Aarohi
Cafes have always been my safe space. Something about the clinking of cups, low music, and coffee-scented air makes the world feel… softer
But today, this place felt anything but soft.
Because across the table from me sat Mr.Oberoi — CEO of Oberoi Enterprises, black coffee in hand, unreadable expression on his face.
“Mujhe laga tum espresso people mein se nahi hogi,” he said, eyes flicking to my cup.
“I’m more of a chai person”, I smiled, “But… someone once told me I look more ‘put-together’ with a black coffee in hand. I guess I started believing it.”
He gave a small chuckle — the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes.
We were here to discuss the company’s annual product launch event.
Technically. But this didn’t feel technical. Not with the way he leaned forward when I spoke, or the rare smirk that tugged at his lips when I argued back.
“You’re pushing for the Blue Fern again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Because it fits the mood. Classy, slightly open, evening-friendly.”
I paused. “It gives people something to feel, not just something to see.”
“Barish ka season hai, Miss Chowdhury,” he raised an eyebrow. “Ek baar sab bheeg gaye toh brand toh gaya.”
“Backup tent structure rahega,” I replied. “And the ambiance is worth the risk. People remember how they feel, not just what they see.”
He paused, looked at me a beat longer than necessary. Then said softly,
“Tum office mein chup rehti ho… aur yahan itni baatein?”
I shrugged. “Office mein bolne ka maan hota hai… himmat nahi.”
“Yahan shayad kisi ne pehli baar poocha.”
Another smile. That rare, real one.
He didn’t say anything for a moment — just watched me. Not in that awkward, lingering way most people do. Just... curiously quiet.
“You’re not what I expected.”
His tone was casual, but something in it made me pause.
“Is that a compliment or a warning?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He smirked — just a flicker.
“Let’s call it... an observation.”
I leaned back slightly. “Well, Mr. Oberoi, people usually expect less. Helps them stay pleasantly surprised.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re very measured. You speak like every word is weighed before it’s spoken.”
“Because it is,” I said simply. “Words cost too much if used carelessly.”
He nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did.
We lapsed into a brief silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Just that kind where the air carries everything unsaid.
---
We spoke about numbers and logistics for fifteen more minutes, until the laptop was shut, and the air got lighter. Somewhere between discussing guest entries and decor budgets, the topic casually shifted.
Aarav leaned back slightly, fingers wrapped around his espresso cup, eyes fixed on me with that quiet intensity he always carried.
“You always wanted to be in PR?” he asked, casually, like he wasn’t peeling back a layer of my life.
Not really,” I said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “
“I used to think I’d end up doing something more creative. Writing maybe... or travel documentaries. Something that felt a little more... me.”
I didn’t look at him when I said it. Just stared at the wooden swirl of the tabletop, like it held the map of all the paths I didn’t take.
“But then life happened,” I added with a light shrug.
“Pata hi nahi chala kab passion ki jagah compromise ne le li.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Just kept observing, like he always did.
“And now?” he finally asked.
“You’re okay with where you landed?”
I met his gaze this time. Calm. Certain. Maybe even honest.
“You learn to be,” I said softly.
“Sab kuch mil jaaye, yeh zaroori toh nahi. Kabhi kabhi jo milta hai... usi ko manzil maan kar chalna padta hai.”
There was a pause after that. The kind that feels like silence, but says everything.
“And you?” I asked, genuinely curious. “CEO banna tha? Ya accident hua?”
He looked out the window for a second, then said, “Kisi aur ke liye sapna hota hai, mere liye toh sirf ek rasta tha... jo mil gaya, wahi chala.”
Silence.
I didn’t ask further. I didn’t need to.
There was something about him —
The way he spoke less and noticed more.
His eyes scanned people like they were files, and he already knew what was written inside.
But there was something else too.
A distance. Ek deewar jaisi.
Solid. Still. And maybe even a little lonely.
He looked like a man who’d locked himself away long ago —
and never tried finding the key again.
---
As we got up to leave, he looked at me, direct, unreadable.
“Not bad, Chowdhury. I underestimated you.”
I adjusted my bag casually
“Good. Now let me take the final call on the next venue.”
He smiled — short, controlled — and walked ahead, disappearing into the noise of the street like he belonged to it.
I started walking too, in the opposite direction.
Work done. Day over. Nothing more to think about.
But just as I reached the corner to cross the road, my steps slowed.
There, across the street — near the old magazine stall — a familiar silhouette stood for barely a second. Head down, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a phone.
No. It couldn’t be.
My heart paused — not loudly, not dramatically.
Just enough to make me stop.
Before I could be sure, a car passed between us.
And when it moved, he was gone.
I stood there for a moment longer, staring at nothing.
Maybe it wasn’t him.
Maybe it was.
But that one glimpse —
wasn’t supposed to happen.
Write a comment ...