One Month Later
At Iraaya's Home
The sun had barely touched the sky when Iraaya stretched herself out of sleep, a slight smile tugging at her lips. It wasn't because something extraordinary was waiting for her. But somehow, today, her heart felt... lighter.
She slipped into her cotton top, and shorts and sat cross-legged on her mat, breathing in the scent of lemongrass incense curling through her room. The soft whisper of wind outside swayed the curtains as she closed her eyes and folded into her first yoga posture. Her therapist had said it would help ground her—bring her back into her body. Most days, it worked.
Today, it worked a little better.
After thirty minutes of quiet movement, she unrolled herself and padded to the small dining table, video calling her mother with one mug of coffee, flipping through the newspaper.
"You look rested," her mother said, peering over her glasses.
"I feel... calm. Strange, but good strange," Iraaya replied, taking her mug with both hands. "Maybe I dreamt something nice and forgot."
Her mother smiled, a touch of pride softening her features. "Write about it, then. Even the good strange needs a place to stay."
Iraaya chuckled, her eyes sparkling. "Already done. Daily journal's up to date."
Their bond was more than just mother-daughter. Her mother had raised her alone after leaving a loveless marriage, divorced when people still whispered the word like a sin. Over the years, they had become each other's closest companions, and her mother remained her quiet sanctuary.
After breakfast, Iraaya stepped into her small car, glancing at the time. Always punctual. She hated being late. The roads were already noisy, filled with impatient honks and early-morning vendors setting up shop. She drove toward the city branch of the bank where she worked as a customer relationship executive.
But as she parked and saw the crowd gathered at the gates, long queues, frustrated voices, the clattering of token machines, her mood took a sharp dip.
This many people? On a Tuesday? she thought, pulling her tote bag closer as she made her way inside.
Inside the bank, the air buzzed with the usual chaos. Customers argued, forms fluttered, and printers beeped with annoyance. She greeted her colleagues with polite nods, her voice barely above a whisper. "Hi, morning."
She was known for her precision, her quiet nature, and her tendency to keep to herself—especially around men. Some found her cold. Others simply left her be. And that suited Iraaya perfectly.
Two hours in, she had settled into her rhythm—logging applications, attending queries, sorting through a confusing senior citizen account form—when she heard footsteps approach her counter.
"Token number 43," she called out, not looking up.
And then, she heard it.
That voice.
A simple, polite "Yes, that's me," spoken with ease.
But it wasn't the words that shook her. It was the texture of the voice—warm, slightly raspy, careful. Familiar.
Her stomach flipped.
She looked up, slowly.
And time folded into itself.
It was him.
His name. She never learned his name.
The man she had pulled from the river one month ago. The man whose eyes had filled with disbelief when she dragged him out of death. The man who had said, "I didn't want to be saved."
Now standing in front of her, alive.
Hair neatly styled, shirt tucked in, face clean-shaven. He looked... different. Not like a man weighed down by the world, but someone slowly remembering what light felt like. Not conventionally handsome, but something about him drew the eye—especially because of the easy, almost unfamiliar smile playing on his lips.
But did he recognize her?
Iraaya forced herself to breathe. Her fingers twitched slightly over the keyboard.
"How can I help you?" she asked, voice careful, professional.
Ehan blinked at her. "Uh, I need to open a current account on behalf of my firm. I have the documents."
She nodded and reached for the form. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears. Her hands trembled faintly, but she kept her expression neutral.
Ehan handed her the papers. Their fingers almost touched.
Nothing flickered in his eyes. No recognition. No double take.
Of course he doesn't remember, she thought. It was dark. I was drenched. And maybe he was too far gone to even see me properly.
Still, something about standing there before him made her chest ache. Not just the memory of the river, but the weight of that night—the way he had whispered "You should've let me go", and how she had screamed inside that no, he didn't get to choose death while someone was still watching.
She had carried him out. Paid his bills. Vanished before he could say anything.
Now he was here, smiling, changed. And she was the only one who knew why.
Meanwhile...
At Ehan's Office
The office had fallen strangely quiet the moment Ehan walked in that morning.
"Good lord," murmured one coworker. "Is that... is that Satpathy?"
"Who shaved him?" another whispered.
Ehan walked past their wide eyes and smirking faces, offering a light-hearted, "Good morning," before settling into his desk. His team leader stared at him, baffled.
"You okay, man? You're... glowing."
Ehan just grinned. "Let's just say... someone made me see myself again."
He didn't say who. Or how. He hadn't told anyone about the river. He just took a long leave after years, and came back like this.
He never tried to find her, either.
He didn't search Instagram hashtags or ask around in the news. Somewhere in his bones, he felt the moment would come again, because how could a moment like that come only once?
She was his turning point. A girl in a green kurti, blurry around the edges of memory, but sharp enough to feel real in his heartbeat.
Now, here he was, standing in a bank, drumming his fingers on the counter, until—
Her voice.
His spine straightened.
Something inside him stilled.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, he didn't breathe.
There she was.
His angel.
Not in green this time, but in a soft blue top and jeans. Her hair tied neatly, a pen tucked behind her ear, eyes wide and unreadable.
I know her.
Iraaya... Iraaya Anand. He whispered to himself
But his mind hesitated.
He didn't say anything.
He just watched her, feeling a lump rise in his throat.
After maybe 15-20 minutes, as the formalities ended and he turned to leave, he hesitated.
"Thank you," he said softly.
She nodded, her eyes lingering on his face for a moment longer than needed.
The moment passed.
He walked away.
She sat down.
But both hearts were no longer calm.
Back at his car, Ehan opened the door and whispered, Yes you're real.
He sat there a long time, the engine off, the world moving outside his window. And inside him, something quietly lit up.