The elevator dinged softly as it reached the fourth floor. Mira stepped out, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor of the hotel corridor. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase. The routine was muscle memory now. Right turn, end of the hallway, second door from the fire exit.

Room 407.

The brass numbers on the door shimmered faintly in the warm light. She paused for a second, staring at them like they might suddenly change. But they never did. Six years, and this room had never once disappointed her. It never asked anything from her. Never demanded explanations or promises. And neither did the man waiting inside.

She knocked twice.

A moment passed before the door opened. And there he was—Kabir. Same half-smile, same soft eyes that always held a little more than they revealed.

He stood aside to let her in, dressed in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, as if he, too, had stepped out of time and back into this night that belonged only to them.

Mira entered, her expression unreadable. She placed her bag beside the dresser, took a breath, and glanced around. The room hadn’t changed. The plush king-size bed. The cream-colored drapes. The abstract painting above the headboard. Everything still in place—just like the ritual they both upheld.

“Wine?” he asked, already moving toward the minibar.

“Red, if they have it,” she replied, slipping out of her coat. Her voice was calm, detached, as though this were a transaction instead of the one night a year her heart beat differently.

Kabir poured the wine with quiet precision. “Same time, same place,” he said softly, handing her the glass. “We’re getting good at this.”

She accepted the drink without looking at him. “We were always good at this.”

That was part of the agreement.

No names. No past. No future. Just this night. October 10th. Room 407.

They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. No social media. No birthdays or breakups or breakfast conversations. Just a yearly escape from whatever chaos life threw at them.

And yet… Kabir had learned little things over the years. Mira didn’t like roses—she preferred tulips, which he’d brought once and remembered not to bring again. She always drank red wine, never white. She hated small talk but loved jazz. When she showered, she hummed under her breath—a tune he didn’t recognize but always looked forward to hearing.

Mira, on the other hand, knew that Kabir didn’t snore, but he sometimes talked in his sleep—usually in fragments, pieces of memories she wasn’t supposed to know. She knew he always left before dawn but never without folding the blanket on his side of the bed. And that he smelled faintly of vetiver and rain.

They didn’t speak of their real lives. Didn’t ask where the other went when the night ended. And yet, in the silence between words, something real had always lingered.

“Six years,” Kabir said, settling beside her on the couch. “Do you ever wonder why?”

“Why what?”

“Why we keep coming back.”

Mira tilted her head. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, catching the golden hue of the lamp beside them. “Because it’s easy. Clean. No mess.”

“But are we still playing by the same rules?” he asked, eyes searching her face.

She met his gaze for the first time that evening. “Do you want to change the rules?”

He hesitated.

That moment—just a second too long—was enough for her to put the wall back up. She leaned back, resting her glass on the side table. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Let’s not complicate this.”

Kabir smiled faintly, though something flickered behind it. “Alright. Same rules, then.”

She nodded. “Same rules.”

But something in the air had shifted.

They spent the evening as they always did—drinking wine, sharing glances that spoke louder than words, moving together like a rhythm only they knew. They danced briefly, barefoot on the soft carpet, her head resting against his shoulder, his hand warm on the small of her back.

And when their lips met, it was like coming home.

They made love like strangers who knew each other’s souls. No rush. No expectations. Just the kind of intimacy that couldn’t be faked, even if it was supposed to be fleeting.

Afterward, they lay in silence, the dim light casting soft shadows across the sheets. Mira faced the ceiling, her breath slowing. Kabir lay beside her, watching her in the way one watches something they’re afraid to lose.

“I almost didn’t come this year,” she whispered.

He turned his head toward her, eyes alert. “Why?”

“I thought maybe… it had run its course. That maybe one night a year wasn’t enough anymore.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then he asked, “And is it?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she sat up, wrapped the sheet around herself, and crossed to the window. She pulled the curtain slightly and stared out at the city lights—distant and cold.

Kabir rose slowly and joined her.

“Same time next year?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

She nodded once, not turning to look at him.

He stood behind her for a moment, close but not touching.

Then, without a word, he turned and began dressing. Mira didn’t stop him. She never did.

By the time she turned around, he was gone.

She walked to the bed and found the wine glasses still on the table. Next to hers was a single tulip—red, full bloom.

She sat down slowly, picked it up, and sighed.

Room 407. Their haven. Their escape. Their lie.

And the rules?

They still followed them. But each year, it got harder to pretend they didn’t care.

Three years ago — Goa, late September.

The sea whispered under a gray-blue sky as delegates shuffled into the final evening of the international creative summit. Amid the clinking of glasses, half-hearted networking, and meaningless promises of collaboration, Kabir stood near the bar, swirling a drink he hadn’t touched. His mind was elsewhere — it always was. Crowds drained him, especially when filled with people who smiled too easily and listened too little.

Across the room, Mira adjusted the strap of her gown and scanned the crowd with disinterest. She had delivered her talk on “Emotion in Design” that morning, earning applause, but applause meant little when your life was built on carefully controlled silence. All she wanted was to disappear, maybe sneak back to her hotel room and drown herself in music or wine — whichever came first.

Fate had other plans.

They reached the bar at the same time.

“One glass of regret, neat,” Mira murmured under her breath.

Kabir glanced sideways, amused. “Bad night?”

“Bad week. Bad year. You?”

“Same.” He held out his hand. “Let’s trade sorrows over whisky?”

“No names,” she replied, shaking his hand anyway.

“No expectations,” he agreed.

They didn’t sit at the bar. They wandered outside, barefoot on the sand, the salty breeze tugging at their words. Their conversation was surprisingly light. Favorite books, most hated clichés, childhood dreams they no longer admitted aloud. He told her he wanted to photograph the Northern Lights; she said she wanted to erase three years of her life.

They laughed like strangers who would never meet again.

But sometimes, one night is all it takes.

Later, in the half-lit corridors of the hotel, she paused outside her room.

“This is me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, hesitating. “So, goodnight?”

She looked at him — really looked at him. His eyes weren’t flirtatious. They weren’t needy. They were… searching. And maybe that’s what broke her resolve.

“Or,” she said, “we make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“One night. Once a year. Same room. No contact otherwise. No interference in real life.”

Kabir blinked. “You’re serious?”

She was.

Room 407. Her room.

He followed her inside.

---

Now, back to the present — the sixth year.

Kabir sat at the edge of the bed, his shirt half-buttoned, watching Mira quietly as she pulled her hair into a loose bun. The air between them was still warm from the closeness they'd just shared, but something unspoken clung to the silence.

He cleared his throat. “You remember Goa?”

She smiled faintly. “You asking me if I remember the night I wrote the first rule of this madness?”

“I mean, do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d never met at that bar?”

“No,” she said softly. “Because then I wouldn't have had these six nights to look forward to. That’s enough.”

But her voice had a tremor. And he caught it.

Kabir leaned back on his palms, exhaling slowly. “Back then, I thought it was just one of those intense, impulsive things. But even the first year… I stayed awake after you slept. Just watching you breathe. That doesn’t happen with flings.”

Mira stood still, her back to him. Her reflection in the window looked like a painting — poised, distant, unreachable.

She didn’t respond.

He continued. “And I never went back to Goa after that. Didn’t want to rewrite the memory.”

She finally turned around. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we agreed.”

Kabir rose from the bed. “Yeah, we did. But who are we fooling, Mira? It’s been six years. This isn’t just lust. It’s not just ritual. I know it, and I think—deep down—you do too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was loud.

Mira sat down, her eyes distant. “I made that pact because I didn’t believe in forever anymore. Because the last man I trusted used my love as a weapon. Because I don’t want to give anyone the power to destroy me again.”

Kabir’s face softened. “I’m not him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I am still me.”

He walked to her, knelt down. “Then let me remind you who you could be — with me.”

Her eyes welled up, just for a second. “Kabir, if we break the rules, what if it breaks us?”

“And what if we’ve already broken them by pretending we don’t care?”

She looked at him. Eyes that once held only memory now held fear — and hope.

“Stay,” she said.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a plea.

It was an opening.

But Kabir stood slowly. His hands were gentle, but his voice was unsure. “Not like this. Not because you’re scared to be alone tonight. I want to stay when you want me to stay forever.”

He kissed her forehead.

And walked out.

The door clicked shut.

Mira sat frozen.

Then, almost involuntarily, her fingers brushed the bedsheet where his hand had been. Still warm.

Still real.

She whispered to the empty room, “I already do want you to stay.”

But the walls of Room 407 had heard many things over the years. And they never repeated any of them.

The morning after their annual meeting, Mira walked into her office at Blush & Bindings as if nothing had happened. The glass doors hissed closed behind her, and the scent of peonies mixed with eucalyptus floated in the air — artificial, curated, like everything she designed. The irony wasn’t lost on her: a woman who didn’t believe in love ran one of Mumbai’s most successful luxury wedding planning agencies.

“Good morning, Mira ma’am!” her assistant chirped, handing her a latte with almond milk and a list of urgent client calls.

Mira nodded, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Her red lipstick was flawless; her hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. No one could tell she’d spent last night wrapped around a man she met only once a year. No one could see the storm she kept at bay with to-do lists and timelines.

Behind her poised exterior was a ritual. Every October 11th, she buried the memory of Room 407 under flower arrangements and seating charts. But no matter how many weddings she orchestrated, love remained a performance she couldn’t believe in.

That was Mira’s rule: plan it for others, never wish it for yourself.

---

Far away in Sikkim, Kabir crouched near the edge of a cliff, adjusting the focus on his camera. The valley below was dusted in golden fog, and prayer flags flapped in the breeze. He clicked. Then again. And again.

His assistant, Sameer, looked up from the van. “Boss, you’ve shot that angle five times now.”

Kabir didn’t respond.

Truth was, he hadn’t seen the frame through the lens.

He was still seeing her.

Mira.

The way her lips had trembled when she asked him to stay. The way she’d whispered, too late, that she wanted him to. He had walked away, telling himself he was doing the right thing. That love had no space in a relationship built on yearly silences.

And yet, he checked his calendar that morning. 337 days to go.

That’s how he lived now — by the countdown.

---

Kabir’s life had once been scripted for permanence. At 28, he’d been engaged to a woman named Ananya — another photographer, full of passion and plans. They’d been perfect on paper. Instagram posts, joint exhibitions, shared dreams.

Until she cheated.

With someone who promised her a more “settled” life. Kabir, with his backpack and passport, hadn’t been enough.

That betrayal had etched an invisible scar across his heart — not because she left, but because it taught him that love could lie even in the most beautiful frame. Since then, he’d stopped making promises. Except one — October 10th, Room 407.

That night with Mira had started as an escape, but every year, it dug deeper into him.

And this year… it almost felt like she had reached for him.

Almost.

---

Back in Mumbai, Mira oversaw the rehearsal of a massive destination wedding. A helicopter entrance, floating mandap, and imported tulips. The bride was crying because her lehenga zip broke; the groom was missing for a poker game.

Mira fixed it all. Efficient. Detached. Impeccable.

Later, as she walked through the empty ballroom, she stared at the fairy lights above. Her phone buzzed. A voice note from her mother.

> “Beta, when are you getting married? Your cousin’s daughter is already engaged. Don’t you want a family?”

Mira pressed delete.

What she wanted was something her mother wouldn’t understand — something that lived only one day a year.

She pulled out a small silver pendant from her purse — a camera charm Kabir had gifted her the second year. “Just so you don’t forget what I see in you,” he had said.

She wore it under her saree at every wedding.

Nobody knew.

---

Kabir arrived at a mountain village by late afternoon. Children chased him, asking for photos. He smiled, letting them peek through his lens. One girl pointed to his wrist — a bracelet of blue beads.

“Is this from your wife?”

Kabir laughed. “No wife.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

He paused, then added, “Just someone… I meet once a year.”

The girl frowned. “That’s silly. If you like her, why only one time?”

Kabir had no answer.

---

That night, Mira sat on her balcony, wine in hand. The city blinked below like a restless animal. She hated how loud silence became when the ritual ended. How she had no pictures of him, no texts, no proof he existed — just memories etched into Room 407.

A notification blinked on her phone.

Instagram: @kabirvoyager posted a new photo.

Her heart jumped.

The photo: a landscape of prayer flags, fluttering skyward.

The caption: "There are distances the map can't show."

She stared at it for minutes.

Then opened their private chat — the one they never used.

She typed: “Did you find what you were looking for in those mountains?”

And deleted it.

Some distances weren’t meant to be crossed.

At least, not yet.

---

The distance between them wasn’t measured in miles.

It was measured in memories. In restraint.

In words they didn’t say, and in feelings they pretended didn’t exist.

But both Kabir and Mira, in their different worlds, had already begun counting again.

For the next October 10th.

For the next heartbeat in Room 407.