She Never Expected

Ria

Everyone has a past. Past— that brings either joy, sorrow, or both.

But what if you don’t even remember it?

And if given a chance, will you relive it or rewrite it?

Imagine if someone handed you a giant “RESET” button — would you smash it, or walk away?

Most of the people I know say they don’t even want to think about it, as if it were a horrible dream. Take Sarah. My Best Friend. She hates the person she used to be. Describes her old self as weak. Dumb. Someone who was just too afraid to stand up for herself. Or anyone. She likes the person she has become now and looks forward to her better version. “Sarah 2.0”— ready to conquer whatever comes her way. She’s strong and wiser than ever. That’s what she says on her birthday. Every year.

I tell her it’s just a phase of life. We are going to look back at our old self and cringe retrospectively—at what we did and said. It’s about the time we start accepting and loving every phase. Every version.

Aaron, on the other hand, would sell his soul (and probably his collection of PS5) to get back all the years that flew by. He hates growing up and being an adult; he wants all those years back. The moments. The people. Everything. Even though it’d been only two days since he wore the ‘adult’ hat.

My grandma… well, she’s a wild card. Sometimes she drops a dramatic “nothing at all”—end scene. Other times, she tilts her head and says, “It depends.” She’d love to relive the sweet chapters, the summers filled with love and light but without a heavy price. According to her, every wish comes with a hidden fee. For every gain, there’s a more significant loss for her on the other side. She believes her every answered prayer takes away something from her. Something valuable. Dearer to her. It’s a barter, she explains. God may grant you what you’ve been dying for, after years of waiting but, on the other hand, He always seems to take away something you hadn’t even considered losing.

I don’t get it. That doesn’t make sense to me. But I still nod every time— because sometimes it’s easier to pretend you do.

People turn the question back on me.

Relive or Rewrite?

My answer was always to re-watch.

I don’t remember most of it. Not the laughter, the pain, the people, or the places. Nothing. They say the memories make us who we are but what happens when yours vanish overnight?

Releasing a deep breath, I sat waiting in my car, the engine humming softly beneath me. The sky had turned a dull gray, heavy with unspoken warnings, and within minutes, the rain came. First as a light drizzle, then a steady downpour that blurred the windshield and painted trails down the side windows.

Students hurried by under umbrellas, their silhouettes distorted by rivulets of water trickling down the glass. They wore white uniforms beneath reddish-brown coats, the raindrops deepening the color with each drop. Everyone had a frown on their face as they rushed past, the kind you usually see under a harsh midday sun.

“John! Get in the car.” A woman’s voice cut through the rain — probably some John’s mother — trying in vain to rein in her son. There he was, a little seven-year-old with a mischievous smile, jumping in the mud and sending a spray of dirty water up against my purple car. My poor car. I glared at him from behind the windshield, but it barely made a ripple in his happiness.

“No, Mom. It’s fun there!” he cried, tugging back against her grip as she tightened her hold on his wrist and started pulling him toward their car.

“You will get sick.” Her concerned voice blurred out as they moved away.

I exhaled and leaned back on the seat. The pain of not having parents came back crashing in. No matter how old you are. You will always need them in your life. Always.

Glancing back at the boy, I wondered if I was like him too. Carefree? Notorious?

I wish I knew what happened during those years. What was I like? How was my school life? Did I achieve anything? Did I make any friends?

As someone who has been introverted since the beginning, I’m unsure if I’ve ever had friends; when I attempt to recall, my mind goes completely blank, similar to a white canvas. Ten years of my life gone as if someone had pressed delete on everything I was. The years before that feels like a blur too. Like as a child I don’t expect my brain to remember anything. But at least I remember the people I used to live with. Grandma, Aaron, his parents, and my parents. I couldn’t recall the bond I had with them when I was a kid.

I was in a coma for six months and ten days after the accident. Everyone thought I was a goner, but I pulled through somehow. The worst part is, I can’t remember anything about the accident itself. When I finally woke up, my first thought was of my parents. That’s when Grandma broke the news: there had been an accident, and I was the only one who made it. I’ve tried so hard to piece together those lost years, to remember anything at all, but it’s like a blank slate. It’s like I went to sleep at thirteen and woke up as a twenty-three year old.

Five years have passed, and I haven’t looked back.

My fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. I leaned forward, squinting through the rain, trying to spot my cousin’s familiar figure. The sound of the rain drumming on the roof replaced the soft music in the background.

Then, suddenly, the passenger door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of wet earth. My cousin slid into the seat, shaking rain from his jacket, cheeks flushed from the chill.

His clothes were drenched, destroying the seat of my already poor car. Water droplets were dripping from his brown curly locks as he threw his bag on the back seat and settled himself.

I shook my head at his annoying self and started the car.

“Okay, before you get mad…” Aaron began, flashing me a nervous smile.

I shot him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Why?”

He gulped and quickly looked away, his fingers fidgeting in his lap. That was all the answer I needed.

“Don’t tell me you got into another fight,” I narrowed my eyes at him.

He gave a half-hearted, slow shrug, avoiding my eye, and increased the volume of the radio. “They started it. I was just defending my friend,” he mumbled, staring out the rain-speckled window.

I let out a dry scoff and turned off the music. “You don’t have to play superhero every single time, you know.”

His mouth parted in shock. “You weren’t there! Those kids were being bullies. Someone had to do something!”

“But fighting doesn’t make the problem go away. You have to learn to handle things calmly. You are not a kid anymore.”

“Sorry, and Please Don’t tell Grandma.” He side-glanced at me, making me purse my lips.

I shook my head at him and stopped the car when the light turned red.

Aaron Mehra was eighteen, still stuck in high school, still managing to be equal parts charming and completely exhausting. Technically, he was my cousin, but honestly? He felt more like the little brother I never signed up for—loud, dramatic, a little too opinionated for someone his age.

We lost our parents in the same accident five years ago. I was nineteen. He was thirteen. Some days, it felt like a blur. Other days, it felt like the kind of pain that lived in your bones.

Since then, it had been just the two of us and Grandma. She took us in, no questions asked, and raised us in the quiet shelter of her little café, the one that always smelled like cinnamon, old books, and fresh beginnings. That place, and her love, held us together. Somehow, we kept going. Somehow, we became something like a family again.

Aaron is like a little brother to me who can be annoying sometimes.

Correct that—every time.

One of Aaron’s many, many talents? Getting into fights. He had a knack for it, like trouble followed him around with a clipboard and a schedule. It was one of his major issues, and no matter how many times we talked about it, he kept finding new ways to throw a punch at someone who “totally deserved it.”

And of course, every time it happened, the principal would call me. Not Grandma. Me. I’d get summoned to her overly perfumed office like I was the one throwing fists in the hallway. The next morning, without fail, I’d be sitting across from her desk, nodding through a one-hour lecture about responsibility, guardianship, and “the example you set at home.”

Shoving the thoughts away, I started the car the moment the light turned green.

When our house came into view, I exhaled. Two floors, pale blue walls that had faded a little over the years, and a front yard that Grandma tried to keep alive with potted plants and seasonal flowers. Not too big, not too small—just enough to hold what was left of us.

I pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and sat for a second before stepping out. Aaron was already out, leaning on the fence, talking with the neighbor’s son, who was his best friend. The moment I unlocked the door, the silence greeted me like an old habit. Grandma was still at the café—that much was obvious. Without her soft humming in the kitchen or the clinking of mugs, the house felt… hollow.

I let out a quiet sigh and made my way upstairs. After changing into something more comfortable, I headed back downstairs, bare feet brushing against the cool wood floor.

Time flew by.

It was the evening, the sun was setting, and the sky was orange. I walked in the busy streets, making my way towards my grandma’s café.

Once I saw the café, with “Sweet and Sugar” written on the board in bold letters, I entered. The bell chimed, and the old lady sitting behind the counter looked up from behind her glasses. A smile made its way to her lips, crinkling her eyes.

Inhaling the smell of coffee, I slowly made my way towards her. The air was filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the sweet scent of pastries. People were seated at the various tables, some engaged in a quiet conversation while others immersed themselves in books or worked on their laptops.

“There you are,” Grandma said with the kind of exhale that carried both relief and fatigue. “I was beginning to think you got kidnapped by your to-do list.”

“Yeah, something like that,” I muttered with a tired smile, sliding off my bag.

She shook her head, already reaching for another order slip. “Gianna bailed again. I’ve been juggling coffee orders and burnt croissants all morning.” She exhaled and lifted her hand, slowly rubbing her neck. The sweat had formed on her forehead.

My brows furrowed. “Are you fine?”

“Yeah, just tired, I guess.” She waved her hand.

“You should’ve called me earlier,” I tied the apron around my waist. “Go take a breather. I suggest you go home. I’ve got this.”

Grandma paused, giving me that soft, grateful look—the one that always made me feel like I was doing something right. Glancing around, I observed that the café was unusually quiet.

After an hour had passed, I was sitting silently in the corner, scrolling through my phone. The low battery notification popped, and I swiped it right like it never alerted me, continuing my entertainment. The screen lit up again, Sarah’s name emblazoned across it. I sighed, leaning back further into the chair. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Where are you?”

“Cafe.”

“What about the interview?”

“It was this afternoon.”

“How’d it go?”

I chewed on my lip, glancing at my chipped, yellow nail polish. “Trashy. I don’t think they’ll even consider me. Their faces said it all.” I lowered my voice, though there was hardly anyone left to overhear. The clock on the wall read 7:45 p.m. And Mondays always brought fewer customers.

There weren’t many people, the atmosphere was quiet- the ticking of the clock and turning pages of books were the only sounds that could be heard.

Two students were seated together, one of them trying to focus hard on his studies while the other looked like he was being dragged here—almost on the verge of dozing off. I smiled, and then my eyes fell on the old lady seated in the window area, her gaze focused on the book she was reading with full concentration. Her facial expression changed with every turn of the page, and I was curious to know which book it was. I squinted my eyes to catch the title. But still, couldn’t do it with my weak vision. Maybe I should invest in binoculars.

Sarah’s voice brought me out of my daze. “Maybe your talents and experience left them so amazed that they didn’t know what to say.”

“No sugar-coating. That’s not helping.” I replied and changed the song in the café. ‘I almost do’ by Taylor Swift filled the background. Mark, one of the waiter, pulled a face; he doesn’t like the songs I listened to. Just like I don’t like the movies he watches. Yet, just to irritate him more, I play all the songs at high volume.

She chuckled, “I don’t lie.”

I sighed, picking at a loose thread on my apron. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t in that room. They looked like they wanted to run for the hills.”

“Hey,” Sarah said, her voice softening. “Don’t get discouraged. It’s just one interview. Plenty more out there.”

“Yeah, well, this was the one I really wanted.” I glanced over at Mark, who was now exaggerating his displeasure with the music by miming gagging. I stuck my tongue out at him. “Besides, I’m starting to think it’s a trashy day. Nothing’s going right today.”

The bell chimed, and I glanced up to see the new customers. Two men, who appeared to be a few years older than me, took their seats at a table.

I leaned forward on my seat, crossing my arms. My eyes squinted as I watched Mark rush to them to take orders.

Those two men.

One of them had come to this cafe yesterday with his friends. I still remember how his smile faded when he looked at me. Like he’d seen a ghost. Maybe I looked like one. But his reaction was something else.

Coming out of my thoughts, my eyes darted to the other man who had just taken his seat.

He glanced at me, his warm eyes pausing on me for a second, before the corner of his lips twitched in a small smile. My heart did a back flip. He averted his gaze and looked at Mark, throwing his one arm over the head of the sofa.

A normal person would have taken their eyes off him and mind their own business without making the customer feel uncomfortable. But, when was my name ever on the normal people list?

So, I kept staring, taking in his appearance. I couldn’t help but notice every detail. His simple half-sleeved white T-shirt accentuated his muscular frame, hinting at the power beneath. His tattooed arm was a canvas of intricate designs. His dark hair was slicked back, giving him a handsome yet dangerous look. And oh my god, his smile. That killer smile could melt—

“If you are done staring at your customers, I’m in line.” A very, very offended and deep voice entered my ears, snapping me out of my daze.

I averted my eyes and looked at the person—or another Greek god—who was standing right in front of me. A man. A very tall man, dressed like he walked straight out of a business magazine—and possibly my dreams.

He had a deep scowl settled on his face, like someone had just snatched his entire wealth away. His dark brows creased, the lines appearing in his forehead, as he glanced at the tables where those men were seated and then back at me.

His eyes were covered with black glasses that probably cost my entire annual salary.

Shaking his head, he exhaled, “No wonder the service is slow—you’re busy undressing people with your eyes.”

I pursed my lips, trying not to get mad at his hollow remarks, “You might be having some misunderstanding. I was trying to find out if any customer needed me.”

A mature and smart person would have just let go of the topic. But he wasn’t one.

He buried his hands in his black trousers and tilted his head. “Of course. You don’t care about the reputation you’re ruining, the history, the hard work that built this place. Just the paycheck, right? As long as it comes on time, who cares if you actually do your job?”

My nostrils flared. The anger consumed every part of my body.

I let go of my clenched hand, sliding them into my pockets to ensure they wouldn’t connect with his lovely face.

Staring intently, I questioned, “What gives you the certainty that I’m just idling away my time all day long? Who are you? My best friend? who knows everything, or my employer? because my employer knows how hardworking I am. Keep your shitty opinions to yourself.”

Employer? My brain mocked my jobless condition. I pushed away the thoughts, and met his hard expression with my own.

Maybe I said too much. I couldn’t catch what was going on in his head, or any kind of emotion in his face that confirms that I’m in too deep. His face was stone-like. Emotionless. But the clench of his jaw told me, he wasn’t too happy hearing my essay.

Before he could say anything, a voice cut through.

“Advik Sir? There’s an issue.”

A man approached the man standing in front of me. He nodded, and they both left, making me release a deep breath of relief. Grandma’s gonna take a class on me when she finds out I shooed away a customer.

“Ria? Everyone’s busy. Can you take this order to table no. 23?” Grandma’s voice snapped me out. I nodded and got on my feet, taking the tray from her hand.

Table 23.

Those two men.

They were engaged in conversation as if they were in the middle of a meeting.

Once I’d placed their orders in front of them, they passed me a smile. I smiled back and spun around, straight into a wall.

Or so I thought.

Two hands shot out and grabbed my arms before I could faceplant into the floor.

Wait a second.

There wasn’t any wall before. Who could have suddenly built it and in the middle of the room? And I have heard walls have ears, but hands?

I blinked up at the so-called “wall” and froze.

Oh. Not a wall.

I looked up (and up) until I reached his face and bam—ocean-blue eyes. Of course. Because the universe loves to make me look like an idiot in front of attractive people.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and the noise of clinking glasses and chatter faded. His captivating dark eyes stared into mine, drowning me in. There was something in his gaze- an unspoken connection that made my heart skip a beat.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I felt as if the string between my eyes and brain had been cut off because no matter how much my brain screamed to look away, my eyes didn’t follow the order. Something was unsettling in his eyes, not just their color, that deep ocean-blue, but the way they looked at me. Like they knew me. Like I know them.

The bell chimed.

Then he blinked, and the softness vanished.

He averted his gaze.

The realization hit — I’d been staring — and I quickly looked down, clearing my throat, suddenly too aware of how close we were.

Then, when I looked at him again, with my conscious mind, my eyes widened.

He was the same man who had just walked off a few minutes ago.

His hands, still lightly gripping my arms, retreated as if burned. He stepped back, slipping them into his pockets, shoulders tight.

But I felt it — his eyes were still on me.

I looked up again, those blue eyes weren’t soft.

They were cold. Hard. Distant.

“Are you blind? Can’t you see someone coming?”

His deep voice cut through the room like glass.

Silence.

Chairs stopped scraping. A spoon clinked against a saucer. Every eye in the café turned toward us.

And as someone who hated being noticed, I felt my entire spine stiffen.

But I wasn’t about to let some arrogant stranger embarrass me in my own grandmother’s café.

I met his cold glare, lifted my brows, and smiled. Fake and sharp.

“And what if I asked you the same thing?”

He took a step forward and leaned dangerously closer to me, “You can’t ask.”

I glared into his eyes, “Why? Who are you?”

His piercing eyes bore into mine, “You are wasting my time. Move.”

“From next time, maybe you should try not standing in the middle of the aisle like a badly placed pillar. Some of us actually work here. You are wasting my time.”

His jaw tightened. I could see my end.

Then, just as things were about to spiral, Grandma’s voice cut through the awkward silence like a lifeline. “Mr. Agarwal! Welcome.”

She glanced at me with a sharp look that screamed, ‘What on earth are you doing? Don’t mess this up — he’s a golden customer!’

“You know him?” I asked.

Grandma leaned in and whispered close enough for me to hear—and I’m pretty sure he did too—“He’s our golden customer.”

Golden customers. Grandma always said they were the kind of people who walked in and made the café’s day—regulars who treated her place like a second home, who always paid on time, tipped generously, and spoke kindly to everyone. They were rare, valuable, and she never wanted to lose them. Basically, the rich ones.

“Then how come I’ve never seen him before?” I asked in a low voice.

“I just met him a week ago. Plus, you’re never here when he comes by,” she replied smoothly, her eyes still on me. “Now clean up what you spilled, and make sure it’s with a proper apology.” Then she turned to him with her sweetest smile. “Uh- Excuse me.” She left as one of her friends entered. Leaving me alone. With him.

I scoffed quietly and muttered a half-hearted sorry, staring at the floor while heat crept up my cheeks.

“What?” His voice sliced through the low murmur of the café, sharp and impatient.

I bit back a curse under my breath and forced myself to meet those intense, ocean-blue eyes.

Seriously? I wasn’t whispering that quietly. Anyone within a foot of me—especially Mr. Whatever-his-name—could’ve heard every word. He was just fishing for a chance to throw shade in front of everyone.

Perfect.

Summoning the sweetest, most genuine smile I could manage, I straightened up and spoke loud and clear, making sure the entire world could hear.

“I said I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Good. Now move. You’ve wasted enough of my time. And next time, watch where you’re going!” he snapped, taking a seat among the two men. He resumed the conversation, completely ignoring my presence. With his back turned to me, I could only glare at him, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger.

Sensing my glare, he turned and looked at me.

“You still standing here?”

Someone has to teach him some lesson about ‘how to be polite to others’. Maybe I should write a book about it and throw it at his face.

Anyway, I forced a smile and asked as sweetly as I could manage,

“Your order?”

After quickly jotting down the requests, I turned and made my way to the kitchen to prepare everything. Once the plates and cups were ready, I returned to the table and began serving.

I held out the coffee cup, aiming to hand it to Mr. Rude—who, thankfully, wasn’t even bothering to look my way. But of course, in perfect slapstick fashion, the cup slipped right through my fingers and splattered onto his laptop.

His very, very expensive-looking laptop. The one that looked way too important to be soaked in coffee.

I froze, eyes wide, as an uncomfortable silence fell over the café. You could have heard a pin drop.

“What… the…?” His voice trailed off, staring at the laptop, which now seemed to be auditioning for a coffee commercial.

Then his gaze shifted to me.