London decided to pour that morning.
The kind of rain that turned the streets into mirrors and made umbrellas useless.
Suhana'@s train had been delayed twice. By the time she reached the studio, she was drenched, red scarf sticking to her coat, and her coffee cup nearly empty.
Inside Studio Echo, the air was warm — smelled of cinnamon rolls and burnt espresso.
Arjun was already there, laptop open, headphones around his neck, a mug steaming beside him.
He looked up as she walked in — a quick glance that turned into a quiet stare.
"You look…" he started, then caught himself.
"Like a rain advertisement gone wrong?" she offered, wringing out her scarf.
He smiled. "Exactly what I was not going to say."
He handed her a tissue box from across the table.
"No umbrella?"
"Didn't trust the weather app."
"London lesson number one," he said. "Never trust apps. Or forecasts. Or people who smile too early in the morning."
She laughed softly. It was the first real laugh he'd heard from her — unguarded, not the polite professional one.
It made something loosen inside him.
The producer was running late, so they sat near the small studio café — him with black coffee, her with cappuccino, both pretending not to study each other between sips.
"So, what made you apply?" he asked.
Suhana shrugged. "Bills. Rent. Mild existential crisis."
He grinned. "Solid reasons."
"And you?"
"Boredom, mostly. I wanted to work with people who actually feel things."
"You don't sound like someone who likes feelings."
He tilted his head. "I record them for a living. Doesn't mean I understand them."
Suhana looked at him — really looked this time. There was a quiet depth in his eyes, like he'd known heartbreak and learned how to carry it gracefully.
Her chest tightened — not in recognition, but in empathy.
Rain hit the studio windows harder. The producer texted to reschedule.
"Guess we have the day off," Arjun said.
"Or," Suhana replied, "we make our own episode."
He smiled, intrigued. "Unscripted?"
"Unedited."
They set up mics, pressed record, and decided to talk about music and memories.
He played ambient jazz in the background; she shared how songs reminded her of chapters she hadn't closed.
> Suhana: "Some songs don't fade — they just wait for the right person to hear them again."
Arjun: "Like people."
Suhana: "Exactly."
Their eyes met over the mic. The static hummed faintly between them, filling the silence that followed.
He turned to her, voice lower now.
"Do you believe in fate, Suhana?"
"Not in the dramatic way," she said. "More like… certain people cross paths for a reason."
He nodded. "Even if they don't know the reason yet."
Neither noticed how long they held eye contact.
Neither wanted to break it.
When they finally packed up, the rain had calmed into a drizzle.
Suhana stood by the studio doorway, shaking out her scarf before wrapping it back around her neck.
Arjun noticed a tear in the corner of the fabric.
"That scarf's been through a lot," he said, smiling.
She smiled back, fingers tracing the worn edge.
"Yeah. Had it since forever. My mom says I refused to throw it even when it got torn."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe because it makes me feel… safe. Like something — or someone — once kept me safe."
He froze. His smile faltered for a second.
> "Someone?" he repeated softly.
"It's silly," she said quickly, laughing off her own words. "I was a weird kid. Probably just made it up."
He didn't answer. He just watched her — the scarf, her voice, the faint tremor in her laughter — and for a moment, the memory of the lake returned so sharply it almost hurt.
They ended up leaving together.
London evenings were gentler after the rain — streets glistening under streetlights, cars hissing on wet asphalt.
"Bus or tube?" he asked.
"Walking. Need to clear my head."
"I'll walk you part of the way."
"Chivalry or safety?" she teased.
He grinned. "A bit of both."
Their conversation flowed easily — about books, bad coffee, and the way creative people romanticize chaos.
Suhana found herself talking more than she usually did.
Arjun listened, really listened — and once again, she caught herself wondering why that felt so rare.
When they reached her street, she turned to him.
"Thanks for the company."
"Thanks for the honesty," he said. "Not many people do that."
"Do what?"
"Speak like they're not afraid of being misunderstood."
Her smile softened. "You just listen like you actually want to understand."
The rain began again — light, hesitant, almost cinematic.
She stepped backward toward her building.
He watched her go, red scarf bright against the grey.
Arjun walked home through the drizzle, mind replaying every word, every glance.
When he reached his apartment, he pulled out the childhood photo again — the one from the lake.
There she was, blurred but visible — the red scarf unmistakable.
He traced it with his thumb, heart hammering.
It couldn't be her. It shouldn't be her.
But fate has its own sense of timing.
He placed the photo on his desk beside his headphones, staring at the waveform of their latest recording on his laptop.
Her laugh flashed across the sound graph — bright, uneven, real.
> "Some songs don't fade," she'd said.
"They just wait for the right person to hear them again."
He hit play — her voice filled the room, wrapping around him like warmth.
Outside, the rain began to fall harder.
---
And for the first time in years, Arjun Mehta didn't just hear sound — he felt it.