When We Were Us

ISHA'S POV

(Flashback)

The first time I saw him, I was late.

Not fashionably late, not “two-minutes, sorry-I-got-stuck-in-traffic” late… but embarrassingly late. The kind of late where everyone in the conference room turns their head in unison, silently judging you.

And there he was.

Arnav Malhotra.

The youngest CEO in the city’s media industry, the man everyone whispered about — half in awe, half in envy. His crisp charcoal suit fit like it had been designed on his frame. His watch probably cost more than my monthly rent, but it was his eyes that caught me off guard — deep, unreadable, like they held a thousand unspoken words.

“Ms. Kapoor,” he said without looking at the folder I nervously clutched. “You’re late.”

I could have melted right there. Not out of attraction — at least not yet — but out of pure humiliation.

“I— I’m sorry, traffic—”

“Save it,” he cut in smoothly, sliding a pen across the table toward me. “Sign the NDA. If you’re going to work under me, punctuality is not optional.”

The words under me made my brain short-circuit for a fraction of a second. And no, not in the way you’re thinking — though later, much later, they would mean something entirely different.

That day, I hated him.

But fate… oh, fate has the sense of humor of a drunk stand-up comedian.

---

Three weeks later, I was sitting in his office, juggling client files, and Arnav Malhotra — the man who didn’t believe in “wasting time” — was asking me if I wanted coffee.

“You’re smiling,” I teased, because the sight was rare.

“I’m trying not to,” he replied, looking dead serious. “People will start thinking I’m human.”

That was the first crack in the ice.

---

Over the months, we became… something.

Not quite friends, not just colleagues. There was a thread pulling us closer, though neither of us dared name it. He started waiting for me in the mornings so we could walk into the office together. I started keeping an extra sugar sachet in my drawer because he always forgot his.

He had this way of making me feel like I could conquer anything, just by looking at me. And sometimes, I’d catch him watching me during meetings — not in that casual, absent-minded way, but like I was the only thing worth noticing.

---

The night it happened — our night — we weren’t even supposed to be alone.

It was raining. The rest of the team had left after a product launch celebration, but we stayed behind, working through client reports. The power flickered, the city went dark, and in that quiet glow of the emergency lights, something shifted.

“I think you like storms,” he said suddenly.

I smiled faintly. “Why?”

“Because you’re not afraid of them,” he replied, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

And before I could think, before I could remind myself that he was my boss, he closed the distance between us.

The kiss was slow, deliberate — like he was memorizing me. And when we broke apart, both of us knew nothing would be the same again.

---

We didn’t announce it to the world. We didn’t need to. The stolen glances, the late-night calls, the way his hand would brush against mine under the table — it was ours, and ours alone.

We were happy. God, we were so happy.

Which is why the end hurt even more.

---

It was barely three months after that night when everything began to crack.

His company hit a crisis. Shareholders were breathing down his neck. I was juggling deadlines, trying to shield him from extra stress. But somewhere in the chaos, we stopped talking — not the surface-level, “How’s your day?” talk, but the real, soul-deep kind.

Then came the argument.

I don’t even remember what started it — maybe a delay on my side, maybe his impossible standards that week — but I remember his voice, cold and sharp:

“Maybe this was a mistake, Isha.”

And I, stupidly proud and terrified of hearing him say more, replied:

“Maybe it was.”

We didn’t fix it. Neither of us called. Neither of us showed up at the other’s door.

---

A week later, I found out I was pregnant.

I remember staring at the two pink lines, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the test. Every instinct screamed to tell him. But then I remembered the way he had looked at me that last day — distant, tired, as if letting me go was easier than fighting for me — and I froze.

He had a company to save. A life I didn’t fit into anymore. And I… I didn’t want my child to be someone’s unwanted responsibility.

So I walked away. I left the city, left the whispers, left him.

---

Back in the present, sitting across from him now — years later — I can still hear the echo of that last unspoken goodbye.

And yet, I’m here.

With the one truth I can’t hide anymore.

Our son needs his father.

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