Chapter two

The fawn

I stood in front of Mr. Jha’s mansion, frozen.

It had already been two days since I arrived in Shimla, and every single hour since then I have been spending avoiding this moment. I had come all the way here to hand over my heart on paper… and yet, for two whole days, I kept convincing myself I wasn’t ready.

That my words were too soft. With too many flaws. And were too small to matter.

There were moments when I nearly threw it all out. My poems, my drafts, and even my old journal, the one that had poems I may not ever be public yet, spoke a lot about me. I wanted to set them all on fire just so they wouldn’t mock me anymore.

But now, I was here. Standing on the porch of his grand mansion, my palms sweaty and my heart beating out of pure panic.

I couldn’t back out. Not now.

Not when I had already emailed his assistant. Not when she had actually replied. Not when she liked my poems enough to give me a meeting.

I pushed open the heavy front door and stepped inside, the soft click of my shoes echoing off the white marble floors. The place was drenched in elegance, every corner, every wallpapered wall whispering wealth and old money. I barely had a second to take it all in before someone took me out of that world.

A woman, young, stunning, polished like everything else in this house. She smiled, the kind of smile you practice in a mirror but still manage to make it look real.

“Your name?” she asked gently.

“Sushrita” I answered, trying to hide the way my voice almost trembled.

She tilted her head slightly, thinking. “The poet?”

I blinked. “Yes” I said, almost surprised she remembered. “We spoke yesterday. About...”

“Your poems,” she finished, and her smile grew a little warmer. “You sent some samples, right? I remember now. It’s good to finally meet you in person.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. “Well, same here” I murmured.

She studied me for a second, probably catching the way my hands were clutching my bag a little too tightly. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder it was a small gesture, but it held comfort in it.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Mr. Jha has an eye for talent. He’s not easily impressed… but when he is, he really is. I think you might just have what he’s looking for.”

Her words hit me in that small, hidden part of me that still believed I could be something more.

All my life, I’d been surrounded by people who either didn’t understand or didn’t care. But somehow, I always managed to find one person who gave me a drop of encouragement, right when I needed it the most.

“Thank you” I said softly, letting her kindness sit with me for a moment.

She gestured toward a plush sofa in the living room. “You can wait there. Mr. Jha will be with you shortly.”

I gave her a grateful nod, then walked over to the couch. Every step felt slow, heavy. Like my dreams were sitting in my chest, waiting to be judged.

As I sat down, I looked around the room, the bookshelves, the art, the faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the background.

I folded my hands in my lap, closed my eyes for a second, and told myself that from here it's all going to get better, just better.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps makes me open my eyes, I stand up from the sofa and look behind me.

Mr. Jha was walking down the stairs. And to my surprise Mr. Jha looked nothing like I expected, for a man in his mid 40s

He wore a plain off-white kurta, soft and a little wrinkled, with the sleeves casually rolled up. His linen pants were light brown, loose, and comfortable with simple leather sandals on his feet, a copper bracelet on his wrist. His salt and pepper hair was tied back, his eyes calm but sharp.

He looked more like a poet who achieved success, after chasing it since eternity.

His eyes finally met mine, steady and unreadable. He didn’t say anything right away but just walked over to the couch across from mine and sat down, nodding toward the seat opposite him, as if asking me to sit.

“Miss Sushrita, is it?” he asked, his voice calm but clipped. I nodded.

“Lucy, my assistant mentioned you yesterday,” he went on. “She sent me a few of your poems too. But you know... a few poems don’t really prove anything, do they?”

His words landed rough but not loud, yet enough to make my chest tighten. Still, I didn’t flinch. Instead, I reached into my bag and placed the full manuscript on the table between us.

He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and slipped them on smoothly, before flipping through the pages slowly.

“Some of these are very personal,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper, voice colder than I’d hoped. “Are you sure you want the world to read them?”

I took a deep breath. My hands were cold, but my voice didn’t shake.

“To me, life is personal, Mr. Jha” I said quietly. “And yes, I want to share them. Because out there, there are people who feel lonely, so lonely they need something raw and real to feel seen. I’ve written for seven years, mostly for myself. But now, I want to put these words into the world… not for applause, but so someone, somewhere, can feel a little less alone. So they can read what I wrote and think, ‘Hey… this is exactly how I feel. Even if I never knew how to say it.’”

I stopped. It felt like I spoke too much, but I didn't regret it since the words were meant to be spoken.

I finally looked up at him, scanning his face for some kind of sign of approval, rejection, or anything at all. But he gave me nothing. Just silence. And for a second, my hope faltered.

Two hours later

I had been walking aimlessly for the last half-hour. No clue where I was going. No idea what I was even feeling. The kind of numb confusion that fogs up every thought.

And then… I just stopped.

Right there on a narrow path I couldn’t name. My chest tightened, my eyes stung, and without warning, the tears came. Quiet at first. Then loud and aching. I didn’t care who saw me. I didn't even bother looking around. And I definitely couldn't stop.

I didn’t even realize how hard I was crying until someone tapped my shoulder.

My vision was a blur, smudging the world. But I could make out a figure, tall and still. He held out a plastic water bottle. Without thinking, I took it and drank like my throat had been holding fire.

As the shaking eased and the tears dried on my cheeks, I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater and looked up at him.

He looked… familiar. But I couldn’t place him.

“Thanks” I murmured, a bit embarrassed.

“Want to sit somewhere?” he asked, voice calm and soft, like he had time.

And somehow, I nodded.

He turned and started walking, steady and sure, like he knew exactly where he was going. I probably shouldn’t have followed, he was a stranger after all. But I did. I wasn’t exactly known for being sensible, and something about him felt like a memory I hadn’t remembered yet.

After a while, he stopped.

I blinked. There were no benches, no fences, no signs, just trees, fog, and quiet.

Shimla. It really was this beautiful. I’d forgotten.

No one else was around. And yeah, it hit me, maybe I should be worried. What if he was dangerous? What if I was being dumb?

But then he turned to me with an open palm.

“What?” I asked, staring at his hand.

He didn’t answer. Just smiled.

That smile...God, I hated how good it was.

I took his hand.

He led me further down a small slope covered in moss and wild grass, to a spot tucked between tall trees and wrapped in soft fog.

He sat down.

On the grass.

Not a chair but grass. I followed his footsteps, by sitting beside him.

“This place,” I whispered, more to myself than him. “It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked ahead.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling the calm start to settle into my bones.

“This is where I come when things feel... heavy,” he said, finally turning to look at me. “It helps.”

I blinked. Did he think I was sad?

“Oh wait, no. I mean, yeah I was crying, and I probably looked like a sad soul, but it wasn’t because I was sad,” I blurted.

He stayed silent. Letting me speak.

“It’s... it was because I was too happy. Overwhelmed even” I said, smiling softly. “I went to meet Mr. Jha today... for my poems. For a second, I really thought he was going to say no. But then... he didn’t. He said it had been decades since he read poetry like mine. And then he offered me a contract.”

I laughed, the disbelief still lingering in my chest. “So yeah, I guess my brain just short circuited and decided the best response was to cry like my entire world has fallen apart.”

When I looked back at him, his eyes were still on me. Warm. Attentive. Like he was studying my words, my face.

“I’m glad” he said, quietly. “You know years ago, I met a girl like you. Right in the middle of the road, tears on her cheeks, school uniform all dirty, snot running down her nose.”

I tilted my head, brows furrowing. That memory...it wasn’t just familiar. It was mine.

“What did you just say?” I whispered.

He smiled again it was soft, knowing this time

But it was impossible right? How could he be him? But he knew a memory I told no one about...so it had to be him and he...

He remembered me.

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