London wasn't quiet that morning.
It never was.
Suhana Mehta adjusted her scarf as the wind whipped past her on Shoreditch High Street. The city was a blur of movement — people with takeaway coffees, headphones in, eyes somewhere else. Everyone seemed to know where they were going. Everyone except her.
She clutched her tote bag a little tighter — her printed résumé already creased at the corners. The words on it felt heavier than they looked:
"Freelance Writer. Blogger. Graduate in Media Studies."
Which, in the world of London, roughly translated to unemployed with opinions.
She took a breath and looked up at the building — Studio Echo, written in clean silver letters on glass doors. The podcast company that had suddenly gone viral for its witty, unfiltered takes on relationships. And now they were hiring a co-host for a new show called Love, Actually...Maybe.
It was supposed to be a casual gig. A few recordings, some side income while she tried to sell her essays. That's what she told herself, anyway. But her reflection in the glass looked like someone holding their breath for more than that.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and electricity — that warm hum of machines, lights, and quiet chaos.
A young intern with a headset smiled politely.
"Hi, are you here for the interview?"
"Yes. Suhana Mehta."
"Perfect! They're just setting up in Studio B. You can wait inside."
She stepped in.
Dimmed lighting. A round table. Two microphones angled toward empty chairs.
And a man sitting across, adjusting sound levels on the mixer.
At first glance, he looked… calm.
Not the forced, trying-to-impress calm — but the kind that came naturally, like still water.
Black hoodie, sleeves rolled, headphones around his neck. His hair was messy in that didn't-try-but-still-works way.
When he looked up, their eyes met.
Something flickered. Not recognition — not yet — but a strange pull, like the air changed its rhythm for a second.
"Hey," he said, voice low and warm. "You're early."
"Or maybe you're late," she countered before thinking.
He laughed softly — not offended, not surprised. Just… amused.
"I like punctual people. I'm Arjun Kapoor. Audio producer. Possibly your co-host if this goes well."
She raised a brow. "You're interviewing me?"
"Technically, we're interviewing each other," he replied. "The producer wants to see if we click."
Click. The word echoed in her head longer than it should've.
They did a quick sound check. Her voice sounded strange in the headphones — too clear, too vulnerable.
"Relax," Arjun said, noticing her stiffness. "Don't overthink it. Just talk."
"Easier said than done," she muttered.
"That's how most good conversations start."
Something about his tone — gentle, confident — steadied her.
He hit record.
Arjun: "So, Aanya, do you believe in love?"
Aanya: "Depends on what kind you're selling."
Arjun: "Selling?"
Aanya: "Yes. The kind that looks good on billboards but collapses under honesty."
He chuckled. "You're not here to make this easy, are you?"
"Wouldn't be worth listening to if I did."
For the next ten minutes, they sparred — about modern relationships, independence, trust.
Her words were sharp; his, deliberate.
He didn't interrupt her like most people did. He listened.
And when he finally spoke, it felt like he was answering what she hadn't said aloud.
By the end, Aanya found herself leaning closer, forgetting there were microphones between them.
When the producer walked in, smiling like he'd just witnessed a miracle, she knew they'd nailed it.
Outside, as she waited for her bus, the city looked a little less blurry.
She replayed his voice in her head — calm, precise, strangely familiar.
She couldn't place it. But something about it tugged at a corner of her memory, like an echo from years ago.
A soft drizzle began.
She pulled out her red scarf — faded, frayed, but still her favorite — and wrapped it around her neck.
Somewhere, in Studio B, Arjun stared at the empty chair she'd left behind.
The faint scent of her perfume lingered — jasmine and ink.
He couldn't explain why it made his chest feel tight.
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Neither of them knew that this wasn't their first conversation — just the first one they'd remember.