At 8:17 every evening, the city held its breath.
It happened between the honk of a bus and the rattle of the metro overhead, between office workers spilling onto the pavement and street vendors lighting their evening lamps. For exactly one minute, the traffic signal at the crossing near the old cinema blinked red in all directions—a glitch no one bothered to fix.
That was when Mira first noticed him.
She was always there at 8:17.
Not because of the signal. Because of the sky.
From that corner, between two tall buildings, you could see a narrow ribbon of sunset—just a blade of molten orange cutting through concrete. Mira worked as a lighting designer, shaping artificial brilliance for malls and hotels, but she chased real light like a secret addiction. That one minute of sky was her daily rebellion.
On the third evening, she realized someone else was waiting for it too.
He stood a few feet away, hands in pockets, headphones around his neck but not on his ears. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't rushing. He was looking up.
At the same sliver of sky.
The signal blinked red. The city paused.
Their eyes met.
He smiled—not the bold kind, not the practiced kind. A small, surprised smile, like he hadn't expected to be seen.
The light turned green. The spell broke. They walked in opposite directions.
The next evening, he was there again.
This time, he spoke first. "You time it too?"
Mira tilted her head. "Time what?"
"The sky," he said. "It's exactly one minute before the lights reset."
She laughed softly. "You measured it?"
"I build apps. I measure everything."
"And yet you're here for something that can't be measured."
He considered that. "Maybe I'm trying to."
His name was Aarav. He designed digital experiences for people who barely noticed them. She shaped light in physical spaces people walked through without looking up. They both, in different ways, were invisible architects of other people's days.
So they started sharing that one minute.
No numbers exchanged. No promises. Just 8:17.
Some evenings the sky was fierce and golden. Some evenings it was bruised purple. Once, during monsoon, it was nothing but clouds—but they stood there anyway, laughing at the absence, as if the sky owed them an apology.
Gradually, the minute stretched.
Coffee after the signal. Walks that pretended to be in the same direction. Conversations about why cities never sleep and why hearts sometimes do.
Mira learned that Aarav had moved cities every three years growing up. He never unpacked fully. He kept his books in boxes, his walls bare.
Aarav learned that Mira feared staying in one place too long. That comfort, to her, felt like dimming.
"You're afraid of roots," he said once, as they sat on the curb sharing roasted peanuts.
"You're afraid of growing them," she replied.
The city watched, indifferent but glittering.
Then one evening, at 8:17, he wasn't there.
The signal blinked red. The sky burned alone.
Mira told herself it was coincidence.
The next day, he wasn't there either.
On the third day, rain fell hard, blurring headlights into streaks. She stood anyway, heart pounding louder than the traffic. The minute felt longer without him. The sky appeared and disappeared behind clouds like a memory half-kept.
On the fourth evening, she almost didn't go.
But something pulled her back to the crossing.
8:17.
Red in all directions.
And there he was.
But different.
No headphones. No hands in pockets. Just him, holding something awkwardly large and wrapped in brown paper.
"I got an offer," he said before she could speak. "Berlin. Two years. Maybe more."
The city roared back to life around them.
"And?" she asked quietly.
"And I almost said yes without thinking," he admitted. "That's what I do. I leave before anything roots."
He handed her the package.
Inside was a small, portable light installation—custom built. When she switched it on, it projected a narrow strip of sunset-colored light across the pavement.
"8:17," he said. "Anywhere."
Her throat tightened. "Are you saying goodbye?"
"I'm saying," he replied, voice unsteady, "that for the first time, I don't want to chase a new skyline. I want to stay for the minute that matters."
The signal blinked green. Cars surged forward.
But they didn't move.
Mira stepped closer, the artificial sunset glowing between them. "What if the minute disappears someday?"
"Then we build it," he said. "You with light. Me with code. We'll glitch the world if we have to."
She laughed through sudden tears. "That's very dramatic."
"I measured it," he whispered. "My life feels exactly sixty seconds better when you're there."
The sky above flickered into its narrow ribbon of fire, as if approving the confession.
For the first time, when the light changed, they crossed the road together.
And the city, vast and restless, made room for one steady, unmeasured love.