Iraaya's Office
Iraaya stared at the computer screen long after Ehan left.
Ehan Satpathy.
The name now looped in her mind like a haunting melody. She didn't know why, but it stuck. It had weight. Warmth. Like the kind of name you'd scribble absentmindedly in a diary, even if you didn't know the person well enough to explain why.
She didn't allow herself to entertain the possibility. That the man who'd just stood in front of her was the same one she had dragged, half-drenched and barely breathing, out of a furious river current. That he was the one who whispered broken words about giving up, about surrender.
Because if it were him... if it truly was Ehan...
Why didn't he say anything?
Ehan's Home
That night, Ehan lay wide awake, the envelope unopened beside him. Not because he didn't care about the contents, but because it felt symbolic.
He hadn't told her. Not yet.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he wanted her to remember. Not to be told.
He wanted her to recognize him not just with her mind, but with her soul. He wanted her to feel the same inexplicable connection that was already pulling him toward her. The kind of knowing that didn't need explanation.
"Maybe she will," he whispered into the darkness. "One day."
Iraaya's Office
The next few days at the bank became a rhythm of silent observation and restrained curiosity.
Ehan found excuses to stop by again—signatures missed, documents rechecked, a polite question about corporate benefits. Each time he saw her, she'd lift her eyes, a flash of something unreadable in them. Recognition, perhaps? Confusion? Or was it just his wishful thinking?
Meanwhile, Iraaya grew increasingly unsettled.
She found herself looking up every time the glass door opened. Listening for his voice amid the dozens. Her coworkers noticed the subtle changes—how she'd reapply her lip balm, or comb her hair more carefully before walking into the office.
But no one said anything.
Not even her mother, though Iraaya suspected she knew something was brewing.
One evening, after dinner, her mother asked gently, over the video call, "You've been writing in your journal a lot lately."
Iraaya nodded. "It helps... keep the noise down."
"Good noise or bad?"
"I don't know yet," she whispered.
A week later, it was raining.
The bank was emptier than usual. Outside, the streets glistened with slick monsoon puddles. The rhythmic tap of droplets on the glass created a strangely intimate hush.
He came again.
This time, he didn't pretend.
"I didn't lose any documents today," he said, shaking droplets from his umbrella. "I just... wanted to ask if you'd had lunch."
Iraaya blinked at him, stunned.
"I know it's forward," he added quickly, "and maybe not appropriate here, but..."
"I haven't," she admitted, surprising even herself.
"Would you... join me? For coffee? Or just sit somewhere quiet?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then looked at the clock—still 20 minutes to her break.
Her voice was soft. "There's a small tea stall nearby. I go there sometimes."
He smiled. "Lead the way."
At the tea stall
The tea stall was half-covered by a plastic sheet, the air smelling of wet earth and ginger.
They sat on the stone ledge under the awning, sipping hot chai in paper cups, raindrops dancing inches away.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, she asked, eyes still on the street, "You said something earlier... at the bank."
He said, very quietly, "You saved my life."
She turned sharply. "What?"
"That day. Near Dhabaleswar. You pulled me out. I remember you. The green kurti, your hands shaking as you held me. Your voice." His words were low, reverent. "I wasn't imagining you."
Her eyes widened. Her cup trembled.
"You... remember?" she whispered. "I thought you didn't. You didn't say anything..."
"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I thought you might not want to talk about it." He lowered his gaze. "You looked like someone who protects herself."
Her lips parted slightly, as if to respond—but she held the words back.
Protects herself.
He noticed.
That acknowledgment, said without pity or intrusion, landed differently. Deeper.
"Moreover, I wanted to be sure. I wanted you to remember me. Without me forcing it."
She was silent, overwhelmed. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts.
He softly continued. "The moment I woke up in the hospital, I asked for your name. And when I found out you paid my bills, I knew I had to meet you again. But I didn't want to chase. I wanted to wait for life to bring you back."
The paper cup felt warm between Iraaya's palms, grounding her.
Still, no reaction. Just a slight shift of her shoulders, her spine growing straighter.
Ehan sensed the wall. It wasn't rude. Just... firmly placed.
"I hope this isn't making you uncomfortable," he added gently. "You can say if it is. I'll leave."
Her fingers again tightened around the cup, but she didn't turn to him. "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't have come," she said quietly. "But that doesn't mean I'm okay with being asked too many questions."
"I understand," he said, almost immediately. "And I won't."
Silence again. But something inside her softened.
Iraaya looked back at the steam curling from her cup. "People don't always ask before drowning," she said. Her voice was even, but her eyes clouded. "Sometimes, they just pull others down with them."
"I didn't mean to pull you," he said softly. "But I am grateful you didn't let go."
She gave a small shrug. "It was instinct."
"Still. Thank you."
They sipped their tea.
They didn't speak for a while after that. The rain started getting stronger, so the stall vendor called out to a rickshaw driver. Somewhere, a child laughed and splashed in a puddle. But within their shared silence, something settled—an understanding. Fragile, but real.
Ehan didn't push further. Didn't reach for her hand. Didn't even ask to see her again.
He simply stood up after they finished their tea. "Take care, Iraaya."
She nodded, looking straight ahead.
He turned.
But before he could walk far, her voice stopped him.
"You remembered my name."
He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. "It's the only one I wanted to."
And then he walked away—without asking for her number, without pressing for more.
And maybe that's exactly why she watched him until he disappeared into the grey rain.