Won't Repeat

The buzzing sound of keyboards and the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air at The Daily Leaf, a mid-sized but widely respected newspaper publishing house. It was Monday morning, and the newsroom was already alive with the usual controlled chaos of deadlines and last-minute edits and into this chaos walked Tanya, armed with wide eyes, a sky-blue kurti, and dreams wrapped in stardust. She stood at the entrance with her ID card swinging nervously from her neck. It was her first day. First job. First step into the real world. She tugged at her bag strap and reminded herself for the fifteenth time that morning: “You’re not just a dreamer now. You’re a journalist.”

A young HR assistant led her through the maze of desks and introduced her to a few smiling faces before stopping at a cabin nestled at the far end of the room. The door was half-open, revealing a man seated with his back turned, editing something on his screen with intense focus.

“That's Srujal Mehta,” the HR whispered. “He’ll be your mentor.”

Before Tanya could process that information, Srujal turned around. He stood up with a gentle smile that instantly erased her nervousness.

“Hey Tanya, welcome to the jungle,” he said, his tone casual yet warm.

She let out a small laugh, “Thank you… Sir?”

“No need for the ‘Sir’. I feel ancient already. Srujal will do just fine.”

He gestured for her to sit, and they quickly went over her onboarding plan. But Tanya wasn’t listening entirely. She was still trying to process his calm, composed demeanor. He had an effortless charm, neither too loud nor too quiet. His eyes held kindness, and his words carried weight without effort.

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of introductions, editorial meetings, and sorting through old stories. Tanya observed more than she spoke, noting how the team respected Srujal’s feedback, how he patiently guided junior writers, and how his articles had a personal depth she hadn’t seen before.

Their interaction that day was minimal but left a soft imprint on her. He had offered her a cup of chai during a break and cracked a dry joke about editorial deadlines being the only thing scarier than horror movies. She had smiled, not just at the joke, but at the realization that something about him made her feel safe… curious.

Later that night, as she journaled about her first day, her pen paused longer than expected at the line: Met my mentor today. Calm. Composed. Thoughtful. A story I’m yet to read. 

Little did she know, that story was already writing itself, word by word, moment by moment.

Weeks passed. Tanya settled into her role, blending well with the team and proving herself as a sharp and intuitive writer. She was always willing to help out with last-minute edits or assist with layout errors, but one thing became subtly obvious to the more observant eyes: her quiet inclination toward Srujal.

He sat three desks away from her, usually with headphones on, immersed in his writing or editing. While he wasn’t overly expressive, he always responded kindly, acknowledging her efforts, sharing helpful suggestions, and offering the occasional soft chuckle at her nervous jokes. She found herself looking forward to his opinions on her write-ups, making extra effort in articles just so he would read them. She started staying back a little longer under the pretence of polishing drafts, even if it was just to catch a few more glances of him under the soft yellow ceiling lights.

Every evening, around 6:30 PM, she began a small ritual, bringing two cups of tea from the pantry. One for her. One for him. The first time she offered it, she said casually, “Don’t worry, I didn’t poison it. Yet.”

Srujal smirked, “I’ll take that risk.”

After that, it became an unspoken routine. Sometimes they sipped in silence, other times she’d ask about his thoughts on a story. One evening, she asked, “What made you choose journalism?”

He thought for a second, then replied, “Words don’t shout like people do. But when written right, they stay. That matters to me.”

Her heart held onto that line like a bookmark. Slowly, she began dropping subtle hints, soft compliments on his writing, light teasing about his serious demeanor, and personal questions wrapped in casual banter. “Ever thought of writing a book?” she asked one evening, pretending not to care too much about the answer.

He chuckled, “One deadline at a time, Tanya.”

Despite the growing comfort between them, Srujal always maintained a respectful boundary. It wasn’t coldness, it was caution. While Tanya saw it as professionalism at first, she slowly began sensing a certain emotional restraint. A hesitation in his eyes when she said something too personal, a slight pause before replying to anything that carried too much feeling. To her, he was becoming a part of her every day. But to him, she wasn’t sure what she meant.

What Tanya didn’t know was that Srujal noticed everything, how she lingered longer during their tea breaks, how her eyes sparkled when he appreciated her articles, how she once left a sticky note saying "Great edit today!" with a smiley face that he quietly saved in his drawer. He wasn’t blind. But he was careful. Too careful. Every time her feelings tiptoed closer, he convinced himself: She’s just being kind. Don’t read too much into it. Not again.

It was a Thursday morning when Bhaskar made his grand entrance into Tanya’s world, loud, quirky, and always armed with one-liners. He worked in layout design and had a habit of twirling his pen like a magician’s wand. Tanya found his humour annoying at first, but slowly began to laugh at his antics. They shared a similar sense of sarcasm and soon started collaborating on articles that required tight formatting and catchy visuals.

Their desks weren’t far, and soon coffee breaks turned into brainstorming sessions, which turned into quick walks to the chai stall down the lane. The office noticed their growing camaraderie, and so did Srujal. From his seat, he occasionally glanced at the two of them, Tanya smiling at something Bhaskar said, Bhaskar handing her a samosa with a dramatic bow, Tanya laughing with her head tilted back. It was the kind of ease that felt natural, familiar, even… affectionate.

Srujal tried not to think much of it. They’re colleagues. Just teammates having a good time. But the longer it continued, the more it chipped at him. He found himself replying curtly in meetings. He stopped joining the evening tea ritual with Tanya, using “pending edits” as an excuse. The warmth in his eyes was now replaced with polite nods and brief conversations.

Tanya noticed the shift. His absence during tea, the way he avoided looking her in the eye during discussions. She asked him one evening, "All okay? You seem distant these days."

He simply smiled and said, “Just work pressure. Happens.”

But it wasn’t work pressure. It was the pressure of assumptions. The way Bhaskar leaned in when Tanya showed him memes on her phone. The inside jokes they shared. One afternoon, Srujal saw Bhaskar brush a crumb off Tanya’s shoulder and her casual laugh afterward. Something in him closed. Tanya, on the other hand, remained blissfully unaware. She continued being her cheerful self around Bhaskar, unaware that every shared joke was creating distance with the person she truly wanted to be close to. One evening, while waiting for an edit review from Srujal, Tanya decided to surprise him with tea again. She reached his desk only to find him already packing up.

“Oh… leaving early?” she asked, trying to mask her disappointment.

“Yeah, heading out,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

She held out the cup. “Tea?”

He hesitated, then gently declined, “Maybe tomorrow.”

She stood there for a second too long, holding the two cups of tea, one of which would now go cold again. That night, as she sat in her PG room, flipping through unfinished drafts, she wondered, What changed?. And miles away, Srujal sat at his own desk, rereading Tanya’s latest article, trying not to think about how easily she seemed to laugh with someone else now.

Next day, the newsroom was quieter than usual, the kind of silence that settles when the day’s rush dissolves into soft keyboard taps and half-finished cups of coffee. Tanya was still at her desk, editing a long-form piece with her usual intensity, unaware that someone had been watching her for a while. Srujal stood leaning against the pantry counter, tea in hand, eyes resting on her. She had a way of being present, and the room seemed to shrink around her. It reminded him of someone. A faint ache bloomed in his chest.

He turned away and walked back to his cabin, closing the door behind him like a reflex. But memories don’t knock, they enter anyway.

Her name was Aisha.

Two years ago, she’d joined as a junior, bright-eyed, expressive, and quick-witted. Much like Tanya in energy, but with a certain untamed charm. She was younger by a few years, part of the generation that blurred lines. She used to easily hug seniors without hesitation, chatting casually like they were old friends, calling him by name within days. At first, it amused him. Then, slowly, he started to look forward to her visits to his cabin, the way she’d lean in and laugh, the way her thoughts were chaotic but refreshingly honest. He hadn’t realized when admiration turned into affection.

It was a quiet evening, when they were out for a walk after work. The streets were half-lit, and they were sipping kulhad chai from a roadside stall. In a moment of strange calm, Srujal confessed. Not with flowers or dramatic words, just a soft admission: “I think I like you, Aisha.”

She had paused, chai in hand, and blinked at him like she’d misheard.

Then came the words that stayed etched in his memory: “Oh… I never thought of us like that. I was just being close like… a colleague. A friend, you know?”

He had nodded. Smiled, even. Said it was alright.

But it wasn’t.

The awkwardness crept in first, then distance. The newsroom, which once hummed with quiet camaraderie between them, began to buzz with whispers. People had assumed something was going on between them. When their interactions became strained, the assumptions turned sharp. Speculations. Murmurs behind coffee mugs. Aisha began to avoid the office chatter, and then, one day, she was gone.

No goodbye. No confrontation.

Just an empty chair and the guilt that maybe he had ruined her experience. Since then, Srujal learned to draw lines that no one could misread. Especially with juniors. Especially with someone like Tanya. Back in the present, his phone buzzed with a new message. Tanya had sent the final draft of her article.

Done with edits. Take a look when free :)

— Tanya

He stared at the screen for a moment. She was kind, thoughtful, and sincere. And yet, every time she stood too close, every time she stayed a little longer at his desk, a flicker of the past surfaced. A fear not of rejection, but of misreading warmth again. And letting another good person walk away because of him. He sighed, picked up the printed draft, and walked to her desk.

“Hey,” he said casually.

Tanya looked up with her usual gentle smile. “Hey.”

“Good work on the startup piece. Tighten the second para a little, but it’s solid.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “And, Tanya…”

“Hmm?”

“If… if I ever come off distant, it’s not you. Just old habits.”

She tilted her head, sensing something more beneath those words, but simply smiled. “Got it.”

And as he walked away, he wondered, “Some shadows won’t return unless you choose to repeat the mistakes.”

The festival of lights had lit up the publishing house in more ways than one. Fairy lights framed the bulletin boards, paper lanterns swayed by the windows, and even the coffee station was dressed up with tiny diyas and sweets. It was the one day every year when articles could wait, edits could be paused, and laughter could replace the usual clicking of keyboards.

Tanya stood near her desk in a simple maroon kurta, holding a plate of homemade sweets she’d brought for the team. Her eyes occasionally scanned the room, stopping at Srujal’s face every time. He looked different in traditional wear, less editor, more boy next door. The sleeves of his kurta were folded up casually, and he was helping arrange lights along the wall with Bhaskar and two others. Bhaskar cracked a joke loud enough for the whole team to laugh, and Tanya watched as Srujal chuckled. Her fingers tightened on the plate.

All week, she had been practicing what she would say. She wanted to tell him. About the little moments she cherished, the weightless comfort she felt around him, and the fact that her admiration had quietly crossed into something deeper. Something stubborn. And she had decided, today was the day. She caught him alone near the back window, away from the noise. He was sipping a glass of rose sherbet, looking out at the city skyline.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He turned, surprised. “Hey! You look… festive.”

“Thanks.” She smiled nervously. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

Before she could speak, footsteps and loud laughter echoed from behind. Bhaskar appeared with a paper gift bag in hand. He handed it to her with a wink.

“For you, madam intern. Festival gift. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

She laughed awkwardly. “You didn’t have to.”

Srujal stood still, the sherbet untouched in his hand. As Bhaskar walked away, Tanya turned back to Srujal, but something in his expression had changed. That quiet ease had hardened, just a little. He looked at her and smiled politely, but his tone had cooled. “You both make a lovely pair.”

Her heart dropped a little.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… happy Diwali, Tanya.”

She stood there; words stuck in her throat. The confession folded back into her heart like a letter never sent. Later, back at her desk, Tanya opened the gift. It was a keychain shaped like a tiny typewriter. Silly and thoughtful, very Bhaskar. But all she could think about was the look on Srujal’s face. And the way it felt like a door had quietly closed between them. In the silence of the night, as the office emptied and the lights slowly dimmed, Tanya remained, her heart flickering like the lone diya left on her desk.

After the festival, something shifted. The warmth that once filled the air between Tanya and Srujal began to fade, quietly, almost invisibly. There were no arguments, no harsh words. Just less. Fewer shared glances. Fewer cups of tea during late nights. Fewer reasons to laugh over typos or brainstorm headlines together.

Tanya felt it deeply. It was like trying to grip water, every time she thought things were normal again, the distance would slip in and remind her that something had changed. She didn’t ask. And he didn’t explain.

But she knew.

That one moment near the window, the unexpected gift from Bhaskar, the way Srujal had pulled back, it all lingered in her mind like the aftertaste of an unfinished sentence. She stopped waiting near his desk for his feedback. Instead, she dropped her articles into his inbox and walked away before he could respond. She stopped looking for excuses to talk. She let the silence stretch. But her heart didn’t stop feeling.

One rainy afternoon, as thunder grumbled in the background and the newsroom turned soft with the scent of wet paper and chai, Tanya sat at her desk and began typing, not an article, not a brief.

A letter…

It wasn’t addressed to anyone. It didn’t need to be. It flowed from her heart, unfiltered and aching.

“To the one who never knew,

You once told me that journalism is about truth. But what if the truth sits quietly in someone’s heart, too afraid to be printed?

I wish you had seen how I waited and noticed everything: your favourite tea, your frown when a sentence didn’t land, your sigh after reading a beautiful quote.

I wish you knew that my silences were full of meaning.

I wish you knew my eyes were always searching for you.

But more than anything, I wish I could stop wishing.

— T”

She titled it To the One Who Never Knew and submitted it to the anonymous opinion column they allowed employees to write under pen names. A week later, the piece was published. It quietly struck a chord across the floor. Bhaskar dramatically pressed a hand to his chest and said, “Who is this mystery woman, yaar? She writes like she’s in love with a ghost.”

Tanya laughed it off. “Maybe she is.”

But something strange happened. A few desks away, Srujal read the column, slowly, twice. Something in it made his breath catch. He looked up instinctively and saw Tanya laughing with Bhaskar at the coffee machine. And for the first time, something didn’t sit right. Something tugged at him, unsettled.

Later that evening, Bhaskar stopped by Srujal’s desk. “Bro, tell me honestly,” he smirked, “you really think I’m the one she’s got feelings for?”

Srujal frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Bhaskar raised an eyebrow. “The girl who wrote that column, ‘To the One Who Never Knew.’ You didn’t think that was Tanya?”

Srujal’s eyes widened, his mind running back, tea, smiles, awkward silences, the Diwali night, the keychain...

Everything crashed into place like pages rearranging in the right order. And suddenly, he wasn’t sure what was harder to process, that she had felt all of it for him or Bhasker.

The quarterly company event was always a warm affair, soft fairy lights strung over the lawn, tables filled with snacks, music playing just loud enough to carry laughter, not drown it. People moved around freely, shedding their weekday formality for a more relaxed camaraderie. Tanya stood quietly near the drinks counter, sipping soda, pretending to laugh along with Bhaskar’s jokes. But her eyes kept drifting. Across the space, past the glow of the lights, they found Srujal… talking with the editorial lead, smiling politely, then zoning out just as quickly.

She had made her peace, she told herself. He didn’t feel the same. Maybe he never did. But some feelings don’t go away with silence. They just sit inside, growing louder. Then the mic was passed around for an open mic segment, where anyone could share anything. Stories, jokes, poetry. Just for fun. Someone pushed Bhaskar forward. He cracked a few lines, made people laugh, then pointed toward Tanya.

“Come on, Tanya! Say something!”

Everyone turned to look at her. Some playfully whistled. She waved them off. But then… something shifted in her eyes. She set her glass down, walked forward and took the mic. The crowd settled into an unexpected hush.

“Hi,” Tanya began, her voice calm but clear. “So… this isn’t something I planned. But maybe it’s something I’ve been rehearsing in my head for weeks.”

A few giggles. Some people looked around, sensing drama.

She continued, her tone growing steady. “When I joined here as an intern, I didn’t expect much. I just wanted to learn, work, and grow in this field. But somewhere along the way, I found myself… looking forward to one person’s feedback more than others. Hoping to bump into him at the coffee machine. Wanting to stay late just to talk about edits and articles that could’ve waited until morning.”

People started glancing at each other. A few eyes flicked toward Srujal, who stood frozen, his hand tightening around the edge of a table. Tanya looked directly at him now.

“I know he’s calm, composed, and way too mature to let small things shake him. But I also know how he listens when someone speaks. And how he never lets a bad day show on his face. And how... being around him makes me feel like I’m home.”

The crowd had gone silent.

She smiled faintly. “So yeah. I like Srujal. I genuinely do.”

Someone gasped softly. A few jaws dropped.

“I don’t expect anything from this moment. But I just didn’t want to keep pretending anymore. I like him, and if life lets me, I’m going to try... to pursue him. Honestly. Kindly. Without pressure.”

Her eyes didn’t waver.

“Even if this relationship doesn't go anywhere, I’ll be proud I said it.”

Then, just as easily, she handed the mic back to the emcee and turned to leave. People parted wordlessly as she walked past them. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry. She walked away with quiet courage, leaving behind a lawn full of stunned faces, and one man standing motionless, staring after her with wide, unreadable eyes.

The office was buzzing with whispered conversations the next morning. Tanya’s confession was the talk of every corner, some admired her courage, others questioned her timing. But Srujal? He felt frozen in a quiet storm of thoughts. He replayed Tanya’s words over and over, each one unravelling the walls he’d built so carefully around his heart. The calm, composed exterior began to crack, revealing the flood of feelings he had long pushed away. Bhaskar, ever the observer, caught Srujal’s restless mood and decided to step in.

“Yaar, you’ve been off since yesterday,” Bhaskar said one afternoon as they shared a coffee break. “Look, I need to clear the air about me and Tanya.”

Srujal looked up, curious.

“We’re just friends, man. Nothing more. Don’t overthinking,” Bhaskar said with a knowing smile. “She’s been waiting for you to notice. And honestly, I don’t blame her.”

Those words hit Srujal like a gust of fresh air. He realized how much he had misunderstood, not just Tanya’s intentions, but his own feelings too. Later that day, unable to hold back any longer, Srujal found himself walking toward the café where he and Tanya often spent quiet moments discussing articles and dreams. The sky was clouded, gentle raindrops tapping on the café’s glass windows. Srujal stood outside for a few seconds, watching Tanya sit by the window, a cup of untouched tea in front of her, lost in thought. He took a deep breath, stepped in, and walked over. Tanya looked up. No surprise on her face, just quiet. Like she had made peace with something she didn’t want to let go of.

“Hi,” he said, pulling the chair opposite her.

“Hi,” she replied, voice calm but distant.

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly, eyes steady. “For not saying anything that day. For all the silence before that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Tanya looked out the window. “It’s okay. I understand. Not all feelings are meant to be returned.”

“That’s not what it is,” he interrupted softly. “I do… like you. I think I liked you from the beginning.”

Her eyes turned back to him with surprise.

“But I was scared,” he confessed, his voice heavier now. “There was someone before. Aisha. She was younger, like you. She was warm and open, like you. I thought I understood her, but I misread everything.”

Tanya didn’t speak. She just listened.

“I thought she felt the same,” he continued. “But when I told her how I felt, she said I misunderstood her kindness. It became awkward, and people in the office began talking… all the looks, the whispers. She left without even saying goodbye. I’ve carried that guilt for a long time.”

He paused. “So when you came along… cheerful, passionate, kind, I felt something again. And that scared me. I thought history was repeating.”

Tanya’s voice broke slightly. “Then why didn’t you just ask me? Why assume things about me and Bhaskar?”

Srujal looked down, ashamed. “Because fear is louder than clarity sometimes. And I didn’t want to risk ruining you… the way I ruined Aisha’s story.”

A tear slipped down Tanya’s cheek before she could stop it.

Srujal leaned forward. “But when you stood there that day and told the truth in front of everyone… I realized I wasn’t protecting you. I was protecting myself. And I was losing something real in the process.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was healing.

Tanya wiped her tears and gave a small smile. “I wasn’t just trying to pursue you, you know. I was trying to tell you that some people are worth waiting for.”

Srujal reached across the table and gently placed his hand over hers. “Then let me be the one who waits for you now. As long as it takes.”

Her fingers tightened around his, just a little.

“No rush?” she asked.

“No rush,” he said, smiling. “But I miss my tea partner.”

She laughed through the tears. “Only if you promise to stop jumping to conclusions.”

“Deal,” he grinned.

Outside, the rain had softened, and inside, two hearts found their rhythm, slow, steady, and just right.

Days passed by and the newsroom was quieter than usual, mid-morning lull before the deadlines would start breathing down their necks. Tanya sat at her desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor on a blank document. She sipped her tea ‘extra ginger, less sugar’. Just the way she liked it.

A familiar arm reached over her shoulder, placing a neatly folded printout on her desk. “Final edits. You’ve repeated ‘silent symphony’ twice in the same paragraph.”

Tanya rolled her eyes with a smile. “It’s poetic repetition.”

“It’s lazy writing,” Srujal teased, pulling the spare chair beside her.

She turned toward him. He wasn’t just her editor anymore. Not just the mentor she once admired from afar. He was her person now, the one who walked beside her through both the chaos and quiet. The office hadn’t changed much, Bhaskar was still cracking bad jokes near the coffee machine, the same old torn poster of their best-selling magazine still clung to the wall. But something about her desk had. A small, framed quote sat beside her monitor. Srujal had gifted it on her first work anniversary.

“Some stories are not assigned… they just happen.”

Tanya looked at it now and smiled.

“You’re staring at that quote again,” he said, watching her.

“Because it’s true,” she replied. “I came here for experience, for a career… and ended up with something I didn’t expect.”

“An annoying editor with commitment issues?” he joked.

She nudged him playfully. “An honest man who grew with me, who made tea breaks meaningful, and headlines personal.”

He took her hand under the table, away from the newsroom eyes. “And I found a girl who taught me that love doesn’t have to be loud, it just has to be real.”

She leaned her head lightly on his shoulder for a brief second before pulling back and typing her headline.

“The Final Draft of Us.”

“Too cheesy?” she asked.

He looked at the screen, then at her, and shook his head. “Nope. That one’s perfect.”

And as the cursor blinked after the last word, there was no rush. No cliffhanger. Just two people writing their story, one honest sentence at a time.

Love is easy in the light of day, but true devotion whispers through the storms and choosing each other in silence, again and again, even when no one else sees.