The second day of the conference felt unusually significant to Sia. As always, she arrived early. She preferred halls before they filled—when the air carried anticipation instead of noise. Standing near the registration desk, she scanned through the schedule booklet, reading each session carefully.
Her attention paused on one title: Human Rights in Diplomatic Negotiations.
She held the booklet a little closer. This was the space where her interests converged—international law, diplomacy, human rights. Not just subjects anymore, but the foundation of the future she was slowly building. She circled the session time with her pen and made her way toward the hall.
Inside, Sia chose a seat in the middle row. Front rows had never suited her. From here, she could listen closely while still observing the room. She opened her notebook, pen ready, and waited for the session to begin.
A few seats away, in the same row, Yuvan had already settled in. For him, this conference was no longer just an opportunity; it was confirmation. The previous day had clarified something within him—this was where he belonged. As the moderator began, he listened intently, distractions forgotten.
The discussion deepened. Real-world dilemmas, ethical tensions, grounded arguments. Sia wrote steadily, occasionally lifting her eyes to watch the speakers before returning to her notes. For her, this wasn't about collecting information—it was about understanding.
When the moderator invited questions from the audience, a brief silence filled the hall. Then Yuvan stood. His posture was composed—neither hesitant nor performative.
"My question is," he said evenly, "how do negotiators balance national interest with human rights when the two directly conflict?"
The room went quiet.
Sia's pen stopped mid-sentence. She looked up.
Her gaze landed on him—his side profile, focused eyes, steady stance. And without warning, a memory surfaced.
A school basketball court.
Evening light.
The sharp echo of a ball hitting the floor.
A boy who didn't talk much, who didn't seek attention even while playing. Focused, disciplined, never aggressive. Someone who played with intention and left quietly once practice ended.
Sia blinked.
Is he the same person?
The speaker had already begun answering, the discussion moving forward, but Sia found it difficult to return her full attention to her notes. Her thoughts kept drifting back—to the court, the evening practices, and that familiar calm.
When the session ended, the audience slowly dispersed. Sia lifted her bag onto her shoulder and headed toward the exit when a voice stopped her.
"That was a really good question."
She turned.
Yuvan stood there. Up close, his presence felt clear and unforced—no rushed movements, no practiced smile.
"Thanks," he said, then added, "The way you were taking notes—you looked really focused."
She was slightly taken aback. Being noticed wasn't something she was used to.
"It's a habit," she replied calmly. "I understand better when I write."
He nodded. "That makes sense."
A brief pause followed. Not awkward—just quiet.
Then Sia spoke, her voice thoughtful. "You were in St. Mark's, right? Eleventh grade?"
Yuvan hesitated for a moment, studying her face as if aligning memories. Then he nodded. "Yeah. Basketball team."
Something settled into place. Sia exhaled softly. "I remember. Evening practices."
They began walking down the corridor together. There was no plan—just a shared pace that felt natural.
"So… law?" Yuvan asked.
"International law," Sia answered. "And you?"
"Diplomacy track. Negotiation and policy."
She smiled faintly. "That explains your question."
"And your notes explain your focus," he replied.
At the hallway junction, they stopped. People moved around them, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing. Yet for a moment, time seemed to slow.
"I have another session," Sia said.
"Same," Yuvan replied.
A brief pause followed.
"Maybe we'll run into each other again," he said.
"Maybe," she answered.
No numbers were exchanged. No promises made. But as they walked in opposite directions, both glanced back once.
That night, Sia sat by her hotel window, city lights glowing softly below. She opened her diary and wrote a single line:
Today, I met someone I remembered before I truly recognised him.
Elsewhere, Yuvan closed his notebook after writing:
Some people don't enter your life for the first time. They return.
And without any announcement, something in both their lives had quietly shifted.