I know it is.
I have actual work—calls to return, numbers to review, decisions waiting for me to make them. And yet, every twenty minutes or so, I find myself glancing toward the corridor that leads to the section she’s taken over, as if my eyes can somehow pull her into view.
They don’t.
So I stay.
And around three-thirty, when I realize I haven’t seen her step out even once—not for coffee, not for water, not even to glare at someone—I pull out my phone and call home.
Ma doesn’t ask questions when I tell her to send an extra tiffin.
She never does.
There’s a softness in her voice that tells me she understands more than I’m saying, and I end the call before she can say anything that might make me think too much about it.
By the time the food arrives, it’s past four. I let it sit on my desk for a full five minutes, pretending I’m finishing an email. My mind wavers back to that night. On the balcony. About the way she looked at me like I was something she wanted and feared in equal measure.
About how close we were. How close she let me get. And then how quickly she pulled away.
I have been thinking about that moment nonstop. In the quiet parts of my day. In the pauses between conversations. In the space right before I fall asleep. The memory of her breath against mine. The feel of her hand on my chest. The way her voice broke when she said she couldn’t. I shake the thought away before it settles too deep.
Then I pick up the tiffin and head to her.
Her temporary workspace is opposite to mine, half glass, half chaos. Even from outside, I can see the evidence of her—papers spread out, samples pinned, notes scribbled in margins only she probably understands.
And in the middle of it—Her.
She’s pacing.
Of course she is.
One hand holding a pencil, the other tucked under her elbow as she taps the end of it lightly against her lips. Her hair—those wild, stubborn strands that never stay where they’re supposed to—bounce with every step she takes.
She’s frowning. Lost somewhere in her own head. For a moment, I just stand there and watch. Because this version of her…this unguarded, unaware version…she doesn’t see me looking. Doesn’t brace. Doesn’t sharpen.
She’s just…Ishika. And God, she’s beautiful like this. Not in the obvious way people notice first. But in the way that sneaks up on you. The way that makes you look twice. Then a third time. Then forget what you were doing entirely.
I push the door open. She doesn’t notice immediately. “Sunshine.” She startles slightly, turning toward me, and for a split second there’s something soft in her eyes—something that disappears the moment recognition sets in.
“What do you want?”
Ah. There she is.
I lift the tiffin slightly. “Food.”
“I’m not hungry.” The response is immediate.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her for a moment. “You haven’t eaten.” I complain.
Her eyes narrow. “Are you tracking my meals now?”
“If I need to.” I shrug.
She scoffs, turning back to her table. “I said I’m not hungry.”
I push off the door and walk in anyway, placing the tiffin on the nearest clear surface. “My mother sent this.”
That gets her attention. She glances at the box, then at me. “I…Um…She didn’t need to.”
