Arif had never been able to love Dhaka.
The city talked too much and listened too little.
Morning traffic, endless crowds, constant noise—everything made him feel like the city was always angry at someone. Yet, every evening after work, he walked the same road. Not out of habit, but in search of silence.
An old blue signboard—
"Rupkotha Book House."
This bookstore was his refuge.
The moment he stepped inside, the outside world slowly faded away. The smell of paper, wooden shelves, yellowed pages of old books—everything together created a strange calm.
That day, he came as usual.
But that was the day he saw Rimi for the first time.
A small table by the window.
A girl sitting there.
A light blue scarf loosely resting on her shoulders. Her hair tied carelessly. A hint of tiredness in her eyes, yet an unusual depth hidden inside.
She wasn't reading the book.
She was lost inside it.
Arif didn't know why, but something stirred in his chest—soft, unfamiliar.
He didn't want to stare.
Yet his eyes kept returning to her.
For the first time, in the middle of Dhaka's chaos, he felt—
this girl did not belong to the crowd.