The following week, the office thrummed with a different kind of energy. The usual focus on deadlines and deliverables was replaced by the giddy anticipation of the annual corporate gala—a night of sequins, speeches, and showcased talents. For most, it was a welcome respite. For Aarav, it was a stage, a fresh canvas upon which to paint his particular brand of chaos, and his favorite subject was, as always, Meera.
He made his announcement with typical flair, leaning against the partition of her cubicle with an insouciance that made her eye twitch. "Guess what, Meera ji?" he began, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble.
Meera didn't deign to look up from her monitor, where a complex financial model was displayed. "What? Has HR finally granted my request to have your desk moved to the parking lot?"
"And deprive myself of this glorious view?" he retorted, gesturing vaguely at her meticulously organized workspace. "Never. No, I have been bestowed a great honor. I," he declared, puffing out his chest slightly, "am to be the master of ceremonies for the annual event."
That did it. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. She slowly raised her eyes, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her usual mask of exasperation. "You? Hosting? Who authorized that? Do they understand the risk? What if you decide to open with one of your 'why did the chicken cross the road' variants and cause a mass exodus?"
Aarav pressed a hand to his heart, his expression one of profound wounded pride. "The lack of faith is staggering. And from my own work-wife, no less."
"Stop calling me that!" she snapped, though the heat in her words was less potent than usual.
Their surrounding colleagues, now well-accustomed to the daily theatre, chuckled softly. But Meera felt an odd, fluttering sensation in her stomach. It only intensified over the next few days as she watched him prepare. He'd practice his lines at his desk, his voice losing its usual teasing cadence and taking on a warm, resonant timbre that carried across the floor. He'd run his jokes by the interns, not with arrogance, but with a genuine desire to see what landed, his laugh easy and infectious when they giggled. He even charmed Mrs. Kapoor from Accounts, a woman known for her impenetrable sternness, making her crack a smile with a self-deprecating joke about his own expense reports. It was infuriating. It was… compelling.
---
The New Variable: An Elegant Equation
On the day of the first proper stage rehearsals, a new variable entered the equation. Her name was Natasha, and she arrived from the Mumbai branch with the polished grace of a corporate diplomat and the striking beauty of a Bollywood starlet. She moved through the office with an easy confidence, her laughter a melodic sound that seemed to draw people in.
And she was instantly, effortlessly comfortable with Aarav.
At lunch, she slid into the seat directly beside him in the cafeteria, her body angled toward his as if they were the only two people at the table. She laughed at his jokes—a bright, tinkling sound—and once, placed a hand lightly on his forearm to emphasize a point, leaving it there a moment too long.
Meera, sitting directly across from them, found her own chicken tikka masala suddenly tasted like ash. She watched the exchange, her posture rigid. When Natasha leaned in, her voice a playful purr, and said, "So, Aarav, you're hosting, right? I'll be performing a dance number. Maybe you could introduce me with a little extra… flair? Make a girl feel special," Meera's knuckles tightened around her fork.
Aarav, ever the performer, gave a gallant little bow of his head. "But of course. For you, Natasha, I will ensure the spotlight burns so bright the stage might catch fire."
The table laughed. Meera did not. She focused on her food, spearing a piece of chicken with a little more force than necessary.
Ritu, ever the agent of chaos, nudged her under the table. "Oho," she whispered, her eyes gleaming. "The temperature at this table just dropped by ten degrees. Is someone feeling a little… green?"
Meera's head shot up. "Don't be absurd," she hissed, her voice low and tight. "Why would I be jealous of that… that peacock? He's just Aarav."
But the hot, prickling flush that spread across her cheeks and down her neck was a traitorous testament to the lie.
---
The Cold Front: A Silence That Spoke Volumes
A shift occurred over the next two days. The office, so accustomed to the constant back-and-forth between its two most entertaining occupants, fell into an unnerving quiet on their side of the floor. Aarav, riding the high of his hosting duties and the attention from the glamorous newcomer, initially missed the change. But soon, the silence became a presence.
He tried to reignite their usual spark. "Meera ji,"he called over the partition, "I was gone for twenty whole minutes at lunch. Did you miss the soothing sound of my voice?"
Her response was delivered without looking up from her screen, her tone flat and polite. "No."
Undeterred, he tried again later, holding up two coffee cups. "Coffee run. I miraculously remembered you take it black, no sugar. A peace offering for my inherent existence?"
"I'll make my own later. Thank you." The words were civil, icy, and utterly final.
He stared at her profile, confused. This wasn't their usual dance. This was a door being quietly, firmly closed. "Wow," he said, a note of genuine bewilderment creeping into his teasing. "Did someone replace my gloriously irritable Meera with a Stepford wife? Where's the fire? Where's the passion?"
She offered no retort. No eye roll. Nothing. She simply continued working, her focus absolute. Aarav felt a strange restlessness take root. The approval of the entire office suddenly felt meaningless without her engaged, exasperated attention. Had his joke about the wedding photo gone too far? Was it Natasha? The questions gnawed at him, leaving him uncharacteristically subdued.
---
The Gala: A Spectacle of Light and Shadow
The event night arrived in a whirl of glitter and glamour. The hall was transformed; fairy lights twinkled like captured stars, tables were draped in crisp linen, and the stage stood empty, waiting under a soft glow. Employees milled about, their everyday office wear replaced by silks and suits, the air buzzing with excitement and the clink of glasses.
Aarav was in his element. Dressed in a well-tailored navy-blue suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, he commanded the stage not just with a microphone, but with an undeniable presence. His voice, amplified, was warm and engaging, his jokes perfectly timed, his ad-libs clever without being cruel. He was, Meera had to admit from her shadowed corner seat, brilliant.
And then it was time for Natasha's performance. Aarav introduced her with a flourish. "And now, prepare to be mesmerized! Direct from our Mumbai branch, a performance that promises to set this stage, and maybe a few hearts, ablaze… let's have a huge round of applause for the incredibly talented, Natasha!"
The music swelled. Natasha, in a dazzling sequined outfit, danced with a captivating grace and confidence that held the audience spellbound. She was breathtaking. The applause was thunderous, and as she took her bow, blowing a kiss toward the stage wings where Aarav stood clapping, Meera's chest tightened with a sharp, unfamiliar ache.
Why does this bother me? He's just a colleague. A loud, messy, infuriating colleague. The mantra felt hollow. She watched as Natasha, off-stage now, glided over to Aarav, leaning in to whisper something in his ear, her hand resting on his arm. He laughed, nodding.
That was the final straw. The room, once buzzing with excitement, now felt suffocating. Muttering an excuse to no one in particular, Meera slipped away, seeking refuge on the deserted, dimly lit terrace.
---
The Confrontation: Truth in the Twilight
The night air was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the heated noise inside. She leaned against the cold metal railing, gripping it tightly as if to anchor herself, trying to untangle the knot of emotions tightening in her stomach. The city lights sprawled out before her, a mirror to the confused constellation of feelings within her.
She didn't hear him approach, only sensed his presence a moment before he spoke.
"There you are."
She stiffened, not turning around. His voice was softer than it had been on stage, stripped of its performing bravado.
"I was looking for you," he continued, coming to stand beside her. "You vanished."
She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, her voice carefully neutral. "You seemed otherwise occupied. Shouldn't you be back inside? I'm sure Natasha is looking for her favorite hype man."
He was silent for a beat, and then she heard it—a soft, incredulous chuckle. "Wait a minute. Are you… are you actually jealous?"
The directness of it was a lightning strike. She spun to face him, her composure cracking. "What? No! That's ridiculous. Don't flatter yourself, Aarav. The world does not revolve around you." The words came out too fast, too sharp.
But he took a step closer, and in the dim light, she could see a slow, dawning smile spreading across his face, not his usual teasing grin, but something warmer, more astonished. "You are. You're jealous. You've been giving me the Arctic treatment for two days because of Natasha."
"I have not! I've just been busy. And you're imagining things." Her cheeks were on fire, a telltale sign she desperately hoped the darkness hid.
For a long moment, he just looked at her, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more intense. The sounds of the party inside were a distant murmur. The playful mask he wore so often finally slipped away completely, revealing a sincerity that was far more disarming than any joke.
"Meera," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, the sound seeming to vibrate in the space between them. "I joke around. A lot. I know I do. It's what I do. But…" He paused, searching for the right words. "When I'm up on that stage, or in a room full of people, the person I'm looking for… it's always you. To see if you're laughing. To see if you're rolling your eyes. To see you. Natasha, or anyone else… they're just noise. You're the only one that matters."
The breath caught in Meera's throat. The carefully constructed walls of denial and irritation crumbled under the quiet weight of his confession. This was no glib line, no practiced charm. This was raw, unnervingly honest Aarav, and he was looking at her with an intensity that made her heart pound against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Words failed her. Any retort, any deflection, died before it reached her lips. She could only stare at him, her emotions laid bare in her eyes—shock, confusion, and a dawning, terrifying hope.
She swallowed hard, the sound loud in the intimate silence, and turned away, gripping the railing again to hide the tremor in her hands. Aarav didn't press. He didn't try to fill the silence with more words. He simply moved to lean on the railing beside her, his shoulder a careful, non-touching inch from hers, and gazed out at the same city lights.
For the first time, the silence between them wasn't a battlefield; it was a bridge. And somewhere in that quiet, under the starlit sky, something fragile and real and long-denied finally began to breathe.