The episode had crossed fifty thousand plays overnight.
Their inbox flooded with messages — "You two sound like soulmates," "Who's the girl with the poetic voice?"
Suhana scrolled through the comments, torn between pride and discomfort.
Every compliment about their chemistry made her heart flutter… and ache.
At the studio, Arjun was the calm opposite.
"People are responding exactly how we hoped," he said, eyes on the analytics.
She nodded. "Yeah. They think we're—" she hesitated, "—a couple."
He chuckled lightly. "Occupational hazard."
But his gaze flickered away quickly, betraying the casual tone.
Later that afternoon, Suhana ducked into a café near Covent Garden, her laptop open, scarf draped carelessly across the chair.
The barista looked at her twice before saying, "Hey—aren't you the girl from The Space Between Us?"
Suhana froze.
"Oh, uh—yeah, that's me."
"Your voice," the barista said. "It's like… sad and safe at the same time."
That comment lingered long after the coffee cooled.
Sad and safe.
Two words that perfectly described how she felt around Arjun.
She texted him impulsively:
Suhana: "Apparently I sound sad and safe. Should I be offended or flattered?"
Arjun: "Flattered. You make sadness sound like art."
Suhana: "You always say things like that?"
Arjun: "Only to people who mean them."
She stared at the screen for a long minute before putting the phone down — her pulse louder than the café chatter.
Their producer arranged a live recording at a London bookstore — small audience, soft lighting, intimate setup.
The theme: "What We Leave Behind."
Suhana was nervous.
Live meant no edits, no filters — just raw emotion.
Before they went onstage, Arjun found her in the green room, pacing.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I don't do well with eyes watching me."
He smiled faintly. "Then don't look at them. Just look at me."
She blinked, trying not to read into it. "That's easy for you to say."
He handed her a small mic. "No, really. Pretend it's just us again. Like last time."
The steadiness in his voice calmed her instantly.
Lights dimmed. The audience hushed.
Their theme music played softly — rain mixed with the sound of old tapes.
Suhana (into mic): "Some memories aren't meant to fade. They echo in strange places — songs, streets, or sometimes, in someone's voice."
Arjun: "And sometimes, the hardest part isn't losing someone… it's realizing they never really left."
Their conversation drifted — half-scripted, half spontaneous.
They spoke about grief, about carrying people in invisible ways.
Then Suhana said, softly,
"Do you ever feel like you've met someone before? Like their presence feels like… déjà vu in human form?"
Arjun's heartbeat stumbled. He looked at her — she wasn't playing to the audience. She was talking to him.
He leaned closer to the mic.
"Yeah. I think sometimes we don't meet people. We remember them."
A murmur went through the crowd. Someone whispered, "Wow."
But Suhana wasn't thinking about the audience anymore.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her red scarf, mind flickering to a memory she'd long buried — water, cold, panic, and a boy's voice saying "You're safe now."
Applause filled the air as the session ended.
They smiled, waved, and thanked everyone.
But when they were backstage again, neither spoke.
Suhana broke the silence first.
"That line you said — about remembering people…"
He shrugged lightly, avoiding her gaze. "It just came out."
"It felt personal."
He hesitated. "Maybe it was."
She wanted to ask more — Do you remember me? Why does it feel like we've done this before? — but the words froze on her tongue.
It was raining again when they stepped outside.
London's streets gleamed gold under lamplight.
"Let me call you a cab," Arjun offered.
She shook her head. "I'll walk. I like the rain."
He smiled. "You always say that right before getting sick."
"How would you know?" she teased.
He looked at her for a long beat. "Just a guess."
They shared an umbrella anyway — close enough that her scarf brushed his arm.
For once, neither filled the silence with words.
The space between them wasn't empty anymore.
It was alive.
Back home, Arjun replayed the live session recording.
Her question echoed:
"Do you ever feel like you've met someone before?"
He opened the old news clipping again — "Local Boy Rescues Girl from Drowning – Identity Unknown."
He looked at the photo — small, blurred, but unmistakably her.
He whispered to himself,
"I didn't just remember her voice. I carried it all these years."
Then, he pressed play again.
Her laugh filled the room — soft, distant, and achingly familiar.
---
Some memories aren't lost — they're just waiting for the right sound to bring them home.