-- 𝘼𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙝𝙖 𝙋𝙊𝙑 --
He’s there. Ayaan is sitting in the chair, staring at me with those intense eyes, as if he's been waiting for me all along.
"Trying to kill me with that glare?" I tease, raising an eyebrow.
"If only I could... but unfortunately," he replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"How mean," I reply, a playful edge in my voice, but I see his face fall just a little.
"Oh... sorry," he says, softer now, like he's genuinely apologizing, his gaze flickering away from mine.
"Seriously? Are you even the same Ayaan I used to know, or are you just pretending to be him?" I ask, my voice is lighter, though I can't shake the feeling that something's different.
-- 𝘼𝙮𝙖𝙖𝙣'𝙨 𝙋𝙊𝙑 --
What the hell is even going on? Why did I say sorry for something like that? I never apologize for stuff like this. At this point, I kind of want to scream or disappear. I can’t even look her in the eyes now because, once again, I’ve done something stupid. Seriously, sorry? Why, God, whyyy?
"Are you okay?" she asks, her voice soft but curious.
"Why do you keep asking the same question?" I snap, a bit harsher than I intended.
"It's just... you're acting a little weird," she says, narrowing her eyes, clearly confused.
"Weird? Me? Maybe you should focus on being on time for once. You're late," I say, deflecting, trying to change the topic.
"I'm only two minutes late! You're the one who showed up early," she retorts, arms crossed.
"Obviously, because I take my work seriously," I say, but immediately realize how that sounds.
"You mean to say I don't?" she challenges, her tone sharp.
"I never said that. You’re the one making assumptions," I respond, trying to stay calm.
"Well, what you just said pretty much implied it," she counters, clearly not letting me off the hook.
"You—" she starts, but before she can finish, there's a soft knock on the door. Amaira steps in, perfectly timed, cutting off the conversation like some kind of divine intervention.
"Ma'am, here are the papers you asked me to prepare," Amaira says, her voice polite and professional.
"Okay, just leave them on the table," she responds, her eyes lingering on me for a second longer before turning her attention to the papers.
As Amaira places the documents down and leaves, I can’t help but feel a mix of relief and dread. I dodged that conversation—for now—but I know it’s only a matter of time before it comes back to bite me.
"Let’s just get back to work. I don’t want to argue with you anymore," she says, her tone clipped but calm.
"Oh, okay... sure," I reply, not wanting to push any further.
We both settle into our chairs and dive into the work. The next few hours blur together as we discuss plans, sketch ideas, and bounce suggestions off each other. Time flies by, three hours passing in what feels like only three minutes.
Finally, feeling the weight of exhaustion creep in, I stretch my arms over my head and roll my neck to ease the tension. She’s busy reading through some papers, completely focused, but my gaze shifts to her. And then I can’t seem to look away.
My eyes fixate on her features, as if noticing them for the first time. Her eyes, deep and captivating, have a subtle brown hue that catches the light in the most mesmerizing way. They hold an intensity that’s both sharp and soft, like she’s always thinking, always observing. Her lashes, long and dark, frame those eyes perfectly.
Her face is a flawless balance of elegance and strength—high cheekbones that give her a certain grace, and a jawline that hints at quiet determination. The light catches on the soft curve of her lips, slightly parted as she reads, and her skin, warm and smooth, almost glows under the soft lighting of the room.
Every detail about her feels impossibly perfect—the way a loose strand of hair falls across her forehead, the way her fingers move delicately across the papers, almost as if the work itself is an extension of her. I find myself caught in that moment, captivated by how effortlessly stunning she is without even trying.
But then it hits me—what the hell am I doing? Did I seriously just admire her for her beauty? No, this can’t be happening. There’s no way I’m actually getting drawn to her like this. I never thought of her as pretty before. I mean, I hate her… don’t I?
I try to shake off the thought, but it lingers, crawling under my skin, making me uneasy. The way my chest tightens, the way my mind keeps circling back to her—it's driving me insane. I seriously despise her... or maybe… I don’t?
“No, I do!” I blurt out, the words escaping before I can stop them. It’s like I’m arguing with myself, frustration boiling over in my head.
"What?" she asks, her eyes narrowing.
"What?" I snap back, my voice harsher than intended.
"I asked you why you shouted. What happened?"
"Oh, I was just... just thinking something," I mumble, my gaze flickering away.
"What could you possibly be thinking about that made you shout like that?" she presses, her tone tinged with irritation.
"Why should I share my thoughts with you?" I fire back, my irritation matching hers.
"Then don’t shout like that—it’s seriously annoying."
"Whatever," I mutter under my breath.
"Why are you being like this? It’s so irritating."
"Accept me as I am," I say, almost challenging her.
"Sorry, I’d prefer not to. Peace out," she snaps, turning away, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.
"I have some other work, so let's continue this later. Bye," I say abruptly, leaving her no chance to respond. She doesn't seem to care anyway, her indifference matching my frustration.
I quickly walk out of her office, my mind buzzing, and head straight for the parking lot. Once in my car, I sit back and loosen my tie, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I grab my phone and call Karan. He picks up after two rings.
"Yes, sir?" he asks, his tone crisp and professional.
"I've got a situation for you... a bit of a test," I say, my voice steady but laced with an unspoken urgency.
"Okay, sir, I’m listening."
"Suppose you hate a girl so much that every time you see her, you feel this urge to tear her down—your enemy. But then, after some time, maybe six months or so, you suddenly start feeling... different. You begin noticing her beauty, recalling moments with her like they’re something special. You even find yourself doing things you’ve never done before, like saying sorry for the smallest things. What do you think that is?"
There’s a pause before he responds. "I guess... it’s because I’m falling for her."
My stomach twists. "Falling? In what sense? Love?" I ask, hoping for a different answer.
"Yes, sir. Obviously."
I shake my head, gripping the phone tighter. "But that’s impossible, isn’t it? She’s your enemy."
"No, sir. She was my enemy, not is. Now, it sounds like I’m starting to like her. Like you said, apologizing for insignificant things—it’s probably because I don’t want her to misunderstand me or feel bad. Isn’t that a sign of caring?"
I rub my temple, feeling the weight of his words sink in. "So, you’re saying that hatred can turn into... something else?"
"Exactly, sir. It’s like the more you focus on her, the more those lines blur. What started as hate could turn into something deeper, something you didn’t expect."
I fall silent, staring blankly out the windshield, unsure how to respond to the truth I’ve been avoiding.
"Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Thanks," I mutter, ending the call before Karan can respond.
It can’t be love. I remind myself, as if trying to hammer the thought into my mind like a warning. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and then snap them open, throwing the car into gear. I speed off, with no destination in mind—just driving, needing to escape but unsure of what exactly I’m running from.
After what feels like forever, I find myself pulling up in front of my parents’ house. I step out of the car, standing still, staring blankly at the door. This house—this place that never felt like home.
How could I possibly understand love, affection, or care when I’ve never truly felt them? How can I feel those emotions for someone I claim to despise? It’s impossible. It has to be just... attraction or infatuation. Maybe I’m confusing the feeling because I’ve never let anyone get this close before.
I let out a bitter laugh, feeling the coldness settle into my bones. If only my parents had shown me that love, that affection—maybe then I’d know what it’s supposed to feel like. But running around in circles, chasing after something real, has never been my experience. Even the moments others cherish—never became special to me.
And now, I’m left wondering if I’m chasing something that was never meant for me.
After a few minutes of sitting in my car, I decide I can’t keep running away from something that might not even be real. So, I turn the engine back on and drive straight to her office, determined to face whatever this is.
As I park and make my way up, I try to piece together what I’ll say after the abrupt way I left earlier. My mind is racing, but I push through and open the door to her cabin, only to freeze.
There’s another man in the room.
Both of them turn to look at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and surprise. I raise an eyebrow, silently asking what’s going on, and they both mirror my expression. It’s awkward—really awkward. I shake off the tension and speak.
"Who are you?" I ask, pointing toward him.
"Oh, I’m Rishabh Roy," he says, stepping forward and offering his hand for a handshake.
I take his hand, but my eyes are on Ayesha, trying to silently demand some explanation. What’s their deal? Friend? Colleague? Something else?
Not that I care. It’s just... the world isn’t exactly the safest place, and it’s better to be sure.
Ayesha finally catches on to my silent plea and steps in. "He’s a close friend from school, but don’t worry—he’s not an architect. He’s a doctor."
"A good one," Rishabh adds with a grin, looking at her, and they both chuckle.
And here I am, standing awkwardly, cringing at their little moment, wondering why on earth I came back here in the first place.
I interrupt their little moment and ask, "So, what’s the need for a doctor here right now?"
"He’s my friend, he just came to meet me," Ayesha replies casually.
"Here? You two don’t meet outside?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral but failing miserably.
Rishabh, sensing the tension, chuckles. "Chill, man. I just got back from abroad, so I thought I’d drop by and see her right away. Sorry if I interrupted something."
"Wait, don’t apologize," Ayesha quickly jumps in. "I wasn’t busy, it’s totally fine. I’m actually glad you came."
I clear my throat, feeling the awkwardness settle in even deeper. "Well, I just came back because I finished what I had to do and thought we could continue our discussion. But it’s fine, we can do it later if you’d prefer."
Rishabh waves it off. "Oh no, don’t mind me. I was just about to leave anyway. You guys can get back to it."
"Already?" Ayesha asks, looking a bit disappointed.
"Yeah, I’ve got to meet my parents. Plus, you know how my little brother is—he’s probably dying to see me," he says with a light laugh.
Ayesha joins in, giggling, "Oh yeah, sure, of course."
And there they go again, laughing over something that’s not even remotely funny. I stand there, feeling like a complete third wheel, stuck between their inside jokes and easy banter.
I glance at Rishabh, and for some reason, this strange feeling of irritation creeps in. I barely know the guy, but something about him rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the way he’s just lingering here, when he said he was leaving, or the way he keeps making Ayesha laugh like that.
I don’t know, but I wish he’d just leave already.