A Peace Within You

"I didn't want to get close. But maybe part of me still craved connection — even if it was just over lunch."

The second morning at work was quieter inside me than the first. I still had the nerves, but they weren't as loud, maybe because I knew where the coffee machine was now. Maybe because I was already starting to recognize a few faces. The security guard nodded at me as I walked through the glass doors.

A yellow Post-it waited for me on my desk: "You're coming to lunch with us. No excuses. – Myra."

I smiled before I could stop myself. The handwriting was messy, rushed, like she'd scribbled it between meetings. But there was something warm about it. Something that reminded me of college friends leaving notes on my hostel door.

It had been a long time since I had people to have lunch with — actual people who noticed whether I showed up or not. I used to have that once. Before everything changed. Before I stopped trusting my own choices. Before I learned that people leave, that friendships fade, and that investing in connections only leads to disappointment.

My last job had been different. Colder. People ate at their desks, scrolling through phones, pretending to be busy. Conversations were limited to project updates and weekend plans that nobody really cared about. I'd gotten used to the isolation. Even convinced myself I preferred it.

But sitting there, staring at Myra's note, I felt something I'd forgotten existed. Hope. Small, fragile, but undeniably there.

By eleven-thirty, I was already glancing toward the elevator, wondering when they'd come to collect me. By noon, Myra and Riya were at my desk, Riya tapping her nails against my monitor impatiently.

"Ready?" Riya didn't ask — she declared. "Veer swears this new place has the best sandwiches in Mumbai. Which, knowing Veer, probably means they gave him extra mayonnaise once."

"Let me just save this," I said, closing the document I'd been pretending to work on for the past hour.

"No excuses," Myra reminded me, already grabbing her purse. "We're making this a thing. Daily lunch gang. No backing out now."

"Alright," I said. It felt foreign, agreeing so easily. But I went.

The café was tucked between a pharmacy and a mobile repair shop, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing. Inside, it was small and buzzing with conversation. Office workers in crisp shirts mixed with college students in torn jeans. The smell of grilled sandwiches and coffee filled the air, along with the constant hum of people talking over each other.

Our group claimed a corner table. Mostly, Myra and Veer dominated the conversation, their voices animated as they dissected everything from the morning's team meeting to the new intern who asked if emails had to be typed. Nishant sat beside me, nodding along with his usual calm expressions, occasionally adding a thoughtful comment that made everyone pause.

I learned a lot about them in thirty minutes. Like how Veer had joined the company straight out of college and still acted like he was in his final year. How he hated the company portal design more than anything else in the world and had written a five-page email to IT suggesting improvements that nobody ever responded to. Or that Myra could eat four momos in one bite and had once won an eating competition at her previous office. Or that Nishant secretly wrote poetry and had been published in a small literary magazine, though he turned red when Riya mentioned it.

"Don't embarrass him," I said, smiling at Nishant's discomfort.

"Someone should be proud of their talent," Riya shot back. "Unlike Veer here, who thinks knowing Excel formulas makes him a genius."

"Excel is poetry," Veer protested, mouth full of sandwich. "You just don't understand the beauty of a perfectly nested IF statement."

None of it mattered — the teasing, the random stories, the complaints about work. But it made them real. Real in a way that felt both wonderful and terrifying. Because real meant I could get attached. Real meant I could get hurt.

And real was rare.

But I noticed something as we sat there, laughing over shared plates and arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Kabir wasn't with us.

I wasn't looking for him. At least that's what I told myself. But my eyes kept drifting toward the entrance, expecting to see that familiar silhouette. Expecting to hear that voice again — half-flirt, half-mystery. The voice that had made yesterday feel less ordinary.

Nothing.

"Where's Kabir?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Myra shrugged. "He never comes. Says he prefers eating alone."

"Antisocial," Veer added, not unkindly. "Nice guy, just... keeps to himself."

"Some people are like that," Nishant said quietly. "Not everyone needs a crowd to feel complete."

I nodded, but something about his absence felt deliberate. Like he was making a point.

Back in the office, the afternoon stretched long and lazily. The post-lunch energy dip had everyone moving more slowly, speaking more softly. I caught sight of him then. Two rows away, headphones on, staring at his screen like he was trying to burn through it. His fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, never pausing, never looking up. Not at me. Not at anyone.

There was something almost aggressive about his focus. Like he was building walls with code.

I tried to concentrate on my own work, but my attention kept drifting. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward. The way he rubbed his temples during what looked like a particularly frustrating bug. The way he seemed completely isolated despite being surrounded by people.

Maybe that's what made me light a cigarette. It was maybe it was just the weight of the day, the unfamiliarity of being around people again. Or maybe it was the realization that I was already thinking about him too much.

I walked to the terrace, past the clusters of people taking smoke breaks and phone calls. The far end was quieter, near the railing that overlooked the sprawling mess of Mumbai's skyline. The sky looked washed out, caught between afternoon sun and gathering clouds. The air was thick with humidity and the distant sound of traffic.

Then I saw him.

Leaning against the back wall, cigarette between his fingers, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked like he belonged there, like he'd claimed that corner as his territory. Like some annoying poster boy for the kind of trouble your mother warned you about.

We stood there for a moment, two strangers sharing the same chemical dependency and emotional crutch. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar. Like trying on clothes that might fit, but you're not sure yet.

"You didn't come to lunch," I said finally.

"I don't do groups," he answered, taking a slow drag.

"Why not?"

"I don't like being watched. Judged. Having my every reaction analysed by people who think they know me after a sandwich and small talk."

I turned to look at him properly, studying his profile. "And yet you came to talk to me yesterday."

"That was different," he said, flicking ash into the wind. "You looked... lost."

Something about the way he said it — like loneliness was something he could recognize from across a room — made my throat tighten. Like he'd seen something in me that I thought I'd hidden better.

"Are you always this contradictory?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

He gave the smallest smile, barely there and gone before I could be sure I'd seen it. "Only when I find someone worth being contradictory for."

We fell into another quiet, but this time it felt different. Less foreign. More like two people who understood that sometimes silence said more than conversation.

"You'll get bored with them," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the distant traffic noise.

"Who?"

"The lunch crowd. Myra, Riya, all of them. Friends fade fast in places like this. Office friendships are just proximity and convenience. Once the novelty wears off, you'll see what I mean."

I didn't respond immediately. His words stung because they echoed fears I'd been carrying for years. The fear that every connection was temporary, that every person who seemed to care would eventually find something better to do with their time.

I looked out at the skyline, at the glass buildings stretching toward grey clouds, at the construction cranes that promised even more concrete and steel. Everything is temporary, everything is changing.

"Maybe you're right," I said finally. "Maybe they will get bored. Maybe I'll disappoint them, or they'll disappoint me. Maybe it won't last."

I paused, feeling the weight of honesty.

"But I'm not looking for forever," I whispered. "I'm just looking for something that feels real. Even if it's temporary. Even if it hurts when it ends."

He looked at me then. And for a second, his eyes didn't carry that calculated distance I'd expected. They looked tired. Guarded, yes, but also something else. Something that looked like recognition.

"Trying to connect... it hurts," he said quietly, like he was admitting something he'd never said out loud.

I didn't know what to say to that. We barely knew each other, but something in his voice made the words feel heavier than they should have.

"Maybe," I said finally, taking another drag. "But some things are worth the risk."

He didn't argue. Just took another drag and stared out at the city like it held answers neither of us had found yet.

When I finally turned to leave, crushing my half-finished cigarette under my heel, he didn't stop me. Didn't say goodbye or make plans to continue the conversation. But something in the way he exhaled — long and slow, like he was releasing more than just smoke — told me he understood.

Maybe he was tired of not trying too.

Back at my desk, Riya was waiting with a packet of M&Ms and a grin that suggested she'd seen me on the terrace.

"Gift from the vending machine," she said, dropping the candy on my keyboard. "Consider it a welcome-to-the-team present."

"Thanks," I said, tearing open the packet.

"Just be careful," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Kabir's the quiet type, but girls around here fall for him faster than gravity. There's something about the mysterious loner thing that apparently drives women crazy."

I bit into a chocolate, letting it melt on my tongue. "Is that a warning or advice?"

"Both," she laughed. "Depending on what you're looking for."

Too late, I thought, watching Kabir's dark head bent over his computer two rows away. I already noticed him. And worse, I think he saw me noticing.

The question wasn't whether I'd fall. The question was whether he'd be there to catch me when I did.

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Hello Guyzzz, so here is the second chapter. Hope you like it