Twice A Day Once A Heart

Every love story begins somewhere.

Sometimes with a chance encounter. Sometimes with a friendship that takes years to become something more. Others begin with a kiss, a grand romantic gesture, a dramatic rescue, or two people reaching for the same book.

And sometimes, on an ordinary day, neither person has any reason to believe their life is about to change.But before we get to that, allow me to introduce myself.

I’m Love Spark. Cupid is my cousin, which makes romance something of a family business. Unfortunately, nobody in the family ever explained the difference between helping people find love and getting unnecessarily involved in their private lives.

I may have developed a few bad habits.

I observe. I comment. I occasionally offer advice nobody can hear. And when something goes wonderfully wrong, I reserve the right to say I saw it coming.

Did I actually see it coming? That’s a different question.

Now, I could stand here talking about myself all day, but even a narrator has to know when he’s becoming the problem.

So, let us begin.

The mic is yours.

7:00 AM — The Alarm

My alarm rang.

I opened one eye. The ceiling stared back. We understood each other perfectly. Neither of us wanted to be here.

I reached for my phone, slapped the screen, and returned to sleep.

7:15 AM

The alarm rang again.

I silenced it with the determination of a man defending his home from an invading army.

Then I pulled my blanket over my head.

7:30 AM

My phone vibrated against the bedside table. I considered throwing it out the window.

Unfortunately, I lived on the second floor, and replacing a phone wasn’t included in my monthly budget.

I turned off the alarm.

7:45 AM

The alarm rang again.

I stared at the ceiling.

“Five more minutes,” I whispered.

The ceiling remained unconvinced.

8:00 AM

The alarm rang again.

I pulled the pillow over my head.

It rang once more.

At 8:03 AM, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard it.

At 8:05 AM, I finally opened both eyes, reached for my phone, and slapped the screen.

“Okay, okay! I’m up! Stop ringing!”

The alarm stopped.

Silence returned to the room.

I dropped the phone beside me, pushed the blanket away, and sat on the edge of the bed. My feet touched the floor, but the rest of me seemed reluctant to participate.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the opposite wall.

Then I got up.

My name is Nikhil Sharma.

I’m twenty-two, a Computer Science Engineering student in Hyderabad, and the sort of person who can spend twenty minutes worrying about a problem that might take five minutes to solve.

I’m working on that.

Slowly.

My room was small, but it had everything I needed. A college bag sat beside the desk, textbooks occupied one corner, and a charging cable crossed the floor. A half-finished glass of water stood on the bedside table, where I’d left it the previous night.

My phone lit up again.

I picked it up.

The lock screen showed a college notification, two assignment reminders, and an email I’d already read several times. The email was about an internship.

I opened it.

Read the requirements.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Apparently, the requirements hadn’t improved since my last visit.

I put the phone down and headed for the bathroom before I could waste another ten minutes debating whether I was awake enough to get ready.

8:12 AM — Getting Ready

I moved through my morning routine with one eye on the clock. A quick shower, a clean shirt, books into my bag, phone charged enough to survive the day.

Breakfast was simple because I didn’t have time to make anything elaborate, and because I had no particular desire to wash half the kitchen before leaving for college.

My roommate, Ravi, had already left.

A message waited for me on our chat.

Ravi: Don’t forget the notes from yesterday.

I looked at the notebook lying open on my desk. The notes were there, mostly complete, with one diagram I still needed to redraw.

Me: I won’t.

I added a thumbs-up.

Somehow, the emoji made the promise feel official.

I checked my bag again, locked the apartment, and headed outside.

Hyderabad was already busy. Traffic moved in uneven waves, two-wheelers slipped through gaps that looked far too small, and people crossed roads with the quiet confidence of those who had done it thousands of times.

I joined them.

I had moved here from Delhi for college, studying Computer Science Engineering on a scholarship. It had been a good opportunity, and I knew that. I was grateful for it.

I also wanted more.

After graduation, I wanted a good software job. I wanted to earn enough that an unexpected expense wouldn’t make me reorganize my entire month. I wanted to be able to buy things I needed without calculating whether I could afford them twice.

And I wanted to reassure the woman who had raised me that I was doing all right.

Her name was Mother Rosy Scott.

She had raised me at an orphanage in Delhi after I lost my biological parents in an accident when I was three. I didn’t remember the accident itself. What I remembered was growing up with her around: her voice, her advice, and the way she could tell when I was pretending to be fine.

She was seventy-eight now.

We lived in different cities, but we stayed in touch whenever we could. I tried to call regularly, and she tried not to worry too much about me.

Neither of us was especially successful at that arrangement.

I wanted to tell her one day that I had found a good job and that she could finally stop wondering whether I was managing.

I could picture that conversation clearly.

The steps required to reach it were less clear.

For now, I had college, assignments, and a part-time job at a coffee shop. I had bills to pay, plans to make, and a résumé that kept reminding me I wasn’t where I wanted to be yet.

It wasn’t a terrible life.

I just wanted to do something with it.

9:00 AM — College

College was already awake when I arrived.

Students stood outside classrooms, comparing assignment deadlines and discussing an exam that was still far enough away for everyone to pretend they weren’t worried about it. Someone was arguing about a cricket match. Someone else was trying to complete a submission on a phone with an astonishingly cracked screen.

I slipped into class and took my usual seat.

I was reasonably good at some parts of engineering. Give me a problem, a little time, and a notebook, and I could usually work my way through it. But understanding something in a classroom and being confident enough to demonstrate it in an interview were two different things.

During the lecture, I filled my notebook with notes. In the margin, I wrote internship applications.

I underlined it.

Then I listened to the professor, returned to the words, and circled them.

If productivity were measured in decorative marks on paper, I would have been unstoppable.

When the professor asked a question, I knew the answer. I considered raising my hand, noticed a student in the front row already speaking, and left my own hand on the desk.

The other student gave an answer that was mostly correct.

I added a small correction to my notes.

I didn’t need to be the loudest person in the room. I knew that. Still, I sometimes wished confidence could be acquired as easily as lecture notes: sit down, pay attention, write it out, take it home.

By the end of class, my notebook was useful, my assignment list had grown, and the internship email remained unanswered.

One problem at a time, I told myself.

It was a reasonable philosophy.

It was also an excellent way to postpone a problem indefinitely.

12:45 PM — Lunch

By lunchtime, the campus had warmed up, and the crowd around the food counters was thick enough to make choosing a meal feel like a competitive examination.

I found a place to sit with my food and opened the internship listing again.

The position looked good. The company seemed legitimate, the work matched some of what I had studied, and the application didn’t require me to possess ten years of experience before graduating.

I checked the requirements one more time.

My skills were close enough to qualify. My résumé needed work, but that was fixable.

I knew all of this.

My thumb hovered above the application link anyway.

Around me, conversations drifted from college to weekend plans to job opportunities. One student spoke about an interview his cousin had cleared. Another complained about a company that had rejected him without an explanation.

I listened while pretending to concentrate on my meal.

I wasn’t afraid of work. I was afraid of trying, getting my hopes up, and discovering that the effort hadn’t been enough.

Rejection would be easier to handle if I could convince myself I hadn’t really tried.

That was the trick my mind played on me. It offered disappointment in advance, as though an early payment would somehow make the eventual cost smaller.

I opened my messages and selected Mother Rosy.

For a moment, I considered telling her about the internship. She would be pleased that I was looking. She would ask questions, remind me that I was capable, and tell me not to worry so much.

I began typing.

I found a good internship opportunity today. I think I might—

I stopped.

I hadn’t applied yet. There was nothing to report, and I didn’t want her to start hoping for something I might never get.

I deleted the unfinished message and returned to my food.

My phone went back into my pocket.

The opportunity was still there.

So was the fear.

Neither had won anything by lunchtime.

2:30 PM — One More Thing to Do

The afternoon passed in the familiar rhythm of lectures, notes, and small conversations between classes.

I answered a question when a classmate asked for help with a problem. I shared my notes with someone who had missed part of a lecture and made a dry comment about an assignment that appeared to have been designed by a professor who personally disliked weekends.

The remark earned a laugh.

I smiled and went back to packing my books.

I was funnier when I wasn’t trying to be. Unfortunately, I hadn’t discovered a reliable method for arranging that circumstance.

By the time classes ended, I had a list of things to do at home and a shift to get to. There were assignments, the résumé, and a message I should have sent earlier.

I also had some time before work.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to sit somewhere quiet before heading to the coffee shop.

I walked toward a nearby park.

4:35 PM — The Park

The park was busy without being crowded. People moved along the paths, a few children played near the grass, and friends occupied the benches as though the afternoon belonged to them.

I found a stretch of path where I could walk without having to dodge too many people.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

That was when I noticed her.

She stood with a group of friends near one of the paths, listening to someone talk. Her long, thick black curls fell around her shoulders. Her skin was a deep ebony, her eyes dark brown, and her expression changed easily as she followed the conversation.

She wore an ivory embroidered top with flowing cape sleeves, its maroon borders and small gold-toned motifs catching the afternoon light. Matching flared trousers completed the outfit. It was traditional without looking formal, distinctive without seeming like an attempt to draw attention.

She wasn’t trying to be the center of the group.

She simply seemed comfortable in it.

I looked away.

Then, a moment later, I looked back.

One of her friends said something that made the group laugh. The woman smiled, and I found myself wondering what the joke had been.

A harmless question.

My brain, naturally, began treating it as the opening stage of a complicated investigation.

I hadn’t met her. She hadn’t noticed me. There was no reason for me to be thinking about her at all.

I continued walking.

When I looked back again, she was already looking in my direction.

Our eyes met.

It lasted barely a second.

She glanced away toward her friends, and the moment passed.

I kept walking for another few steps before turning around.

There was no sensible explanation for what I was doing. I knew that. But I also knew that if I kept walking, I would spend the next hour wondering what might have happened if I had simply said hello.

I turned back.

One step.

Two.

My shoe caught the uneven edge of a paving stone.

I stumbled forward, windmilled one arm, and managed to stop myself before landing on the ground. My bag swung around and bumped against my side.

For one awful second, the entire park seemed to have noticed.

Nobody was actually staring.

That did not help.

“Are you okay?”

The voice came from beside me.

It was her.

She had crossed the short distance between us and was looking at me with genuine concern, not amusement.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. The pavement and I just had a disagreement.”

She looked down at the uneven stone, then back at me.

“Seems like the pavement won.”

I let out a small, embarrassed laugh.

“Looks that way.”

“You hurt your hand.”

Only then did I notice the scrape on my palm. It wasn’t serious, but a thin red mark had appeared where I’d caught myself.

She reached into her bag and offered me a tissue.

“Here. Clean it before you touch anything.”

“Thanks.”

I accepted it, trying not to think about the fact that I had rehearsed exactly zero lines for this conversation.

She waited while I pressed the tissue against my palm.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little. Mostly my dignity.”

This time, her smile widened.

“Dignity usually recovers.”

“Good. I was worried I’d need to visit a doctor.”

She laughed, and the sound was easy and unforced. She seemed amused by me, but she wasn’t making me the target of a joke.

That made it easier to breathe.

“Seriously, though,” she said, glancing at my hand, “wash it properly when you get home. It’s only a small scrape, but don’t ignore it.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. I could feel my mind searching desperately for a natural next sentence. It found several terrible ones and offered them all at once.

I decided not to use any of them.

“I’m sorry,” I said instead. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with your friends.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything. We were just talking.”

She glanced back at the group. One of her friends lifted a hand to get her attention.

“Chaitra!” the friend called. “Are you coming?”

“One minute, Pavanthi!”

I looked at her.

Chaitra.

I repeated the name in my head, quietly enough that no one could hear me.

She turned back to me. “Take care of that hand, okay?”

“I will. Thanks again.”

She gave me a brief smile and returned to her friends.

I remained beside the uneven paving stone for a moment, holding the tissue against my palm.

Then I checked that my phone was still in my pocket, adjusted my bag, and started walking toward the park exit.

I didn’t know her surname. I didn’t know what she studied, where she lived, or whether I would ever see her again.

I knew only that she had stopped to help a stranger who had nearly fallen over his own feet.

And her name was Chaitra.

5:45 PM — The Coffee Shop

By 5:45 PM, I was at the coffee shop where I worked part-time.

The place had a modern, comfortable look: warm lighting, wooden tables, a long counter, and music that was quiet enough to be pleasant but loud enough to cover the occasional awkward silence between customers.

I changed into my work apron, checked the counter, and washed my hands.

The scrape on my palm stung under the water.

I remembered Chaitra telling me to clean it.

For some reason, that made me smile.

It was a ridiculous thing to remember. She’d helped someone who had nearly fallen over. It wasn’t as if she’d rescued me from a burning building.

I had to stop turning ordinary kindness into an event.

My supervisor walked past the counter.

“You’re on register first. The evening rush should start soon.”

“Got it.”

“And please don’t forget to check the takeaway orders. Yesterday, someone waited ten minutes for a coffee that was sitting right behind you.”

“I remember.”

“Good. So does the customer.”

He walked away.

I tied my apron properly and got to work.

The next few hours passed in a steady stream of orders, cups, receipts, and requests that seemed designed to test the limits of human patience.

One customer wanted a drink with several modifications and then asked whether it would taste exactly like the original.

Another ordered a coffee and spent five minutes searching for his wallet while holding his phone, keys, and a shopping bag.

A third looked at the menu for so long that I began to wonder whether he was choosing a drink or making a major life decision.

I served them all.

I was good at this job. Not because I was especially charming, but because I paid attention, followed instructions, and tried not to make other people’s days harder than they already were.

The pay wasn’t much, but it helped. It covered small expenses and gave me a little more control over my life.

That mattered.

At around seven, during a brief lull, I checked my phone.

There was a message from Mother Rosy asking how my day had gone.

I smiled and typed a reply.

Classes were fine. Work is busy today. I’ve eaten, so don’t worry.

I paused before sending it, then added:

I’ll call you this weekend.

Her reply came a few minutes later.

Good. Take care of yourself, Nikhil. And don’t work too hard.

I read it twice before putting my phone away.

Some things never changed.

I was grateful they didn’t.

The evening rush returned, and I went back to work.

Every now and then, my mind drifted to the park. Not to anything dramatic. I remembered the way Chaitra had offered me a tissue, the concern in her expression, and the way she had told me to take care of my palm.

I didn’t know anything about her beyond her name.

I didn’t know whether I would ever see her again.

There was no reason to expect that I would.

So I focused on the orders in front of me.

That was usually the sensible thing to do.

9:55 PM — Closing Time

My shift ended at ten, and by 9:55 PM, most of the work was done.

One of my coworkers was on leave that week, which meant the evening shifts felt a little busier than usual. I didn’t mind too much. The extra work kept me occupied, and honestly, I preferred having something to do rather than standing around watching the clock.

I wiped down the counter, checked the remaining supplies, and put away the things I’d used. My feet hurt, my shoulders were tired, and I was looking forward to sitting somewhere that didn’t require me to smile at strangers.

I changed, collected my bag, and stepped outside.

The air had cooled slightly. The road was still busy, though the traffic had begun to thin.

I took out my phone and opened Ravi’s chat.

I’d been meaning to ask him whether he wanted to do something the following day. Nothing elaborate. Perhaps we could go out for a while instead of spending another evening in our rooms, each pretending to be busy.

I typed a message.

You free tomorrow?

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Then I sent it.

There. A simple message. No elaborate explanation, no attempt to predict every possible answer.

I could survive a yes.

I could survive a no.

And if he didn’t reply until tomorrow afternoon, I could survive that too.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and started home.

For once, I didn’t feel the need to review the message in my head every thirty seconds.

It was a small thing.

I was trying to get better at small things.

10:35 PM — Back Home

Ravi was in the room when I returned, looking at his phone.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Observant as ever.”

“How was work?”

“Busy.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

I thought about the park, the fall, and the girl who had helped me.

For half a second, I considered telling him.

Then I pictured the questions that would follow. Ravi would want to know who she was, whether I’d spoken to her, whether I planned to find her again, and why I was smiling about something so ordinary.

I wasn’t prepared to answer any of that.

“Nothing much,” I said.

He accepted that and returned to his phone.

I put my bag down, washed up, and checked my palm. The scrape looked harmless enough. I cleaned it properly and covered it with a small bandage.

Chaitra’s advice had been sensible.

I wasn’t going to admit that aloud to anyone.

After changing into comfortable clothes, I opened my laptop.

The internship listing was still there.

I looked through the requirements again and opened my résumé. I corrected a line, adjusted the formatting, and added a detail about a project I’d worked on.

The application button waited at the bottom of the page.

I moved the cursor toward it.

Then stopped.

I read the résumé again, looking for another mistake. I found a sentence that could be phrased better, so I changed it. I checked the dates, checked the project descriptions, and checked everything one more time.

The button was still waiting.

I wasn’t ready to submit it.

Not tonight.

I closed the application page but left the document open. Tomorrow, I’d look at it again. Maybe I’d apply then. Maybe I’d find another reason to wait.

I didn’t know.

But the résumé was better than it had been that morning, and the application was still there.

It wasn’t a victory.

It wasn’t a failure either.

Sometimes progress was simply making it a little harder for yourself to give up.

I shut down the laptop and lay back on my bed.

The day had been ordinary. I’d attended classes, worked my shift, sent Ravi a message, and made a small improvement to my résumé.

I’d also fallen over in front of a stranger.

That part was less ideal.

I turned onto my side and closed my eyes.

For the first time that day, I let myself think about the park without trying to explain it away.

Chaitra.

I wondered whether she was a student at my college. Whether I’d see her around campus. Whether she lived nearby.

Then I stopped myself.

I didn’t know her. I had no reason to invent a future around a two-minute conversation.

Still, remembering her made the day feel a little less ordinary.

I smiled at the ceiling.

Life was mostly fine.

Wasn’t it?

Love Spark’s Closing Notes

And so, dear reader, our young hero has survived another day.

He has attended college, completed his shift, improved his résumé, and sent one message without deleting it first. I would call that personal growth, except I have standards to maintain.

He has also fallen over while attempting to approach a woman.

A graceful beginning? Absolutely not.

A memorable one? I should think so.

Now, before you start imagining violins, moonlight, and destiny throwing flower petals at the pavement, let me clarify something: nothing extraordinary happened in that park.

A young woman named Chaitra helped a stranger who had fallen down.

A young man named Nikhil thanked her.

Then they went their separate ways.

That was all.

No magical arrow. No mysterious voice whispering their names. No supernatural force pushing them together.

I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

And if Cupid asks, I was nowhere near the park.

In fact, I was on vacation.

I have witnesses.

Well, imaginary witnesses, but that’s beside the point.

For now, Nikhil has an unfinished résumé, a roommate who enjoys annoying him, a message waiting for a reply, and the memory of a girl whose name he has no particular reason to remember.

He will remember it anyway.

People often do.

The beginnings that matter rarely announce themselves. They slip into ordinary days, disguised as accidents, brief conversations, or moments that seem too small to deserve a place in a story.

Then, much later, someone looks back and realizes that the day they thought was nothing special was the day everything began to change.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Our hero has college tomorrow.

And, more importantly, he has an alarm clock to negotiate with.

Personally, I give the alarm clock better odds.

Now, Nikhil, I think that’s enough time with my microphone. Hand it back, please.

...

Right. You can’t hear me.

You don’t know I exist.

And yet here I am, conducting a perfectly one-sided conversation with the protagonist of my own narration. Cupid is never going to let me forget this.

Fine. I’ll take the mic back myself.

Until next time, dear reader.

Try not to fall in love—or on the pavement—before breakfast.

Love Spark, taking the mic back and signing off.