Aditi liked early mornings in the Mumbai office. Fewer people, fewer noises, fewer unnecessary explanations. At 8:45 AM, the floor was still waking up. Lights were on, but the energy wasn't.
She walked past the rows of cubicles, scanning the space with the same quiet focus she gave to dashboards.
When she passed Arun's workstation, she noticed his laptop screen awake even though the chair was empty.
Neha's voice came from behind. "He came in early today. Might've gone for tea."
Aditi didn't respond at first. She glanced at the screen—tabs open, logs running, a neat comment left for himself.
She asked, "He logs in this early often?"
Neha blinked. "Sometimes. Depends on workload, I guess."
Aditi nodded once and moved on.
Around 9:03, she stopped near Neha's desk.
"Morning," she said.
Neha straightened in her seat. "Good morning, ma'am."
"Who's handling today's Phoenix backfill validation?"
Neha hesitated. "We… haven't assigned it yet."
"Give it to the person who wrote the optimization."
"That would be Arun," Neha said cautiously.
"Good," Aditi said. "Let's see his version by end of day. Route it through your team."
Neha nodded. "Understood."
Aditi didn't offer context. She didn't need to. The request itself was the context.
At 9:20, Arun received the message.
Neha:
Need a fresh version of the backfill logic. Full validation. EOD.
Arun typed back:
Arun:
Is this urgent-urgent or Phoenix-urgent?
Neha came by in person two minutes later, leaning on his cubicle wall.
"Phoenix-urgent," she said. "Which usually means urgent-urgent."
Arun closed his current work. "Alright."
Neha glanced at his screen. "You okay taking this alone? Or need Rahul for sanity check?"
"I'll call him if I need him," Arun said.
"Good. Because oversight wants this version."
Arun looked up. "Oversight?"
"Yeah."
He didn't ask the next question—who in oversight.
Neha didn't volunteer that answer either.
Both understood.
The next few hours were a mix of typing, testing, muttering under his breath, rewriting entire sections, testing again.
At 1:15, Rahul pulled up a chair next to him.
"You alive?" Rahul asked.
"Barely."
Rahul pointed at the console. "Script broke again?"
"Obviously," Arun said. "If it passes on first run, I won't trust it."
Rahul nodded. "Makes sense. Want coffee?"
"I need a miracle," Arun said. "Coffee is second option."
Rahul walked off laughing.
Arun kept typing.
By late afternoon, his patch was almost done.
Neha returned. "How's it looking?"
"Stable," Arun replied. "Just testing cross-window fills."
"Any surprises?"
"Not yet," he said. "Maybe later."
"Try not to have surprises after six," Neha said.
"No promises."
At 4:56 PM, he sent the final version.
Aditi reviewed it at her desk with her usual quiet attention.
Two lines made her pause. Not because they were wrong—because they showed assumption checking. Most engineers didn't do that unless they were used to systems failing in unpredictable ways.
She approved it without comment.
Around 7 PM, the sky decided to lose all patience.
Wind slapped across the street. A sheet of rain followed. People near the windows groaned.
Arun packed up, slung his laptop bag, and stepped out into the street just as the downpour hit.
He ran the last few steps to the bus stop shelter where a crowd had already formed.
Someone complained, "Every damn day this city picks a new way to drown us."
Another added, "If the bus doesn't come in five minutes, I'm swimming home."
Arun stood near the edge, shaking water off his sleeves.
A moment later, another person stepped into the shelter, brushing rain off her wrists.
Aditi.
Someone near the front whispered, "Isn't that—?"
Their friend hushed them quickly.
Aditi ignored the attention. She moved to a clear corner of the shelter, adjusting her bag so the rain blowing in wouldn't hit it.
Arun noticed her, mostly because everyone else did. He didn't react or try to hide the fact that he'd seen her. He simply shifted slightly, giving her more distance from the crowded center.
She glanced his way briefly—acknowledging movement, not the person.
A moment passed without either speaking.
The rain worsened. A passing taxi splashed a wave across the street. People jumped back.
"Great," someone muttered. "Flooding already."
A small girl tugged her mother's hand.
"Mummy, water is going inside my shoes."
"Don't step in the puddle," the mother said, repositioning her.
Aditi took a cautious half-step away from a leak dripping through the shelter roof.
Arun moved half a step back to avoid bumping her as the crowd pressed in.
She noticed the adjustment.
He didn't look at her.
After a moment, she broke the silence.
"You take this route every day?" she asked, eyes still on the rain.
Arun took a second before replying. "Mostly. Cheaper than cabs."
"Hmm."
Another few seconds passed.
She asked, "Your PG close by?"
"Fifteen minutes from the next junction," he said.
She nodded. "Convenient."
"Not really," Arun said. "But rent is less."
A slight exhale escaped her. Not a laugh—more an acknowledgment of the honesty.
"What about you?" he asked.
She looked at him properly for the first time since arriving. "Office car. But it didn't reach in time."
"Bad timing," he said.
"Bad weather," she corrected lightly.
A bus approached. People leaned forward.
Wrong one.
Everyone stepped back again.
Aditi checked her watch. "How long do buses usually take in this rain?"
"Somewhere between five minutes and never," Arun said.
A small smile flickered across her face before she hid it.
"Accurate," she said.
Another bus came—Arun's.
He adjusted his bag and stepped forward.
Aditi didn't move.
He paused beside her for a brief second, enough for words but not enough for expectation.
"You'll get your car soon," he said.
She replied without looking at him, "Have a safe ride."
Arun nodded once and boarded the bus.
Inside, as the bus lurched forward, he saw her through the rain-blurred window—standing calmly under the shelter, alone again in the corner, phone in hand, posture steady despite the chaos around her.
The bus pulled away.
Her car arrived two minutes later.
She entered, wiped a raindrop from her wrist, and buckled in.
Her assistant asked, "Long wait?"
"Not too long," she said.
He continued, "Traffic will be tight. Should we postpone the partner meeting?"
"No," she said. "Let's go."
As the car merged into the road, she glanced once toward the bus route direction. Not searching for anything. Just observing the rain-soaked city moving in layers.
When her tablet buzzed with email notifications, she saw one regarding the backfill patch she'd approved earlier.
Her eyes paused on Arun's name.
Then the car hit traffic, the tablet dimmed slightly, and she scrolled down.
The name lingered—not intentionally, not meaningfully—just present, like a detail noted subconsciously.
Outside, Mumbai continued drowning and breathing at the same time.