Our Secret Love : Office Romance.

5. Dhruv

The rhythmic scrape of the metal tool against the clay echoed in my study, a counterpoint to the frantic symphony in my head. I stared at the misshapen lump before me, frustration gnawing at my gut. It was supposed to be simple—a bust, a study of form. But tonight, form refused to cooperate.

I'd never struggled with sculpting emotions. My preferred medium was cold, unyielding metal, where precision reigned supreme. But tonight, I was inexplicably drawn to clay, the raw material mirroring the whirlwind of emotions Tara had stirred within me.

Tara. Just the thought of her name sent a jolt through me, a spark that defied my usual stoicism. Her infectious enthusiasm, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke ... it was a stark contrast to the controlled world I had carefully constructed for myself.

I slammed the tool down, the sound echoing in the silent room. Every attempt to capture her essence on clay had failed. The first was too severe, the lines lacking the warmth that danced in her smile. The second, a caricature of her exuberance, felt shallow. This latest version... well, it was just wrong.

I picked up a fresh lump of clay, moulding it absentmindedly. Her laugh echoed in my mind, the memory a physical sensation that made my lips twitch. I'd never considered myself a man who appreciated laughter, but Tara's was different. It was genuine, uninhibited, a melody that chased away the shadows that sometimes clung to the corners of my mind.

I closed my eyes, trying to recapture the image of her. The way she'd tilted her head when I questioned her "unorthodox approach," the glint of defiance mixed with playful amusement in her eyes. My fingers danced over the clay, attempting to translate the image into form.

Frustration threatened to engulf me again. The clay remained stubbornly unyielding, refusing to capture the spark that ignited whenever I thought of her.

With a growl of frustration, I flung the clay across the room. It splattered against the wall with a dull thud, a formless blob of defiance against my own. What was the point? The clay wouldn't cooperate, and neither would my own traitorous heart. Here I was, a grown man, reduced to childish attempts at sculpting a woman who had no business disrupting my carefully ordered life.

Tara. The very thought of her filled me with a chaotic mix of emotions. Annoyance, for sure. Irritation at her constant enthusiasm, her ability to breeze through life unburdened by the weight of responsibility. But then there was something else, something I couldn't quite define. A spark of...curiosity? Intrigue?

The idea of pursuing Tara romantically was ludicrous. I, Dhruv Singhania, a man who thrived on routine and predictability, entangled with a whirlwind of sunshine and laughter? It was a recipe for disaster.

Yet, the image of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she was excited, lingered in my mind. I shoved myself away from the table, the silence of the room suddenly suffocating. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

I stalked out of the study, leaving the misshapen clay and the unanswered questions behind. Sleep, I thought, was the only answer. Sleep, and a whole lot of distance from Tara and the inexplicable chaos she brought with her.