“Kabhi kabhi, kuch log zindagi mein bas chai aur silence ke saath enter hote hain… aur pata hi nahi chalta, kab woh ek zarurat ban jaate hain.”
---
The bell above the café door chimed—soft, almost apologetic.
Aiyana didn’t look up. She was elbow-deep in whipped cream and regret, trying to fix a messed-up caramel frappe order while her playlist hummed "Kesariya" in the background.
But she knew it was him.
The same guy.
Same time.
Same brooding silence.
Dhairya Sehgal—the man who walked in like a mystery novel no one had the guts to finish.
Third time this week. No smile. No small talk. Just one deep voice and a consistent order:
“One black coffee. No sugar. Extra hot.”
Aiyana finally glanced up—there he was, standing at the counter, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the little book nook in the corner.
“Kya aapko books pasand hai, ya bas unke beech akele baithna?” she asked, smirking.
He looked at her, confused. “…Sorry?”
Aiyana chuckled, wiping her hands on a towel. “Nothing. Just your usual?”
He nodded. “Please.”
She made his coffee with exaggerated care, swirling the spoon like an artist creating a storm. “You know,” she said casually, “people usually talk to café owners. Especially jab woh regular ban jaate hain.”
Dhairya raised an eyebrow, lips curving just slightly. “I talk. Just… select words. Select people.”
“Haww. Selective mute types? Intriguing,” she teased, sliding the cup towards him. “This one’s on the house—if you tell me what you’re always sketching in that black notebook.”
His fingers froze over the cup.
Aiyana instantly regretted asking. “I mean… you don’t have to. Privacy and all that.”
He blinked once. Then said, quietly, “People. Faces I don’t want to forget.”
Her breath caught.
“Oh,” she said, softer now.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he added, turning to leave.
But before he walked away, he paused, glanced over his shoulder, and said with the faintest smile—
“You talk too much.”
Aiyana grinned. “And you, Mr. Broody, talk too little. We balance.”
---
As he disappeared into the light drizzle outside, Aiyana looked at the empty spot where he always sat—in the corner, near the window, where the bookshelves met the world.
Something about him tugged at a string she didn’t know was still connected.
Maybe it was the way he avoided eye contact.
Maybe it was the way he listened more than he spoke.
Or maybe… it was just that damn black notebook.
Whatever it was—Dhairya Sehgal wasn’t just a customer anymore.
He was… a curiosity.
And Aiyana Sharma? She had never been able to resist a good mystery.
To be continued.....
