too much fake happiness, too many people who might want to talk. The walls felt like they were closing in.
I took my ID card and walked out, following green signs that said "SMOKING ZONE."
The smoking area was a narrow balcony between two glass parts of the building, seven floors above the street. The sky was grey above us. A small wind moved the curls near my ear—the only part of me that still seemed alive.
I lit my cigarette quickly, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. The nicotine hit me like medicine.
First cigarette of the day. Still nothing, but at least the shaking stops.
Then I heard footsteps.
Slow ones. Someone else is looking for peace in this concrete place.
He was already there—leaning against the far wall like he belonged there, half-hidden behind a glass wall. One foot up against the railing, cigarette between his fingers like it was part of his hand. Dark hoodie that looked old, black jeans that fit perfectly. Eyes that looked at the world like it had let him down.
I thought he hadn't seen me. Then he turned his head slowly and looked at me with eyes that seemed to see everything.
No smile. No "hello." No fake office friendliness.
Just... he saw me. Like I was just another broken thing that had ended up on his balcony.
I nodded slightly.
He didn't nod back.
We stood quietly, smoke floating between us like secrets. The city made noise below—car horns, construction, the sound of eight million people pretending their lives mattered.
I had seen him during my morning tour. He worked in design—always laughing, making jokes, the kind of guy who could make everyone smile. The one everyone wanted to be friends with.
But here, alone, he was completely different. No act. Just real. And guarded.
He didn't look at my body or judge me. He just stared at the buildings.
I liked that he didn't try to fill the silence with stupid talk.
After a long time, he spoke. "You're the new one."
Not asking. Just saying it like a fact.
I took another drag, tasting ash and giving up. "Very observant."
His mouth moved slightly—barely, but I saw it. "I'm bored, not observant. Different things."
The way he said it made me look at him more carefully. There was something empty behind his words, like an echo in an empty room.
Against everything telling me to stay unknown, I heard myself say, "I'm Naira."
He didn't answer right away. Let my name hang in the air like smoke. Then: "Kabir."
"Well, Kabir," I said, dropping ash toward the railing, "you're the first person here who didn't ask how I'm 'settling in' or if I'm 'excited about this opportunity.'"
He looked at me properly then—like he was figuring out a puzzle. "I don't do small talk."
"Good. I hate it."
We finished our cigarettes quietly. Neither of us wanted to leave first.
Kabir checked his watch—expensive, I noticed, which didn't match his casual clothes—then looked at the door. "Should go back. People notice things."
I frowned. "What things?"
He crushed his cigarette harder than needed. "Talking. Smoking together. The new girl and the office flirt are having secret conversations. People love making up stories."
"You care what they think?" I was surprised, I asked.
His eyes went dark, losing whatever softness had been there. "I don't like explaining myself. That's it."
And just like that, he walked back inside, leaving me alone with the wind and the taste of cigarettes and something else—something that might have been disappointment if I could still feel such things.
I stayed on the balcony longer than I needed to, letting the air cool my skin. Letting my thoughts go back to nothing.
But Kabir stayed in my mind like smoke in clothes.
He was confused dangerously. The happy mask he wore inside versus the empty-eyed stranger on the balcony. I'd known a man like that before—someone who could charm everyone but showed his real face only to me.
Someone who used to stand on terraces with me, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking about dreams we'd build together.
Someone who had looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "Naira, we both know this will destroy us if we keep fighting it. Our families will never accept this. Maybe... maybe we should stop before we hate each other."
And I had nodded, because I knew he was right. Because loving someone sometimes meant letting them go before that love turned into resentment and pain.
I'd sworn after that conversation that I'd never let anyone that close again. Never trust in shared dreams or believe that understanding someone meant forever was possible.
But there had been something else in his eyes. Something hungry and desperate and carefully hidden. Like he was drowning but had forgotten how to ask for help.
Not your problem, I told myself. You don't save people anymore. You don't get saved.
Back at my desk, a girl named Riya came over with too much energy.
"Hey! How's your first day? We're all going for lunch soon—our creative team always sits together. You should come!"
I looked toward the break area, where a group of young people were laughing over food containers. I recognized some faces from the morning—Nishant with his perfect hair, Myra with her band t-shirts, Veer who talked in movie dialogues. They looked happy. Real. Like people who still believed good things could happen.
I had promised myself things would be different this time. That I'd try to connect, make friends, stop hiding like a hurt animal.
But promises were weak things, and mine had been broken so many times they meant nothing now.
"Maybe tomorrow," I said, making a polite smile. "Still getting used to everything."
"Of course! No pressure. We'll be here when you're ready."
Riya went back to the group, probably telling them the new girl was shy but seemed nice. I watched her rejoin them with the easy acceptance of people who hadn't learned to doubt kindness yet.
I could have walked over. Could have joined the conversation, laughed at their jokes, shared stories about my weekend or favorite movies, or dreams for the future.
If I still had dreams.
I stayed at my desk, working through papers and wondering when I had become this—this empty, careful thing that moved through the world like I was made of glass.
The girl from my hometown would have joined them. The girl who used to laugh easily, who believed in forever, who thought love stories always had happy endings. But that girl died three years ago when she realized that all the money in the world couldn't buy you the one thing you actually wanted.
That girl had been naive enough to think that being a businessman's daughter would make things easier, not harder. That having money meant you could choose your own happiness.
She'd learned the hard way that some families see love as a betrayal of everything they stand for. And sometimes, even when two people love each other desperately, it still isn't enough to bridge the gap between two different worlds.
At 3:30, I needed another cigarette. The afternoon was hitting me hard, and the office lights were giving me a headache.
The balcony was empty.
I told myself I wasn't disappointed.
Told myself I hadn't been hoping to see Kabir there, hadn't been curious about what other sides he might show when alone.
You don't care. You feel nothing. Remember?
But as I lit my cigarette and looked out at the city, I kept glancing toward the glass door. Listening for footsteps that never came.
The rest of the day passed in emails and computer training. My brain took in information like a machine while my heart stayed locked away. No drama. No feelings. No risk.
Exactly as I had planned.
By six o'clock, most people had left. I packed my things slowly, not wanting to go back to my small apartment with one window and the smell of the old tenant's cooking. At least here, I could pretend I was part of something bigger than my own careful life.
The lift was empty going down. My reflection in the steel doors looked the same as morning—pale, distant, safely numb. But something felt different. A tiny crack in the wall I'd built around myself.
I pressed my hand to my chest where the crack seemed to be, trying to make it close.
Don't. Don't feel anything. It's not worth it.
That night, I sat on my bed in an old t-shirt, hair wet from a long shower. My phone was silent beside me—no messages, no missed calls, no proof that anyone cared if I existed.
Good. That's how I wanted it.
Needed it.
But as I stared at the ceiling, looking at water stains like stars, my mind kept going back to the balcony. To Kabir's dark eyes and how he'd looked at the buildings like they had answers to questions he was scared to ask.
To the understanding that had passed between us, two people who knew that sometimes silence was the only honest conversation possible.
It reminded me of someone else. Someone who used to understand my silences, too.
Arjun.
I pushed the name away before it could settle in my chest. Before it could remind me of five years that ended in a quiet conversation on a college terrace. Five years of love, of planning a future together, of believing that sometimes love really was enough.
Until both our families decided it wasn't.
Until we both realized that love alone couldn't fight the weight of tradition, expectations, and two families who would never accept each other.
Until we made the hardest decision of our lives—to let each other go before the world tore us apart.
I turned on my side, pulling a pillow over my head to block out the city's night sounds. Tomorrow would be easier. The newness would fade, my walls would get stronger, and whatever crack had appeared today would heal like it never happened.
I was good at healing over.
But somewhere between being awake and sleeping, I wondered if Kabir was lying in his own bed thinking about smoke and silence.
And for just a moment—so quick I could pretend it didn't happen—I felt something move in the empty space where my heart used to be.
Then I remembered why I had buried it there, and the feeling disappeared like smoke in the wind.
Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, I'll feel nothing at all.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello guys, here's another story — and this one is really close to my heart.
Some parts of it are actually based on my real-life experiences. Of course, a few things have been changed here and there, but the emotions and memories behind it are very real.
I hope you feel the same connection I did while writing it.
Do let me know what you think!