The recording light blinked red one last time before fading to black.
Silence followed — the kind that lingered longer than it should have, humming in the corners of the dimly lit studio.
Suhana shut her laptop slowly. Arjun was still at the desk, headphones hanging loose around his neck, staring at the waveform on the screen as if it could tell him something he hadn't already said aloud.
Neither of them moved to leave.
For weeks, their podcast had been a place of ideas — structured, neat, professional. But tonight's episode had been different. The topic had been "What makes a love story timeless?" and somewhere between theory and truth, they'd both slipped.
"Maybe it's when both people never say what they really feel," Arjun said quietly, not looking up, "until it's too late."
Suhana smiled faintly, the kind that almost hides a sigh. "Or maybe when they finally do."
He looked at her then. A shared, weightless laugh escaped — not from amusement, but from the recognition of something too real.
And then the silence settled again. Not awkward — just alive.
By the time they stepped outside, the city had dissolved into mist.
A fine drizzle blurred the lamplight, painting the street in streaks of gold and grey.
Suhana froze at the edge of the pavement. "Of course," she muttered. "The one night I forget an umbrella."
Arjun lifted his — black, large enough for two. "I'll walk you home."
She hesitated for a second. "It's really not far."
"I know," he said, eyes steady on hers. "Let me anyway."
So she nodded, and together they walked through the rain — two quiet silhouettes under one umbrella.
Their shoulders brushed with each step, small and unplanned, the space between them thinning in rhythm with the sound of their shoes on the wet pavement.
The world around them was hushed, silver, dreamlike. London felt far away and close all at once.
Suhana tried not to look at him, not to notice how his hand gripped the umbrella handle, knuckles pale from the cold.
He's becoming too familiar, she thought. Too close.
Arjun, on the other hand, found peace in the silence — the kind of peace that doesn't demand conversation.
I've never felt this kind of quiet with anyone before, he realized.
When the drizzle thickened into a steadier rain, Arjun pointed toward a small café tucked between two bookshops. Its windows were fogged, and the glow inside was warm and amber.
"Let's wait it out," he said.
Suhana nodded. Inside, the world smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. The barista, half-asleep, barely looked up as they ordered two coffees and found a table by the window.
For a while, they just sat — sipping, watching the rain trace lines down the glass.
Arjun broke the silence first. "I used to want to be a musician," he said, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. "Before all this — research, writing, the so-called serious life."
Suhana raised an eyebrow. "Really? You? The man who alphabetizes his bookshelf?"
He chuckled. "Believe it or not, I played guitar in college. Wrote songs too. Terrible ones."
She smiled — that soft, almost wistful kind. "I used to paint. Before…"
She trailed off.
"Before?" he prompted gently.
"Before a near-drowning accident when I was a kid," she said quietly. "After that, I stopped. Water made me feel… small."
Arjun froze for a heartbeat. Something about that story — the tone, the fear beneath it — tugged at a memory he couldn't quite see.
A flash — cold water, a scream, a small hand in his.
But the image slipped away before it could form.
He didn't ask. Some stories deserved to stay half-told.
When the rain softened, they left the café.
Suhana pulled on one glove, then struggled with the other — the leather damp and stubborn.
"Here," Arjun said, reaching out.
Before she could protest, he slid the glove onto her hand. His fingers brushed hers — warm, steady. The touch was brief, electric, more intimate than anything words could hold.
She pulled back too quickly. "Thanks," she murmured, eyes down.
He smiled — not teasing, not smug — just knowing. Words would have ruined it.
Some distances aren't measured in miles, she thought, they're measured in moments you almost cross.
By the time they reached her building, the drizzle had turned to mist again.
The air smelled of rain and roses from someone's balcony above.
Suhana turned to him, key in hand. "Thanks for walking me."
"Thanks for letting me," he said, voice low, barely above the hum of the street.
They stood there — one breath, one heartbeat too long.
His eyes lingered on her lips before he looked away, guilt and longing tangled in his expression.
He stepped back, exhaling softly. "Goodnight, Suhana."
"Goodnight, Arjun."
She closed the door and leaned against it, pulse wild, lips trembling with a smile she wouldn't admit to anyone.
On the other side, Arjun stood still for a few seconds, the rain tapping gently against his umbrella, his heart heavier than he'd ever let on.
When he finally walked away, the street seemed emptier — as if the night itself had been holding its breath for them.
---
That night, neither of them slept.
In two different rooms, under two different ceilings, they thought the same thought:
Maybe this is how falling starts — quietly.