I didn't cry on the cab ride home.
I didn't scream into my pillow.
I didn't even text Raha or Aryan.
I just sat there, forehead pressed against the window, watching the city blur past like it was moving on without me.
Because it was.
Because maybe I was the only one still stuck in this mess — between two surnames and one identity crisis.
The next morning, I woke up and made chai for Dadi before she asked.
She squinted at me suspiciously. "You're being helpful. What did you break?"
"My sanity," I said, sipping my own cup.
She didn't press. She just passed me the newspaper and left for work.
Work was... tolerable.
People had moved on to the next scandal — something about a fashion influencer caught using ChatGPT for captions.
But I hadn't moved on.
And neither had Ethan.
Because now, he acted like we were strangers. Like he hadn't told me he needed me. Like he didn't remember the way I flinched when he said "Just a secretary."
I was back to being invisible.
Only this time, it was intentional.
The office was quiet after 9 PM.
Too quiet.
Ethan hadn't said much after the meeting. He didn't need to. Neither did I.
Our silences were becoming alarmingly fluent.
I buried myself in the Shanghai pitch prep. Layouts, margins, visual cues, pain points, market slides, financial forecasts—I did it all. Not because I wanted to impress. But because I wanted to leave right. If I was going to resign, I needed this last project to be the cleanest goodbye ever delivered in PowerPoint.
Late nights. Too much coffee. Silent playlists.
Noah respected the space. No texts. No emojis. No "miss you" voice notes.
Just one email.
Subject: Let me know if you need help with slides. I'll stay in my lane.
— N
I didn't reply.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I wasn't ready to answer the version of me that used to be okay with pretending everything was fine.
I stopped checking the time.
I stopped checking my phone.
I just worked.
Somewhere between version 7.2 and 7.9 of the deck, my eyelids betrayed me. I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep at my desk.
But I did notice something.
The brush of fingers pushing strands of hair out of my face.
The soft click of my laptop being closed.
A blanket—no, someone's coat—being placed over my shoulders.
I stirred, eyes still closed.
"Ethan?" I mumbled. But the room was empty.
The next morning, I found my layout exactly how I left it.
Except my mouse was plugged in.
And the margins were perfectly aligned.
By Thursday, Ethan started scheduling late-night briefings again.
Nothing personal.
All business.
But there were moments — tiny ones — where I caught him staring. Not in the heated, charged way. Just… watching. Like he wanted to say something and couldn't remember how.
And maybe I was the same.
Because I had things to say, too.
But words felt sharp in my mouth.
And I didn't want to bleed again.
Friday:
It started raining around 6 p.m.
Not the romantic kind. The your-umbrella-will-break-in-ten-seconds kind.
The building had a leak. Because of course.
Aryan said the entire office was cursed.
Raha declared it character development.
I stared at my inbox like it would solve my life.
Then a knock came.
"Meeting in the fire exit," said Ethan's assistant.
"...What?"
She shrugged. "His office AC's shorted. He's on the fire escape stairwell with blueprints and a flashlight. He said bring coffee and your brain."
Of course.
When I reached the stairwell, Ethan was sitting on the second landing, blueprint rolled out on his lap, a pen in his mouth, and his tie off.
He looked up.
I held out the coffee like a peace offering.
He took it. Didn't say thanks. Didn't need to.
He tapped the blueprint. "Walk me through this section again."
I did.
But halfway through, the pen slipped from his hand, and he caught it — barely — brushing my fingers.
We froze.
And something shifted.
Not loudly. Not romantically.
Just... shifted.
He looked at me. Really looked.
"Sana—"
"I'm fine," I interrupted.
"No, you're not."
I looked away. "Neither are you."
Silence.
Then:
"I don't regret hiring you," he said quietly.
"Even after all this?"
"Especially after all this."
That caught me off guard.
And then lightning cracked outside, and thunder echoed through the stairwell — loud and jagged.
He flinched.
It was subtle.
But I saw it.
The mask slipped.
Only for a second.
Then he stood up.
Like it hadn't happened.
"Get some rest. Presentation's on Monday," he said, already walking back up.
"Ethan—"
He paused.
"You don't always have to be cold, you know."
He didn't turn around.
But his voice was softer this time.
"Neither do you."
And then he left.
Pitch Day. Shanghai Project. 11:00 AM.
Monday, 9:10 AM. Shanghai Pitch Day.
My blazer wasn't ironed.
My hair was 43% humidity and 57% rage.
But I was here.
I was ready.
Or at least, I was pretending really well.
Noah and I hadn't spoken since the coffee shop.
Ethan hadn't looked at me directly since the stairwell.
And I was surviving on instant oats and emotional suppression.
The conference room buzzed with pre-pitch energy. Interns scurried. Slides flickered. Coffee smelled like stress.
Noah walked in, looking frustratingly calm in a black suit. He gave me a nod. Professional. Neutral. Soul-crushing.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
I nodded.
I wasn't.
The pitch went smoothly. Too smoothly.
Our client clapped.
Ethan said "Impressive" with a small nod, which was basically a standing ovation in Ethan-speak.
Noah high-fived Aryan on the way out.
I stayed back to shut the laptop.
And maybe catch my breath.
It started again.
The rumors.
Someone posted a grainy video of Ethan and me walking out of the stairwell last week. Side-by-side. Too close. Too familiar.
"Agarwal's Secret Fireside Meetings?"
"Is she back to seducing her way to middle management?"
The comments made me want to delete the internet. Or at least myself from it.
Raha threatened to find the IP address and haunt people's routers.
I laughed. Almost. Kind of.
But it wasn't funny anymore.
Because I was tired of being the punchline.
But I was happy it's all coming to an end now.
7:15 PM. Home.
Dadi was applying mascara in the mirror with the concentration of a bomb technician.
"Is it too much?" she asked.
"Only if you're planning to attend Coachella."
She waved me off. "Ramamurthy Uncle is a classy man. Last time he told me I reminded him of Hema Malini."
"He needs new glasses."
"He has cataracts."
"Oh. So he already does."
She flicked my arm and walked out of the room, head held high.
Dia entered with a dramatic sigh and flopped beside me on the couch.
"So," she began, eyes sparkling. "Emrik Sovaire. New drop. Eighty. Million. Dollars."
"Tell me you're kidding."
"Nope. Sotheby's. Sealed bid. Sold in five seconds. I would sell a kidney to meet this man."
"You'd need to sell both for that price."
"Honestly? Worth it."
Dia pulled out her phone and opened his art page.
"Just look. The color story. The emotion. The way he makes brush strokes feel like pain and prayer. Who even is he?"
"Some say he's a woman."
"Some say he's God reincarnated. I say he's husband material. I already thought of our kids' names. Emrini. Sovaya."
"You need therapy."
"No. I need Emrik."
We laughed.
And for the first time in days, I felt light.
Free, almost.
I was quitting.
I was finally going to breathe.
And after that... I needed to talk to Noah properly. Apologize. Clear things up. Whatever was left of us deserved clarity, at least.
The door burst open.
Alex walked in holding a cake.
"Okay, who's dead?" I asked.
"No one. I quit."
Dia blinked. "You quit your job?"
"Yes! I finally quit that soul-sucking, micro-managed, underpaid hellhole. Freedom!"
He plopped the cake on the table and handed out forks.
"To liberation," he cheered.
We toasted with sugar.
Dadi returned two hours later, cheeks flushed, hair wind-blown.
"Guess who had a good date!" she sang.
"You did?" I asked.
"He brought kulfi in a flask. A man of taste."
So we toasted again.
To Alex's freedom.
To Dadi's progressing romance.
To Dia's delusions about a possibly fictional artist.
Later that night. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
But now it hit me.
I couldn't resign.
Not anymore.
Because Alex had quit.
Because rent didn't pay itself.
Because dreams didn't pay for Wi-Fi.
I had to stay.
I had to keep going.
I closed my eyes.
Sleep came slowly. Regret came faster.
Dia shook me awake, her eyes wide and panicked.
"Sana! Get up! He's outside. He says his heart is aching maybe having a heart attack."
"Who?"
"Noah. He says he's dying."
I shot out of bed.
My heart pounded harder than it did on pitch day.
Noah?
Outside?
Heart attack?
Was this real?
Or was my whole life finally turning into a badly-written romcom?
I didn't wait to find out.
I ran. Down the stairs. To the front door.
Because no matter how broken we were—
the thought of losing him?
That cracked me wide open.