Amara's POV:
The house was quiet except for the soft clink of teacups as Jia set a tray on the low table between us. Outside, the night hummed with crickets; inside, the lamplight wrapped us in an amber hush.
"So," Jia said, curling her legs under her and fixing me with that no-nonsense stare. "You've been watching the ceiling for a full hour. Spill it."
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "It's Mr. Mickelson. Something's…off. He smiles, he jokes, but it feels like he's carrying a storm behind his eyes."
Jia tilted her head. "And you want to help him—but you're not sure how to step in without pushing him away."
I nodded, grateful for how easily she could read me. "I don't want to force anything. I just…want to know him. Really know him. The parts he never shows anyone."
Jia reached over, squeezing my hand. "Then maybe we start small. Find what makes him feel safe enough to talk. What does he love when he's not being the perfect Mr. Mickelson?"
I thought of the rare, unguarded moments—how his eyes softened around Eric, the way music always seemed to catch his attention. "Music," I said softly. "And…quiet places. He listens more than he speaks."
"Then we create a quiet place," Jia said, a spark in her smile. "Something that's just for the two of you. No crowds, no parties. Let him lead the conversation when he's ready."
Her certainty steadied me. For the first time all evening, the knot in my chest loosened. Maybe this wasn't about finding the perfect words, but about giving Mr. Mickelson room to trust me with his silences.
The next day, after searching for hours, where to go? We decided on a cafe where the rooftop was beautiful and quiet, perfect for the thing we were planning. So after every planning, I messaged him: "Come with me at 5 pm tomorrow," and shared the location. Nothing much, just that.
When I arrived, the city below glimmered in restless neon, but up here the air felt still, expectant. I set two mugs of chamomile on the small table and waited.
A familiar low hum of an engine broke the silence. Moments later, Vihaan stepped onto the rooftop, his beige jacket catching the faint glow of the hanging lights.
"You didn't tell me where or why," he said, half-smiling. "I almost thought it was a kidnapping."
"Maybe it is," I teased, gesturing to the table. "Sit. I figured we both needed a place that doesn't demand words."
He studied me for a heartbeat, as if weighing something, then pulled out the chair opposite mine.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The soft strum of a guitar floated from a corner speaker, mingling with the warm night breeze. The silence wasn't empty; it was alive, like a conversation we both understood.
"I used to come to places like this," he said at last, voice quiet enough to blend with the music. "Before…everything. Before, I had to be the one who always had it together."
I looked at him, catching the flicker of vulnerability beneath his calm. "You don't always have to be together with me."
He held my gaze, something unguarded surfacing there. "That's…harder than it sounds."
The city lights painted his profile in silver and gold. I wanted to reach across the table, to trace that line of light with my fingers, but instead I simply whispered, "You can try. I'll listen."
A breath of a smile touched his lips—soft, almost shy. The tension that had lingered since the orphanage began to thin, replaced by a warmth that felt like the start of a confession neither of us was ready to break.
Vihaan's POV:
The steam from the chamomile curled into the night air, soft as the music. For a long moment, I only listened—to the quiet city hum, to her breathing just across the table.
" I used to visit places like these with my Stepmother," I said while surprising myself, "Eric was little at that time, so Mom and I had a lot of time to spend together."
I saw her eyes just stuck on my face as if she was taking notes of what I was saying.
"I don't have many memories of my mother because I was seven when she left the world, but I remember my time with my stepmother", I said while looking at the sky.
"After she was gone," I continued, "I stopped coming to places like this. It felt like…if I stayed quiet too long, I'd hear how much I missed her."
Ama's hand moved halfway across the table, then stopped, fingers resting on the wood like a quiet promise. "You don't have to stay quiet alone anymore," she said, barely above a whisper.
I exhaled, the weight in my chest shifting. Her words weren't grand, but they sank deep—like a door opening where I hadn't known one existed.
The city lights flickered below, and for a heartbeat, the whole world narrowed to her eyes, the faint scent of jasmine, the simple warmth of knowing she was there.
I reached across the table, covering her hand with mine. No rush, no urgency—just a quiet, steady touch.
"You know that ... I am half Indian and half American," I said to change the gloomy atmosphere.
"No, are you really?" she said, surprised.
"Yes, my mother was indian and my father is American. You never noticed my name is quite different from other usual names?" I said while looking at her, and I am not exaggerating, she was looking so cute while being confused.
Ama tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "I always thought Vihaan sounded… rare. Like it belonged to a story."
I chuckled softly. "It's Sanskrit. My mom said it means 'dawn'—a new beginning."
"Dawn suits you," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Color rushed to her cheeks, but she didn't look away.
Something warm flickered in my chest. "Maybe tonight is one," I murmured.
For a heartbeat, we simply watched each other, the night air wrapping us in a hush that felt almost like a promise.
Amara's POV:
It was almost nine in the evening, and when I was busy paying the bill to the waiter, I saw him looking at me like a little kid who wasn't ready to leave for school.
He opened the car door for me, a small, old-world gesture that made my chest tighten in a way I didn't expect.The soft click of the door closing wrapped us in a hush.
Inside, the dashboard lights cast a gentle glow across his profile—strong, calm, but touched with a kind of quiet wonder.For a few beats, neither of us spoke.
I rested my forehead lightly against the cool glass, watching streetlights blur into long strokes of gold.
Mr. Mickelson finally said, low and even, "Thanks for tonight."His voice seemed to fill the cabin, a quiet baritone that lingered.
I turned toward him. "You mean thank you for tonight. I am the one who wanted—"I stopped when she saw his eyes on her, not distracted by the road for once.
"Still," he murmured, "you made it…different."
The silence after carried more than words—soft music from the radio, the faint scent of his cologne, and something else, warm and unspoken, threading between us like a promise neither dared name.
He slowed near my gate but didn't cut the engine immediately."Good night, Ama," he said at last, the words gentle but edged with something he wasn't ready to let show.
I lingered a heartbeat before opening the door, their eyes catching in the faint amber of the streetlamp—a quiet, pulsing pause that said everything we hadn't yet.