WAY BACK TO YOU

Mitra

The rain had just softened into a gentle drizzle when my cab turned into the quiet Bangalore street.

Water clung to the leaves of the tall rain trees lining the road, gathering at their edges before falling in slow, measured drops onto the pavement below. The asphalt still glistened dark from the downpour, reflecting fragments of the pale grey sky above. A scooter passed by lazily, its tires slicing through a shallow puddle, the sound soft and distant.

The air smelled fresh.

Wet soil.

Damp concrete.

And something faintly floral drifting from somewhere nearby.

I rested my elbow against the cab window, my fingers lightly touching my cheek as I watched the city pass by.

Bangalore looked calm.

Just like the last time.

It felt slower than Mumbai — softer somehow, like the city moved to its own quiet rhythm.

Mumbai had always been loud. Restless. Alive in a way that never let you pause. Traffic that never truly stopped. Humid evenings that clung to your skin. The sea breeze threading through crowded streets, carrying the faint scent of salt. Everything there was always in motion— people, lights, conversations, time itself.

Those four months had passed before I even realised it.

Studio deadlines that piled up one after another. Site visits that started too early and ended too late. Sleepless nights spent fixing drawings that never seemed quite right.

And in between all of it… memories I kept pushing aside. The kind that surfaced in quiet moments. When I finally paused. When I didn’t have anything else to distract myself with.

I shifted slightly in my seat as the cab slowed, my fingers curling a little tighter around the strap of my bag.

The driver turned into a narrower lane, the kind that felt quieter the moment you entered it. Older apartment buildings stood close together, a few stray dogs lay curled near one entrance, barely lifting their heads as the cab rolled past, too comfortable to care.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle now, the air cool and faintly damp.

Finally, the cab came to a stop in front of a cream-colored apartment building, tucked between two large trees still glistening from the rain.

“Here, madam,” the driver said, glancing back.

I nodded, murmured a soft thanks, and stepped out of the cab, the august breeze brushing gently against my face instantly, carrying with it the lingering scent of rain. I pulled my suitcase from the trunk and paused for a moment, looking up at the building.

Five floors.

Simple. Quiet.

Balconies lined with plants and wind chimes.

This was my new home, for the next four months of my internship in Bangalore.

Tara’s family owned the apartment— a spare flat they used occasionally whenever they were in Bangalore. When the internship opportunity came up, Tara had casually said, “We’ll just stay there. It’s empty anyway.”

I paid the driver and wheeled my suitcase toward the entrance. The glass door creaked slightly as I pushed it open and stepped inside. The lobby was quiet, softly lit, with faint echoes of rain tapping against the building outside. The elevator stood at the far end.

I pressed the button. The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed upward.

Second floor.....Third.....Fourth.

I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder, my heartbeat slightly faster than usual. It wasn’t nervousness exactly. Just the unfamiliar feeling of starting again.

The elevator stopped. Fifth floor. The doors slid open.

The corridor was softly lit, warm yellow lights reflecting against the tiled floor. A gentle breeze drifted in through the stairwell window, carrying the faint sound of rain still falling outside.

Apartment 5B.

I walked slowly toward the door, my suitcase rolling softly behind me, the wheels clicking faintly against the uneven tiles.

I had barely reached the door when it suddenly swung open.

“MITRAAAA!” Two familiar voices burst out at the same time.

Before I could even process it, Tara and Saira rushed forward, pulling me into a tight hug. I let out a small laugh, caught off guard as I nearly lost my balance, my hand instinctively gripping the handle of my suitcase.

“You guys—” I tried to speak, but they only squeezed me tighter.

For a moment, I just stood there between them, laughing softly, the warmth of something familiar settling in my chest.

“You finally came!” Tara said, already reaching for one of my bags, her eyes lighting up as she pulled it toward her.

“We’ve been waiting all morning,” Saira added, leaning lightly against the doorframe, her arms folded but her smile giving her away. “Do you know how boring it is without you here?”

I smiled— a real one, the kind that only appeared around them. “You both moved here three days ago,” I reminded them, stepping inside as Tara nudged the door shut with her foot.

“And those were the longest three days of our lives,” Tara replied dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead like she had truly suffered.

Saira nodded seriously, though the corners of her lips twitched. “We almost redecorated everything twice.”

“That’s because you kept changing the cushions,” Tara said, glancing back at her as she dragged my bag across the floor.

“They matter,” Saira insisted, straightening one of the very cushions in question as she spoke.

“You changed them three times.”

“They still matter.”

I shook my head, smiling as they led me further inside, their familiar bickering filling the quiet apartment in the most comforting way.

The apartment was small, but beautifully furnished. It felt lived-in — but not cluttered. Thoughtfully designed.

A beige couch sat against the wall with a soft textured rug beneath it. A wooden coffee table stood in front, scattered with sketchbooks, mugs, and rolled tracing sheets. A console table near the wall held a ceramic vase with white flowers, a small lamp, and a framed photograph.

Plants lined the window sill— pothos, snake plants, and a small succulent collection. Their leaves were still dotted with rainwater.

Fairy lights ran along the wall near the balcony door. The balcony door was open, letting the cool monsoon air drift inside.

“You like it?” Saira asked, watching my face carefully, like she was trying to read my reaction before I even spoke.

I nodded softly, my eyes moving around the room again. “It feels… nice.”

“Nice?” Tara scoffed, planting her hands on her hips, clearly offended. “My mother personally chose half this furniture.”

“And we improved the rest,” Saira added raising an eyebrow, brushing her fingers over one of the cushions as if to prove her point.

I laughed quietly, the sound coming easier than it had in days. My shoulders relaxed slightly as I placed my bag near the couch, my fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before letting go. The space felt warm… lived-in already. Familiar in a way that settled something inside me.

For the first time since leaving Mumbai, I felt a sense of calm slowly settling in.

Outside, the rain began falling a little heavier again, the soft patter against the windows filling the quiet in the most comforting way.

***

The evening settled in quietly.

We sat out on the balcony under a string of warm fairy lights, their soft glow reflecting faintly against the damp railing. The drizzle had returned — light, steady, almost soothing. Each of us held a mug of coffee, the steam curling upward and disappearing into the cool air.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, pulling my legs closer as I watched the rain fall beyond the balcony. For a while, none of us spoke. Just the soft sound of rain… and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs.

“So,” Tara said suddenly, turning toward me, her tone casual but her eyes a little too observant. “Tomorrow is your first day in the new office.”

Saira glanced at me then, her fingers wrapped around her mug, her expression quieter. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

The answer came out simple. Too simple. I knew they noticed. Tara and Saira exchanged a brief look— the kind they always shared when they didn’t want to say something out loud. But neither of them pushed further.

Tomorrow would be a new start. A new office. A new city. And hopefully… A life that had nothing to do with Vikram.

***

The next morning, the rain had stopped. Soft sunlight filtered through the clouds, leaving the city looking freshly washed, the air still cool from the night before.

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my outfit. I had chosen it more carefully than usual— without really admitting to myself why. Maybe I wanted to make a good impression.

A soft blue button-down rested neatly over my shoulders, slightly loose but still structured. I rolled the sleeves to just below my elbows, smoothing the fabric absentmindedly before tucking it into high-waisted cream trousers that fell in wide, fluid lines.

A thin brown belt cinched the waist, pulling everything together.

I slipped on small gold studs, then fastened a delicate bracelet around my wrist, the faint clink of metal echoing softly in the quiet room. My hair was tied into a low, slightly messy bun, a few loose strands framing my face no matter how many times I tucked them back.

Simple. Professional.

Well at least once, my outfit turned out to exactly how I had pictured it.

I picked up my black shoulder bag and paused. I leaned slightly closer to the mirror, studying my reflection for a moment longer. I looked calm. Composed.

At least… I hoped I did. Before I could overthink it, I turned away.

***

The office building stood three stories tall with an exposed brick façade. Large windows reflected the pale morning sky.

I stepped inside.

The office buzzed with quiet activity. People walked between desks carrying drawings and laptops. Conversations overlapped softly. The faint smell of coffee filled the space. It felt warm and comfortable. I liked it instantly.

“You must be Mitra,” a woman said, approaching me. “I’m Neha, the project manager.”

Her hair was tied into a neat low ponytail, and she wore a sage green kurta with white trousers, simple and professional. She guided me toward a meeting room.

“New interns are joining today. We’ll start with introductions.”

I stepped inside. Several employees were already seated around a long wooden table. I took an empty chair near the end. A few people glanced at me briefly. I nodded politely.

One by one, people introduced themselves. I tried to remember names, fingers resting lightly on my notebook.

A few minutes in, the door opened. Someone stepped in, a little hurried.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice sounded familiar. Very familiar.

I froze. My eyes lifted instinctively toward the doorway, and everything inside me went still.

Vikram stood there.

For a moment, my mind refused to catch up. As if I was seeing someone I had only remembered— not someone actually standing a few feet away. He looked almost the same.

Tall. Composed. That quiet, effortless confidence he never seemed aware of.

He wore a loose charcoal grey shirt, the fabric falling naturally over his shoulders, the top button undone. The sleeves were rolled casually to his forearms, revealing faint veins along his wrists — like he had done it absentmindedly without thinking much about it. The black trousers fell clean and relaxed, sharp without looking formal.

His hair looked slightly damp, darker than usual, like he had stepped out in the morning air without bothering to dry it properly. A few strands had fallen across his forehead, giving him a slightly unguarded look that felt unfamiliar… and distracting.

He looked… effortlessly put together. And unfairly attractive. My grip tightened slightly around my pen without me realising.

He stepped inside, greeting a couple of colleagues with a small nod. His gaze moved across the room casually. Then it reached me, and stopped. My heartbeat stumbled. For a second, something shifted in his expression.

Surprise. Recognition. Something deeper.

A whole year. A whole year without seeing him.

And suddenly— Here he was. Closer than I expected. His eyes flicked over me once, quick and instinctive.

“Mitra,” he said quietly. My name sounded different in his voice.

And just like that— Everything I had tried to leave behind. Walked right back into my life.