"All I want is nothing more,
To hear you knocking at my door..."
. . . . .
Author's POV
The tension in the boardroom was palpable. Umang forced herself to maintain a professional demeanor, but inside, her mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Her nails pressed faint crescents into her palm beneath the table, the only sign of the chaos inside.
Rakshit's presence was unexpected—almost surreal. She vividly remembered that he had once chosen to pursue the NEET examination, yet now his qualifications stated that he had cleared IIT. Confusion clouded her thoughts. She had spent so long trying to move past him, and now fate had cruelly placed him before her once again. Why the hell did he have to apply for this position—her PA—someone who would have to remain by her side throughout office hours?
Rakshit, too, was struggling to compose himself. He had imagined meeting Umang a thousand times in his mind, but never like this. Never in a setting where they had to pretend to be strangers, where personal emotions had to be buried beneath professional formalities. Only the slight tightening of his jaw and the restless tapping of his thumb against the folder betrayed the storm beneath.
Taking a deep breath, Umang pushed aside the storm raging within her and focused on the task at hand.
"Mr. Sangtani," one of the senior interviewers began, flipping through his resume. "You have an impressive background. Let's start by discussing your previous experience."
Rakshit cleared his throat, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I have worked at NRSC for over five years, specializing in strategic growth regarding remote sensing and satellite data acquisition."
Umang, however, wasn't interested in standard responses. She leaned forward, her gaze sharp. "You previously worked at NRSC, a branch of ISRO. That's quite a leap to applying as the PA to the Director of ISAC. Why the change?"
Rakshit met her gaze head-on. "I believe growth isn't limited to one role. My experience at NRSC has equipped me with strategic and organizational skills that would be valuable in this position."
She nodded curtly and flipped through the papers. "If that's the case, tell me—how do you handle high-pressure situations? Suppose an urgent matter arises, and I'm unavailable. How would you proceed?"
Rakshit didn't flinch. "I would assess the situation based on priority and past precedents. If necessary, I would consult the advisory team before making a decision. However, I understand the gravity of this role and would ensure the Director remains informed."
Umang tapped her pen against the table. "And confidentiality? This branch of ISRO handles classified data. What ensures your discretion?"
His expression remained unreadable. "I understand the weight of classified information. At NRSC, I handled satellite data security and operations. I've signed multiple NDAs, and I take them seriously."
She couldn't help but be impressed. He was answering every tough question with ease. The interview continued, with Umang throwing every challenge at him, yet Rakshit navigated through them effortlessly.
Finally, it was time to conclude. One of the panelists turned to Umang. "Ms. Pahuja, do you have any more questions?"
A silence stretched between them. Umang swallowed, gathering her resolve.
"No," she said firmly. "I believe we have everything we need."
Rakshit's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes held something deep—something unresolved.
The panel nodded, closing their files. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Sangtani. We'll be in touch."
Rakshit stood up, his fingers brushing against the file before him. With one last glance at Umang, he nodded curtly and turned to leave.
Umang reached her cabin, her breath uneven. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it as panic surged within her. Her breath hitched. The air felt too thick to breathe, like the walls had closed in. Rakshit—here? And about NEET... wasn't he supposed to become a doctor? Now, he was in ISRO, as her PA? This was a nightmare she hadn't prepared for.
A sudden knock on the door jolted her out of her thoughts.
She straightened, composing herself. "Come in."
The door opened, and there he was. Rakshit.
"Umang," he said, stepping inside, his voice softer now. "We should talk."
She stiffened. "No, we shouldn't."
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I know this is unexpected. But—"
She cut him off. "Mr. Sangtani, this is a workplace. You are now my PA. That is the only relationship we share from this moment on. Do you understand?"
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Understood."
"Good." She turned back to her desk. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. And you can join from tomorrow. Remember, I don't tolerate latecomers. I expect you in my office at sharp 9 AM—with a cappuccino. Also, read the file on our upcoming project. We're hiring a team for it tomorrow."
Rakshit lingered for a moment before giving her a small nod. "As you say, ma'am."
She kept her eyes on the computer. "You can leave now."
With that, he nodded and walked out, leaving her gripping the edge of her desk, her heart warring with itself. This was far from over. And she knew it.
As the door closed, a tear escaped from her eyes. It was enough—she couldn't control herself. She stepped onto the balcony attached to her office, settled into her corner, and let the tears flow. Deep down, she missed him, but she couldn't forgive him—not for what he had done. She had no choice but to act professionally, to pretend she didn't give a damn about him or their past.
After half an hour, she controlled her sobs, made a silent compromise with herself, and accepted the situation. She resolved to drown herself in work, leaving no room for lingering thoughts. She prepared herself for whatever lay ahead.
That evening, instead of heading straight home, Umang took a detour. Her feet led her to the one place that had always brought her solace—the dance studio.
The muffled bass thudded like a heartbeat, anchoring her to the only place that ever made sense. The familiar scent of sandalwood and sweat, of passion and persistence, welcomed her like an old friend. On the far end of the mirrored room stood Prashant, her long-time friend and the studio's lead instructor.
"Look who finally showed up," Prashant teased, his grin lighting up his boyish face. "The Director of ISAC still has time to dance? I'm impressed."
She tried to smile, but it wavered. "I needed it today... more than ever."
Prashant's playful demeanor softened. He gestured toward the couch near the mirrored wall. "Come on, sit. What happened?"
She sat down, pulling her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. "He's back."
Prashant didn't need a name.
"Rakshit?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "He applied for the PA position. And... he got through the interview. He's joining tomorrow."
Prashant blinked. "Wait—your PA? The guy you said chose NEET, wanted to become a doctor, and vanished on you?"
"That's the thing," she said, voice cracking slightly. "His resume says IIT. He worked with NRSC for five years. ISRO experience. How? Why? When did he switch from medicine to engineering? It doesn't make any sense."
She paused, blinking back the sting behind her eyes.
"I thought I'd never see him again. I'd buried all of it—the hurt, the anger, the confusion. But today, sitting across from him in that boardroom... it all came flooding back. And the worst part? I had to pretend like none of it mattered."
Prashant remained quiet for a moment before standing and offering his hand. "Come. Dance it out."
She hesitated but then took his hand. The music changed—something soulful, slow, and freeing. They moved, and with each spin, each stretch of her arm, she let go a little more.
As the song ended, Prashant pulled her into a hug. For a moment, she allowed herself to melt into the comfort—no words, no expectations, just rhythm and release.
"Whatever this is, whatever confusion he's brought into your life—remember, you've made it this far on your own. You don't owe him anything, Umang."
She hugged him back tightly. "Thank you."
Later that night, after a long shower and a barely touched dinner, Umang stood by her window, looking up at the stars. The city lights shimmered, but her heart felt heavy.
She ran her thumb gently over her pendant, the tiny flute of Krishna resting warm against her collarbone. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and whispered softly into the quiet of her room.
"Kanha ... aaj main toot gayi thi thoda. Kal se fir se judne ki koshish karungi. Bas aap yeh dhyan rakhna ki main phir se kamzor na padun. Jo kuch bhi ho, main sirf ek achhi boss banun, ek achhi insaan... aur sirf professional rahun uske saath."
With that, she opened her eyes, wiped the single tear that slid down her cheek, and turned off the lights.
Tomorrow would be a new day. A tougher one. But she would face it—graceful as ever.
. . . . .
Hey...
If you're still here, reading this, thank you. This chapter was heavy. There's something about facing someone from your past—especially someone you once loved and lost—that just... shakes something in you. Umang tried her best to be composed, strong, professional. And she was. But strength doesn't mean the heart doesn't tremble. It just means you choose to stand anyway.
Rakshit wasn't expecting this either. They're both pretending. And that's the hardest part.
Writing this felt personal. Maybe because we all have that one person who left questions behind. Or maybe because sometimes closure comes not in dramatic confrontations, but in boardrooms and coffee orders and quiet breakdowns behind locked doors.
Let me know what you felt while reading. I'd love to hear which part made you pause, which line stayed with you, or if you saw a bit of yourself in either of them.
We're just getting started. Their story is messy, slow, and painfully real—but it's still worth telling.
See you in the next chapter?
with warmth,
- Midnight Scribes 🎀🎀
just someone who still believes in soft people and second chances
✨
Write a comment ...