(Mira’s POV)

I woke up to sunlight spilling through the lace curtains — golden, soft, too gentle for how much my heart was fluttering.

It took a moment to remember why.
And then it hit — the memory of his touch, the quiet between us, the way the world had blurred just before it happened.

I touched my lips and smiled, stupidly.

Shimla had never looked brighter. Even the air smelled different — like the rain had washed away everything heavy. I went to the bakery early, humming while setting up trays. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like routine; it felt like wanting to show up.

He came in late morning, camera slung over his shoulder, hair messy from the wind. His smile was almost shy.

“Morning,” he said.

I laughed. “You’re late.”

He grinned. “Had to talk myself out of showing up too early. Didn’t want to seem desperate.”

“Too late for that,” I said, handing him his usual coffee.

The teasing felt different now — warmer, a secret we were both in on. There was something in the air between us that didn’t need explaining.

For the next hour, we fell back into our rhythm — the sound of milk steaming, spoons clinking, the faint jazz that always played in the background. Every now and then our eyes would meet, and it was enough.

But something was off.

He kept checking his phone — small, distracted glances he tried to hide. The smile he gave me was there, but softer at the edges, like he was somewhere else for half a second before returning.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just… some leftover noise from before.”

Before what? I wanted to ask. But the way he said it — quiet, almost apologetic — stopped me.

Later, when the lunch crowd thinned and the shop went still, he lingered near the door, half in, half out. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“You say that every day,” I said, pretending to wipe the counter.

He smiled. “Then maybe I mean it every day.”

After he left, I noticed his notebook on the corner of the table — the worn, leather one he always carried. I picked it up to keep it safe. As I did, something slipped out — a folded sheet of paper, aged at the corners.

I didn’t mean to read it. I just saw my name at the top.
Then I realized it wasn’t addressed to me — it was addressed to Rhea, his editor.

The first line stopped me cold.

“I don’t know if I’m writing this to explain or to confess, but I can’t stop thinking about what I ruined.”

The words blurred for a moment, but I kept reading. It wasn’t long — just a page of raw honesty.
He wrote about a story he’d published months ago — an exposé that had gone wrong. A source he’d trusted had been misrepresented, lives affected. He’d lost his credibility, his confidence, his sense of who he was.

“I told everyone I needed a break. The truth is, I was running. I came here to disappear until the noise faded.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear landed on the paper.

Shimla. Me. The bakery. All of it — his escape; from what?

It didn’t make what we had less real, but it twisted something inside me. Because while I’d been finding something to hold onto, he’d been trying to forget.

I folded the letter carefully, placed it back in the notebook, and set it on the counter.

He came back a little while later, knocking softly before entering. “Hey,” he said, breathless. “I think I left my—”

His eyes fell on the notebook. “Oh. You found it.”

“Yeah,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “You left it here.”

He hesitated, searching my face. “Did you…?”

I shook my head, even though I didn’t need to answer. He already knew.

For the first time since I’d met him, Poorv looked unsure — like all the calm had drained out of him. “Mira—”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Really. You don’t owe me anything.”

He stepped closer. “That’s not what this is—”

“I just need to finish up for the day,” I said, reaching for the tray near me. My hands trembled slightly. “It’s been a long morning.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The silence that followed wasn’t like before. It was cold. Careful.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

I didn’t look up as he left. Just listened to the sound of the bell above the door — soft, fading, final.

When the bakery was empty again, I sank onto the stool by the window. Outside, the sky was heavy with new clouds, waiting to break.

And for the first time since he’d walked into my life, the quiet didn’t feel comforting anymore. It felt like distance.