It starts with a phone call.

"Tripti Desai?"

The receptionist peeks over her monitor like she's about to deliver a death sentence. "Mr. Raikar wants to see you in his cabin."

Time. Stops. "Me?" I squeak, immediately elbowing my pen stand off the desk. It clatters to the floor in a dramatic swoon.

She nods. Deadpan. "Yes. You. Now."

I shoot up from my chair, frantically try to fix my dupatta (which has somehow looped itself around my ID tag), shove my glasses up my nose, clutch a random file like a shield, and mentally scream: Breathe, Tripti. Breathe.

The hallway to his cabin feels longer than it should. Like I'm walking toward a firing squad.
His door is half-open. Intimidating. Shadowy. Very CEO cave vibes. I knock. Gently. More like a whisper on wood.

From inside, a voice — smooth, low, and very much I-own-multiple-expensive-watches — says, "Come in."

I push the door. Too hard. and there goes Bang.

It slams against the wall like a gunshot. My file flies out of my hands, scattering papers like wedding confetti — except this is the opposite of romantic.

"Ohmygod—sorry! Sorry! I'm so sorry—!"

I drop to the floor, scrambling like a baby goat in heels, crawling on his pristine carpet trying to catch the escapee sheets. My glasses fall off. Again. Because of course they do.

When I finally gather everything and stand up, flushed and disheveled, he's just watching. Still. Unblinking. Like a painting in a haunted museum.bBlack shirt. Rolled sleeves. Silver watch.
Mr. Greek Tragedy meets Corporate Ruin.

"I am so sorry," I babble, clutching the crumpled file to my chest. "It's just—your door is... kind of aggressive."

One eyebrow lifts. "My door?"

"I mean—not you—I'm sure you're perfectly non-aggressive—I just—ugh. I should stop talking."

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled like a mafia don in a boardroom. "You're new."

I nod rapidly. "Yes. Second day. Technically. First full one. I think. Yes."

He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look bored either. "I went through your onboarding forms. You mentioned copywriting?"

"Yes! I—I used to write for my college magazine. Articles. And poetry, sometimes. Not great. But... you know. From the heart."

His eyes narrow. "Poetry?"

Why did I say that? Why do I even open my mouth?

"Ignore that. Irrelevant. Not job-related. I overshare sometimes. It's, um, part of the package. Along with clumsiness. And nerves. And occasionally knocking out furniture."

For the tiniest second, the corner of his mouth twitches. Just a breath of amusement.
Is that... a micro-smile?

"I need a short tagline," he says, voice clipped but not cold. "Simple. Catchy. You're assisting content, right? Draft a few options and email me by EOD."

I blink. "You... want me to write it?"

He nods once.

Holy crap. Reyansh Raikar just gave me real work. Not 'fetch-the-stapler' work. Actual brain-using, word-wrangling work.

"Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir. I won't let you down. Thank you, sir. And I'm sorry again. For the papers. The door. My existence."

He regards me with a perfectly unreadable expression. Then, "Close the door on your way out, Miss Desai. Gently."

I nod, back away like I'm exiting the throne room, trip slightly over the doormat, whisper a panicked "oops," and finally escape. Just as the door clicks shut behind me, I hear it.

A sound. Quiet. Warm. A low, brief chuckle.

Oh my God. Did I just make Reyansh Raikar laugh?

Back at her desk, Tripti sits ramrod straight, as if perfect posture will magically summon creative genius. Her brows are furrowed in fierce concentration, like a scientist decoding nuclear codes — except her battlefield is a blinking cursor.

The office buzzes around her. Emails ping, phones ring, someone sneezes dramatically three cubicles down. But none of it touches her. Her entire universe is reduced to one mission:

The Tagline. The holy grail. The make-or-break. The thing that could either impress Reyansh Raikar or land her in permanent stapler duty.

Her notepad is a battlefield of rejected brilliance. Her glasses have, once again, slipped down her nose. There's a half-eaten samosa balancing precariously next to her keyboard — forgotten mid-bite, a silent casualty of creative stress.

She scribbles furiously:

· "Feel the Shift."

· "Power. Purpose. Progress."

· "Made for More."

· "Let the Change Begin."

· "Sir, Please Don't Fire Me."

She pauses and stares at that last one. "Accurate, but probably not pitch material," she mumbles.

Tripti taps her pen against her chin, frowning. "Too vague... too motivational poster... too 'I read one self-help book and got inspired'."

Then, fingers moving slower, more thoughtfully, she types:

"You don't need loud to be powerful."

She stares at it.

The line hums quietly on the screen — soft, strong, unpretentious. Her lips curve into the tiniest smile.

It feels right. Honest. Unpolished. A little brave. Like... her.

She saves the file, leans back in her chair, and lets out the breath she's been holding since the moment she left Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Boardroom's office. Just as a ripple of excitement begins to rise in her chest—her phone buzzes..

Message from Bhabhi: He didn't touch dinner again. I'm worried.

Tripti's fingers still on the screen. Her heart tightens.

She leaves work early, skipping her usual chai stop and the auto ride playlist. When she steps into the house, it feels... heavier somehow. Dimmer. Like the light forgot how to shine just right.

Bhabhi greets her with a tired smile, the kind worn by people pretending to be fine for everyone else's sake. Little Sneha is yelling at the cartoon villains on TV like she's their personal nemesis.
Papa's asleep in his recliner, snoring softly, glasses sliding down his nose. But her brother?

He's on the balcony. Alone. Silent. The soft orange glow of a half-smoked cigarette blinking at the edge of his fingers. He doesn't even hear her come in.

Tripti walks over quietly, the way you do when approaching a wounded animal.

"Bhai..." she says gently, stepping beside him.

He flinches, then quickly snubs out the cigarette like it's caught him doing something shameful.
"Tripti," he mutters. "You're home early."

"You're smoking again."

He shrugs. "Just one."

"You said that five years ago."

He doesn't argue.

She pulls a chair beside him and sits, knees curled to her chest like she used to when they were kids on the terrace talking about aliens and cricket.

"Want to talk?"

A slow shake of the head.

She stays anyway. Not filling the silence. Just being there.

After a minute, she says, "I wrote a tagline today."

He doesn't react, but she continues.

"My boss liked it. Or didn't hate it. Or didn't fire me immediately — which, in his world, is basically a compliment."

Still nothing.

"You once said I had the focus of a squirrel on sugar. That I'd never last in a real job. So, you know, apology pending."

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.

He finally glances at her. Just briefly. "You're proving me wrong."

Tripti breathes in. "Then let me prove something else."

He looks at her again. Curious. Tired. Guarded.

"You're not alone in this," she says. "You're my brother. My safe place. My human diary. And yeah, I might be clumsy, over-emotional, and have a weird attachment to fridge magnets... but I'm yours. Always. And if you let me in, I swear—I'll fight your battles like they're mine."

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something — anything — but nothing comes out. Just a soft exhale. Then he looks away again, eyes glassy but dry.

Tripti doesn't push.

She doesn't try to fix it with more words.

She just sits beside him, close enough for him to know she's there. That she's staying.

Because some silences aren't meant to be broken. Just shared. With love.

The next morning at work, Tripti sits at her desk, nibbling on the edge of her pen cap — a habit Bhabhi swears will ruin her smile and her future wedding photos.

She knows she shouldn't. But she's anxious. Her inbox is empty. Still. It's been almost twenty-four hours since she submitted her tagline draft. No response. No feedback. No sign of professional doom or glory.

Did he hate it? Was it too plain? Should she have added an emoji? A meme? A scented hyperlink?  She buries her face in her folded arms and groans, muffled, "Dear God, if you're listening, please let the earth swallow me before my boss does."

Ping.

Her head jerks up.

A new email.

From: Mr. Reyansh Raikar
Subject: Regarding your submission
Message: Come to my cabin. Now.

Tripti's heart leaps. Then slams. Then starts doing a full-on bhangra in her chest.

She grabs her notebook, accidentally knocks over a stapler, catches it mid-air (Victory!), adjusts her dupatta like a superhero cape, and marches toward his cabin with the confidence of a marshmallow in a thunderstorm.

This time, she knocks gently. No war cries from the door.

"Sir?" she peeks in.

He doesn't look up. Just gestures for her to enter.

She steps in... and half-trips on the carpet again.

"Oops—sorry. You wanted to see me?"

Now he looks up — and his gaze is sharp. Focused. Entirely unreadable.

"You wrote this?" he asks, tapping the printout in front of him.

Tripti gulps. "Yes, sir. I mean—yes. That was me."

He reads aloud, slowly. "'You don't need loud to be powerful.'"

A beat of silence. Then:

"It's good."

Tripti's eyes widen. "Good?"

"Clean. Sharp. It speaks without shouting." He nods. "It works."

She blinks.

Did Reyansh Raikar just... compliment her?

He flips the paper. "We're using it. For the flagship campaign reel."

Her legs nearly give out. "Oh! Wow. Thank you. Sir. Thank you so much. I'm—honored. Truly. I might cry. I mean not here, but later. Like a professional."

His jaw twitches. It could be irritation. Or amusement. Or both.

Tripti clears her throat. "Anyway, I'll... go back to my desk before I turn into a live-action emoji."

She turns to leave.

But then—his voice, low and unexpected.

"Miss Desai."

She freezes. "Yes, sir?"

He looks at her, really looks this time. His gaze lingers—not cold, not distant.

"Don't second-guess your voice," he says. "It's what makes you worth listening to."

Tripti's heart stutters. She nods, her voice barely a whisper. "Noted, sir."

She walks out, cheeks flushed, notebook clutched like a trophy.

She doesn't see the way he watches her go — eyes narrowing slightly.

Thoughtful.

And, for once... Not cold.