If fresh starts had a smell, Bangalore's would be a mix of rain, filter coffee, and misplaced optimism. 

People like to romanticise moving to a new city, a fresh start. Like it's easy--everything new, a few hopeful Pinterest quotes, and somehow, you're reborn. 

It's all a lie. Bangalore isn't my beginning, it's my escape. I didn't move here to chase love, or chaos, or whatever my friends here think I need. I'm here because my old city has stopped feeling like home. Maybe I'd outgrown it, if that is possible. Or maybe it has outgrown me. 

I left my home one quiet morning with two suitcases and a promise to myself--that I wouldn't let the past decide who I become next. Not after everything that happened. 

I haven't told anyone the real reason for my move, my parents, nor my friends back home. The only truth is that I needed distance from everything that went down. From the version of myself who kept forgiving the unforgivable. 

Every corner knew too much about me, the versions I'd rather forget, the person I was before things went wrong. Before he turned love into something I couldn't recognize anymore. 

Writing was supposed to help. And for a while, it did--until it started hurting too. Because the more I write, the more words bled with everything I refused to say out loud. It's been a year since I published my first book, but now when I sit down to write anything, nothing comes to mind. It's all blank. 

When I sent my manuscript to Inkspire Publishing, I didn't expect a reply. It was more out of defiance than hope.

But I got one. Arin Kapoor. 

His email had been short, professional but it gave me some kind of hope which I didn't even know I was waiting for. After exchanging few mails, and calls I decided to get my own place after living off on the couch at my friend's place. 

My apartment is small but full of sunlight, my desk cluttered with half-empty cups of chai and scattered pages. I tell people I moved here because I got a call for my manuscript, but that's only half-truth and very much wish it to be that way. 

When Arin said my story carried "an ache that feels honest" I think that was it, the part that convinced him to take it. Editors rarely look beyond the words, but him and Saahiba did. 

I didn't know then that it would lead me here--working with Saahiba, who somehow became a friend faster than I intended. There was something about the warmth with everyone else welcomed me here that it made it hard for me to keep my guard up. 

And there's Nikhil. I met him through Saahiba. Her "almost serious thing".

After the fiasco at her birthday, it became clearer. Saahiba was still effected by Arin, and Nikhil hid a huge thing about him being divorced. But I still admired them when Saahiba told me about the meeting in the cafe with Nikhil where they decided it was better to let go of each other. There was no bitterness in her tone when she mentioned him even though he hid the truth, just quiet respect. And that is what intrigued me--how two people could part ways like that and still care, still wish each other well. 

We have met a few times now--always surrounded with people, shared laughter, familiar faces between us. He is kind of man you notice without meaning to. Not because he's loud or demanding attention--quite the opposite. It's the calmness, the way he listens to people around him, the quiet understanding in his eyes that disarms before you realize it. 

And that is dangerous. Because I've already lived through what happens when you let someone see too much of you. So I keep my distance, even when he's standing close enough for me to feel the pull. Even when Saahiba and Arin try their best to push us together. 

So when I got a text today in our group about a dinner, my heart did something. I told myself it was just dinner, a casual evening with friends. I hadn't seen them in weeks. No reason for my heart to skip a beat. 

I checked my reflection one last time in the mirror--a simple black kurti, my hair open. 

Arin and Saahiba's apartment was already buzzing when I arrived. The faint smell of basil and wine hung in the air, laughter spilling from the kitchen. I spotted Saahiba first--she looked effortlessly happy, her eyes still carrying that glow she'd had since the wedding. 

And then there was Nikhil--sitting across Meher they were talking about something and he had that look on his face again which meant he was listening to every word Meher was saying. 

Our eyes met briefly, and I swear I forgot what small talk even was. 

"Hey, you made it," Saahiba pulled me into a quick hug before noticing where my gaze had wandered. A teasing grin slipped across her face. "Dr. Malhotra's here too, in case you hadn't noticed."

I rolled my eyes. "I noticed."

Dinner was warm and chaotic — Arin's terrible puns, Saahiba's mock scolding, and the occasional comment from Nikhil that made everyone laugh except me, because I was too busy studying the way he listened — attentive, calm, like he saw more than he let on.

At one point, his hand brushed mine when we both reached for the same serving bowl.
It wasn't anything.
But it was.

I looked away first.
He didn't.

And I wondered if maybe, just maybe, the universe had a strange sense of humor — letting me meet someone like him when I'd long decided that love wasn't something I'd risk again.

By the time, we all were full and lazily sitting on the floor. It was past eleven. 

Saahiba and Arin were still arguing who burnt the garlic bread--though everyone knew it was Arin. And I was trying to figure out how to politely book a cab without getting roped into another round of wine.

But then she suggested Nikhil should drop me home. I already knew resistance was pointless. Arin's smirk didn't help either. Between the two of them, it felt less like an offer and more like a staged ambush. 

I tried to protest, of course. Said I could book a cab, that it wasn't that far. But apparently, everyone had decided my opinion was irrelevant tonight.

So here I was — sitting in Nikhil's car, pretending to scroll through my phone while very aware of the man next to me.

He smelled like clean soap and something faintly woody, the kind of scent that lingers without trying. His jacket rested neatly on the backseat, his hands steady on the wheel. He drove like he did everything else — quiet, controlled, unhurried.

And that silence between us? It wasn't awkward. It was worse — comfortable.

I hated that.

"You really didn't have to do this," I said finally, just to fill the quiet.

"I know," he replied, eyes still on the road. "But then Saahiba would've guilt-tripped me for a week. I'm saving myself."

That made me smile before I could stop it. "You two have become really close."

"Yeah," he said softly. "She's like family."

Something about the way he said it — quiet, sure — made my chest tighten a little. I didn't know why. Maybe because it was rare to hear someone say things like that with that much sincerity.

I looked out the window, the city lights smearing gold and blue against the night. The air smelled faintly of rain.

Then, without really meaning to, I said, "You always do that, don't you?"

"Do what?"

"Deflect. When things get personal."

He shot me a look, half surprised, half amused. "That your writer instinct talking?"

"Maybe," I said, fighting a smile. "I notice people."

"Then stop noticing me."

"Can't."

The word slipped out before I could filter it, soft and automatic.

He went still for half a second — just enough for me to notice. And then he looked back at the road like nothing happened, but the air in the car shifted. He didn't say anything after that, and neither did I.

Outside, the rain started again — light, barely there.

And for reasons I didn't want to examine, I found myself wishing the drive was just a little longer.

───────•••───────

So here is another chapter. Do share your thoughts guys. 

Vote. Comment. Follow.