Shubham Kumar's life was short on drama and long on screens.
Day: code.Night: debug.Repeat.
He worked in Development at Azure Consultancy — the quietest floor. Headphones, monitors, keyboard ticks. Introverts lived like kings there; even gossip kept its distance. Tonight, though, the boss decided to overdose on melodrama. Marketing had promised something huge, the client screamed, deadlines were flames, and Shubham's peaceful world of laptop + headphones turned into an overnight crash course in fire-fighting.
When the last bug was pushed and the CI finally turned green, the watch said it was past eleven. He grabbed his backpack like a man collecting his courage: laptop, charger, two crumpled half-eaten instant-noodle bowls (don't ask). The Metro was half-empty — drowsy faces, glowing earphones, one uncle snoring like he'd signed a contract with sleep. Thirty minutes later Shubham stepped out at his stop, the city folding into quiet shops and sleep-ready rickshaws.
His room was six hundred meters away. The route crossed Yamuna bridge.
At eleven-forty-five the bridge was a different city: orange lights swallowing the railing, river breathing the kind of cold that thinks about old things, and wind that cut like small truths. Shubham cursed his rent in his head — that's what honest men do when their feet are tired and their pockets lighter — and kept walking.
Then he saw a red patch against the dark.
Not a sari snag or a stray market cloth. A bride.
Deep red lehenga, sequins catching the streetlight like nervous constellations; heavy jewellery that could have financed a month's rent clinked as she moved. Her dupatta was loose, makeup smeared, eyes raw. She was on the railing, toes perched on metal, looking down at the river like it was an invitation.
For a second he thought the overtime had finally given him hallucinations. Then she shifted — a small sideways motion — and it was real.
He ran. Not heroically. Just fast, the way a guy chases a bus he missed three stops ago.
"Hey! Stop!" he yelled.
She didn't turn. She only sobbed harder, the sound sharp and horrifying against the river's calm. He reached her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled. The lehenga's heavy fabric fought him like a tidal wave.
"Leave me." Her voice cracked. "This is not your concern."
"If people see, they'll think I pushed you," he blurted, stupidly practical in the worst moment. "Then go away." His voice was half-order, half-prayer.
She shoved. She twisted with the momentum of a woman who'd already decided she'd failed every promise she'd been given. He panicked. He slapped her.
It was stupid and instant — a palm against a cheek in a night that felt like it was falling apart. The sound landed between them and hung.
She froze. He froze. Her hand flew to her face. His own hand burned.
"Sorry! Sorry!" he said immediately, breathing fast like after a sprint. "I didn't— I panicked. I'm not— I don't even— I don't talk to girls much, okay? I'm the worst person to give advice." He was talking more to steady his own voice than to her.
She started crying harder, shoulders shaking.He tried something else — awkward, blunt, human.
"No one deserves to die. Suicide is…" He stopped. Words were slippery. "Look, I'm frustrated too. I work nights, underpaid. My salary is low. Even construction workers make more than me. I've got a house to repair, a sister to marry. I barely keep the lights on. So you standing here — jumping — it's ridiculous."
She flinched, like his brutal honesty hurt less than her own devastation.
"Come. Follow me." He hauled her back from the railing again. "You look hungry. Empty stomach makes people do stupid things. Let's find some stall."
She laughed hollowly. "Everything's closed. It's past eleven." Her voice was a thread.
"My room is nearby. I'll make you something. In the morning you can—" He stopped himself. "Please. Not on my watch."
He handed her a water bottle. "Drink."
She took it, coughing a little as if crying had turned to salt in her throat. He watched her, ridiculous and wide-eyed. "Do you work at Azure? Marketing, right? I've seen you. You're always with friends at the pantry. I tried to talk sometimes but you were surrounded. I'm sorry this is the time to say it but… I think I like you. No — I love you. You should live with me. I'll shoulder your burdens. Don't think I'm bluffing. Whatever I commit is stone."
He was babbling, the kind of unsafe honesty only exhaustion and adrenaline produce. He sounded part madman, part honest child.
"If anyone made you cry like this, I'll kill him," he said, absurd and limp with emotion. "If I don't control myself, I'll torture him for the rest of his life. Don't be surprised. You must have noticed me sometime—"
She blinked through her tears. "I can walk," she said in a trembling voice.
He hesitated for a ridiculous second — and then grabbed her hand. Something like courage and stupidity and the absolute need to stop her from vanishing pushed him.
Her face registered surprise. Tears rolled. Quietly, she followed him across the bridge, hand in his, the city behind them like a stage curtain falling.
(Speaker: That's the scene, folks. Hell yeah. If you ever wanted a rom-com opening that also threatened to kill you, here it is.)
They crossed the last span. The walk from the bridge cut through empty lanes to a tired building that smelled of samosa oil and old water. When he reached his door he fumbled with the key like someone disarming a bomb.
"Sorry for the mess around," he said before he opened it, because social niceties were maps people used to get past awkwardness. "At least it's not full of garbage bags yet."
She gave him a sideways look. "Climb on the bed?" she asked, half a question, half a dare.
He forced a laugh that came out all wrong. "Relax. I'm not going to jump over you." He was joking. No one laughed.
He pushed the door open and a small, honest room greeted them — a single bed, a study table, clothes, an old mug. The city's night found its way inside the bulb's yellow light.
He looked at her, at the lehenga, the jewellery still ticking like wounded clocks.
"Come in," he said. "You can stay tonight. I'll make you something to eat."
She hesitated for a beat that stretched into a small, fragile forever, then nodded.
He led her in.
(Cliffhanger: The door shuts. The Yamuna keeps flowing. Inside, a different kind of storm is about to begin.)