Spill to Spark

Aarav dodged the morning rush on Linking Road, earbuds blasting a podcast about why millennials are doomed at love. He was late for his freelance gig—another logo for some startup that wouldn't last six months. His phone buzzed: another Tinder match. Swipe left. Too filtered. Swipe left. Smells like desperation. He hadn't replied to a single one in weeks.He ducked into Coffee Junction, the hole-in-the-wall cafe with the best cold brew in Bandra. The line was eternal, but caffeine was non-negotiable. As he scrolled notifications, someone bumped him hard. Scalding latte splashed across his white shirt."Shit, sorry!" A girl with messy ponytail and flour-dusted apron spun around, eyes wide. She grabbed napkins, dabbing at his chest like it was on fire. Up close, she smelled like vanilla and regret—cute in that effortless way, no makeup armor.Aarav froze, heat rising—not just from the coffee. Great, now I look like a Pollock painting. "It's fine. Really. I've got a meeting in 20."She winced, handing him more napkins. "Isha. And this is on me—literally. Free refill?"He smirked despite himself. "Only if you promise not to aim for my face next time."Her laugh was quick, genuine. "Deal. But you kinda walked into me."Is she flirting? No, she's just polite. Abort. Aarav grabbed his refill and bolted, but not before she slipped a scribbled note into his hand: Sorry again. Coffee's on me next time? -Isha, barista who can't pour straight.Back at his desk, shirt still damp, he unfolded it. His phone pinged—a wrong number text: Hey, spill guy! Free coffee voucher attached? He stared. Wrong number? Or fate's bad joke? Should he reply?