Promise in the summer rain
The receptionist's voice drifted through the office corridor: "Jasmine, HR is calling you."
Rishab stopped mid-step. His soaked shoes squeaked against the tiles.
The hallway blurred. His hands found the wall.
Behind him, footsteps—a girl passing, dark hair, hurried. She didn't glance his way.
Gone in three seconds.
But those three seconds cracked something open he'd spent five years sealing shut.
***
Rain drowned the city. Cars hissed through puddles; a dog barked somewhere distant. In a small apartment, the clock struck three. Neon light bled through the curtains as the fan turned lazily and the air smelled of stale coffee.
The ceiling fan dragged slow shadows across the room, its hum merging with rain and distant traffic. The air smelled of stale coffee. Curtains swayed faintly, as if the night itself breathed through them.
Rishab, twenty-six, lay on his back staring at the ceil-ing—tall, lean, wrapped in muted tones, with eyes older than his years. His small apartment mirrored him—quiet, restrained, caught between order and neglect.
By the window, a cluttered desk—wires, a cracked phone, a stained notebook, an aging laptop humming low. A cold cup of tea sat untouched. On the wall, fading notes and fresh ones alike marked his quiet war to keep going.
He lay silently, like an ocean hiding a thousand storms behind still waters. Then, a sudden thought struck him, and he reached for the switch, turning off the night lights, as if to escape his thoughts.
Darkness pooled across the room. His phone lay face down on the table—no buzz, no calls. He blinked slowly. Stillness returned.
Suddenly, a soft glow broke the darkness. The phone screen lit up without a sound—just light, no buzz, no ring-tone.
Rishab turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing at the screen.
Who is awake at this hour? he wondered, his body still, his mind now alert.
He reached out, unlocked it with a swipe, and glanced at the notification bar.
A message from Karan:
"Don't be late. Big meeting tomorrow. Project done?"
Damn, he thought, I still need to finish it.
He stared at the screen for a moment, unmoved. "Let's see," he mumbled inwardly, then locked the phone and let it fall beside him.
Just as he turned away, something pulled him back.
Rishab grabbed the phone again—this time, quickly, almost impulsively. His thumb hovered over a locked folder in the gallery. A familiar photo thumbnail peeked behind the password screen.
His breathing grew heavier. His fingers trembled slight-ly.
But just before unlocking it… he froze.
Silently, he placed the phone on the bedside table, face down.
Despite desperate attempts at sleep, thoughts kept him wide awake.
The sound of tick… tick… tick began to crawl under his skin. It was faint, but in the dead silence of the room, it felt deafening. He tossed in bed, eyes wide open, the rhythm digging deeper into his thoughts.
Suddenly, he sat up.
With a frustrated sigh, Rishab walked across the room and pulled the battery from the wall clock.
Silence.
But it wasn't comforting—it was heavier now. Too heavy. He checked his phone again.
3:20 AM.
He blinked at the screen, a strange numbness settling over him.
Oh god, already too late. I must sleep.
Time was crawling—dragging its feet like it, too, didn't want to move forward.
He sighed and placed the phone back on the table, the glow of the screen fading into the shadows.
He lay back on the bed, eyes tracing the blades of the ceiling fan above him, still, unmoving, like everything else in the room.
Sleep crept in, and the rain faded into something warm-er—a golden evening unfolded.
***
Birds chirped from the trees. Children laughed. The rhyth-mic thwack of a badminton shuttle echoed nearby.
Then, she was simply there, an undeniable grace amidst the hustle. Her smile, light and warm, unfolded like petals in the morning sun, instantly captivating. He noticed, almost as an afterthought, the way a racket was clumsily gripped in her delicate hand, an unexpected detail.
"Don't tell me you don't know how to play with those," Rishab asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his tone.
"Well… you're going to teach me, aren't you?" she re-plied softly.
He stepped closer. The grass beneath them was still damp from an earlier rain, the earth smelling of summer and promises.
"Here," he said, reaching for her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he adjusted her grip on the racket. She didn't pull away. Her skin was warm against his.
"Like this?" she asked, eyes finding his—brown and endless, holding questions she hadn't yet asked.
"Almost." His voice came out softer than intended. "Try again."
She swung. Missed completely. The shuttle sailed past her shoulder, disappearing into the bushes behind them.
They both laughed—hers bright and careless, his unable to look away from her face.
"You're a terrible teacher, Rishu," she said, still laugh-ing, wiping a strand of hair from her eyes.
"And you're a terrible student," he shot back, grinning.
She turned to him then. The laughter faded into some-thing quieter. More real. The evening light caught in her hair, turning it copper and gold.
"Guess you'll have to keep teaching me," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Guess I will."
The world narrowed too just them. The distant sounds—children playing, traffic humming, life moving forward—all of it blurred into background noise.
She took a step closer. The racket slipped from her hand, forgotten in the grass.
"Rishu?"
"Yeah?"
She hesitated. Looked down at their hands, still almost touching. Then back up at him, something vulnerable flick-ering in her eyes.
"What if..." she started, then stopped. Bit her lip. Start-ed again. "What if I'm not good at this either?"
"At badminton?" he asked, smiling.
"At... us."
The air shifted. His smile faded into something deeper.
"Then we'll figure it out together," he said. "Just like everything else."
She leaned closer. Close enough that he could count the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough that time seemed to pause, holding its breath.
"Promise me something," she whispered.
"Anything."
She reached up, her fingers barely grazing his cheek, and the words came out raw and desperate:
"Promise me that even when everything is torn apart... you'll still remember how my heart belongs to you."
His breath caught. The world tilted.
He wanted to answer. Wanted to promise forever—
***
—BZZZZZ BZZZZZ—
The alarm shrieked.
His eyes snapped open. Chest rising fast. Sweat at his temples. He reached out and slammed the alarm off.
I can't believe it… I overslept again, he thought, pulling the blanket over his face, wishing for just one more second with her.
But finally, he stood from his bed and dragged his feet toward the bathroom.
Cold water splashed onto his face, but it did little to wake him. In the dim mirror, his reflection stared back—dull eyes sunken with dark circles, his messy, overgrown hair falling carelessly over his forehead. He rubbed his face with a towel, more out of habit than need, and shuffled back into the room.
A glance at his phone.
9:10 AM.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
He grabbed a crumpled shirt and pants. They reeked. He sprayed deodorant generously before slipping into them.
The shrill reminder tone for the 10:00 AM meeting blared from his phone. He was running out of time.
He was out the door by 9:40 AM.
The metro station was half a kilometre away. He ran.
A distant rumble rolled over the lane. Seconds later, rain hammered down, drenching him in an instant. He didn't slow, only muttered through gritted teeth—
"No! Not again—I forgot the umbrella!"
Clothes plastered to his skin, shoes squelching with every step. Cold rain streaked down his neck, stinging, but he pushed on, wiping water from his eyes.
He reached the metro station, soaked, shivering, and out of breath. The big digital clock above the gate blinked mockingly: 10:15 AM.sh
"God…" he muttered under his breath, disappointment heavy in his chest.
He scanned his Metro card and hurried onto the plat-form, shoes squeaking against wet tiles.
Today, I'll definitely get a scolding from HR. Barely slept last night anyway. Maybe I deserve it. Huh… it's just another day.
The train slid in with a metallic shriek. Doors hissed open.
Packed.
He stepped inside, eyes darting, praying for a seat. Not a chance.
The cold grip of his wet clothes pressed against his skin as he caught the overhead rail. His arms ached. His eyelids heavier still.
Fifteen minutes before the real mess begins.
He let his eyes close. The carriage hum softened, blur-ring into something gentler. Warmer. A moment's escape—
THUD!
The jolt slammed through him. Lights flickered, the hum cut off. The train groaned to a stop.
His eyes snapped open. All around, passengers were al-ready shifting, muttering, lining up at the doors. A shove from behind forced him into motion.
The station was chaos—announcements blaring, foot-steps hammering down concrete, voices layered over each other until it all felt like static pressing against his skull.
He pulled out his phone.
Buzz. Buzz.
Messages from Karan:
"Brooo, where are you?"
"At least pick up your phone!"
The screen glared in his face, each word louder than the last. His stomach twisted.
He exhaled sharply, jamming the phone back into his pocket.
"Screw it," he muttered.
But as he climbed toward the escalator—wet, exhaust-ed, late—something coiled in his chest. A nervousness he couldn't name. Not just about HR. Not just about the meet-ing.
It felt heavier.
Like today wasn't going to be just another day.
***
After a five-minute walk from the Metro, he reached the of-fice, weighed down by thoughts he couldn't shake.
The six-story building loomed like a grey block, the massive sign above the entrance declaring: Sahare IT Solu-tions Limited. People straightened as they walked in.
At the glass doors, he swiped his card. Green flash. The gate clicked open.
Behind him, a woman fumbled with her card, muttering about being late. The guard helped her through.
At least I'm not the only one late today.
The doors slid shut, sealing the noise below. He thumbed his phone, the EAS app blinking a green tick—attendance marked, day begun. The lift chimed at the third floor. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
The floor opened into rows of cubicles, glass rooms lin-ing the walls, keys clattering in a low rhythm. Dozens worked in silence, the air tense and efficient.
Rishab's desk waited by the window—screens, wires, a coffee ring on metal. His small corner of chaos.
He slipped in at 10:55, soaked and breathless. The of-fice felt cold, too clean, the rain still dripping from his sleeves.
As he stepped in, a few colleagues darted glances his way, then quickly dropped their eyes, whispering judgments he had long learned to ignore.
Karan jogged over, concern evident. "Dude, this time you're gone. HR is furious. He's calling you right now."
"I already knew. Fine… I'll go," Rishab replied.
He didn't argue. No excuses this time.
He dropped his soaked bag and faced the HR corridor.
At the door, he hesitated, nerves tightening like a wire. A damp handkerchief pressed to his forehead, face, neck—fighting a losing battle against his wild, dripping hair. May-be it mattered. Maybe not. A sharp inhale. Feet heavy on the floor. Hand raised.
Knock, knock.
Without waiting too long for a reply, Rishab turned the handle and stepped inside.
"Sit," Ajay commanded.
Rishab lowered himself into the chair, every muscle tense. Across the polished desk, Ajay Advani waited—Head of HR, though no nameplate could outshine his presence. Sharp-eyed, rigid, merciless—Ajay made lateness feel like a death sentence.
Ajay was mid-conversation with Harshita, one of Sa-hare's sharpest team leads—and Rishab's colleague. She stood by the desk, flipping through a file, voice steady, pre-cise. His eyes drifted—the clean desk, frosted glass, the oversized clock ticking in time with his pulse. Everything here felt deliberate. Unforgiving. The room demanded order.
11:05 AM.
The AC hummed. A framed photo of Sahare's founder, Prem Mittal, stared down with stern eyes. The shelf in the corner sagged under the weight of files—deadlines long past or about to crush someone else.
Then Ajay's voice cut through the haze, sharp and di-rect.
"Now you. Speak."
Rishab blinked. Harshita turned toward him, her expres-sion neutral. Ajay finally leaned forward, his gaze narrow-ing, assessing.
"You can go, Harshita. Good job," Ajay said.
"Thank you, sir." She gave a crisp nod and exited, leav-ing behind air that suddenly felt heavier. The door clicked shut.
***
Ajay, his gaze still intense but his voice surprisingly low, asked, "So? Anything you want to say in your defense?"
"I... I don't have any excuse," Rishab said quietly, star-ing down at his shoes, fingers gripping his thighs tightly, avoiding eye contact like it burned.
Ajay leaned back in his chair, a slow, controlled exhale escaping him. The expected roar didn't come. Instead, his voice, though firm, was now laced with an unexpected wea-riness.
"Rishab, let me be frank. I was furious ten minutes ago. You missed a critical client meeting. That's unacceptable. But then I remembered something—you've been here five years. For most of that time, you were reliable, focused, someone I could count on. So tell me... what changed?"
Rishab slowly lifted his gaze, a flicker of confusion bat-tling the shame in his eyes.
Ajay continued, his tone softening further. "We've all noticed it—the late arrivals, the missed deadlines, the drop in focus. This isn't the Rishab we knew. You have talent, but talent means nothing if you stop showing up. You're hurting yourself, and the team."
He pushed a tissue box across the table. "Dry off. Get yourself a coffee. And then I want you to go to your desk, sit down, and finish that project. Not by the end of the day, but as soon as humanly possible."
He pointed a finger, not trembling with rage, but firm with expectation, towards the door. "No more excuses. No more 'what happened.' Just the result. Now go."
Rishab's voice cracked, "Yes, sir…" He stood, relief mixing with pressure. He bowed slightly and walked toward the door. Just before he opened it, he turned around for a brief second. Ajay had already sat down, muttering some-thing under his breath as he grabbed another file.
As Rishab stepped out of the cabin, the sting of humil-iation still tightening in his chest, he tried to focus on breathing.
The hallway felt colder, the lights harsher—like the world had turned its back on him.
And then a voice cut through the hum of the office:
"Jasmine, HR is calling you."
He stopped dead.
His body froze in place.
Air caught halfway in his lungs.
His heart… began to pound.
Jasmine.
It hit him like a crash—raw, sudden, jarring.
His breath grew heavy, shallow.
A strange stillness swept over him, like the world had dimmed, and only the echo of that name remained.
Then, she passed by.
A young lady.
She moved too quickly for him to really see her—just a blur of hair and hurried footsteps.
She didn't even glance at him.
But her walk… the hair… the name…
Something familiar just passed by him.
In that instant, the dam burst inside him.
A memory surged forward uninvited—her eyes staring into his under the dusk sky, her voice soft, almost trembling:
“Promise me, you will not forget me, Rishu…”
That single line started hitting him like a sudden heart at-tack.
His chest ached.
He blinked.
The corridor blurred.
He wanted to speak, but his lips wouldn't move.
She disappeared into the cabin.
Gone.
But her voice… that promise… echoed louder than anything else in the world
:CHAPTER ONE END:
“We freeze the warmest seasons in our minds, only to shiver in the present."
