(Mahi's POV)
Victory is loud only from a distance.
Up close, it sounds like doors closing gently, files being shelved, people exhaling without realizing they'd been holding their breath for months. The day after the verdict, Singhania's Law Firm didn't erupt into celebration. It returned to rhythm.
And that, somehow, felt bigger.
I arrived early—earlier than usual. The reception desk was already busy. Phones rang with purpose now, not panic. A junior associate smiled at me without hesitation, the kind of smile that comes when faith has been restored, even if no one says it out loud.
In the partner meeting later that morning, Singhania spoke carefully, like a man choosing words he knew would be remembered.
"We did not win because we were powerful," he said. "We won because we were precise. Ethical. Human."
His eyes rested on Nikhil and me for a fraction longer than on the others.
No applause followed. Just nods. Respect doesn't need clapping.
By afternoon, the media cycle had moved on to its next outrage. That was the real test—what remained when attention faded.
For me, what remained was a quiet shift.
Nikhil and I didn't go back to our earlier distance. Nor did we suddenly become inseparable. We found something steadier in between. Morning check-ins. Shared calendars. Coffee breaks that were about work—but not only work.
One evening, as the office lights dimmed naturally instead of defensively, I found him sitting in the library, flipping through an old law journal.
"Did you know," he said without looking up, "that half of these articles were written by people who lost their first big cases?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Comforting."
"Necessary," he replied. "People forget failure teaches structure."
I sat across from him. The silence wasn't awkward. It hadn't been for a while.
"Do you ever think about college?" I asked, surprising myself.
He closed the journal slowly. "More than I admit."
"Back then," I said, choosing my words carefully, "we thought being right was everything."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now I think being honest lasts longer."
He smiled—not amused, not nostalgic. Just thoughtful.
A few days later, a letter arrived at the firm. Handwritten. From one of the workers. No legal jargon. No gratitude dressed up as obligation. Just a simple thank-you, written unevenly, with spelling mistakes no one dared correct.
I read it twice.
Then I handed it to Nikhil.
He didn't say anything after reading it. Just folded it carefully and placed it inside his notebook.
"That," he said finally, "is why this mattered."
I nodded. I'd been thinking the same thing.
The firm began receiving new cases—not flashy ones. Honest ones. People who wanted representation, not spectacle. The juniors started asking questions again. Real questions. The kind that meant they believed answers mattered.
One evening, while reviewing a draft together, Nikhil pointed out a flaw in my argument.
"Your premise is strong," he said, "but the transition's weak."
I looked at it again. He was right.
"You'd have caught that earlier," I said.
"So would you," he replied. "We were too busy trying to outthink each other back then."
"And now?"
"Now we're trying to outthink the problem."
That difference sat between us quietly, like a truth finally settled.
On Friday, we left the office together again. It had become a habit, though neither of us named it. Outside, the city buzzed with its usual indifference. The firm's building stood tall behind us—not triumphant, just steady.
"Chai?" he asked.
"Only if you don't argue about the brand," I said.
He laughed. "No promises."
We sat at the same roadside stall we used to visit years ago, back when exams felt like the hardest thing life could throw at us. The chai tasted the same. Maybe that was the problem. Or maybe that was the comfort.
"Do you regret it?" he asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Walking away back then."
I thought for a moment. Honestly.
"No," I said. "I regret not understanding why."
He nodded. "I regret not explaining."
We let that sit between us. Not as a wound. As a scar—proof of healing, not damage.
As I walked home later that night, I realized something that felt almost unsettling in its calm:
We weren't fixing the past.
We were building a present that didn't depend on it.
Singhania's Law Firm would recover. That was clear now. But what stayed with me more than the verdict, more than the headlines, was this quiet partnership—rebuilt not on nostalgia or apology, but on shared responsibility.
Some relationships don't need to be saved.
They need to be relearned.
And for the first time, I felt like we were finally doing that—slowly, deliberately, and without pretending that growth doesn't leave marks.
That felt like the truest win of all.