A Peace Within You

The weekend came faster than I expected. My second week at the Mumbai office had just wrapped up, and everything still felt new — the morning rush to catch the 8:47 local, the polite namaste exchanges in the elevator, the 4 p.m. chai breaks that somehow stretched into gossip sessions. But more than the work, it was them — the group — that made the transition from being a complete outsider to almost belonging feel less terrifying.

Myra had started bombarding me with Instagram reels every morning, each one more ridiculous than the last. Riya and I had discovered our mutual obsession with indie music and started sharing Spotify playlists. Veer constantly joked about setting me up with random colleagues — "Yaar, there's this guy in accounts, very nice family, good salary" — while Nishant always smiled as if he possessed some cosmic secret about everyone's love life.

It was strange, this feeling. I was starting to enjoy it — this rhythm of belonging somewhere, this almost-friendship that felt more real than most of my actual friendships back home in Dehradun.

And yet, my mind kept drifting to one person who wasn't really part of our group, but never seemed too far from it either.

Kabir.

He hadn't messaged me. Not after that smoke break on the office terrace where we'd stood in comfortable silence, watching the city breathe below us. Not even a casual "how was your day," despite that moment when our eyes met and something unnamed passed between us — something that had been living rent-free in my head for days.

I didn't expect anything. I kept telling myself I didn't.

But then, on Saturday night, around 11:53 PM, my phone lit up.

Kabir: Couldn't sleep. You up?

I stared at the screen longer than any sane person should.

Me: I usually am at this hour.

Kabir: You seem like the type who overthinks till 3 AM and then blames the city noise for keeping you awake.

Me: You're not wrong. And you seem like the type who pretends he doesn't care about anything but can't shut his brain off either.

There was a pause. The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Kabir: It gets loud sometimes. The thoughts. Especially at night.

I wanted to ask what kind of thoughts? I wanted to know if they were about work, about life, about that moment on the terrace. But I didn't.

Me: You ever try writing them down? Sometimes putting chaos on paper makes it less... chaotic.

Kabir: I try smoking them out instead.

Me: How's that working for you?

Kabir: It isn't. Obviously.

Me: Obviously.

It was a quiet conversation — fragmented but strangely intimate. Like we both understood there were pieces of ourselves we hadn't spoken of yet, pieces that might be too sharp to handle carelessly.

Kabir: You free tomorrow? Afternoon?

I hesitated, my finger hovering over the keyboard.

Me: Why? What did you have in mind?

Kabir: There's this book café in Bandra. They make terrible coffee but play really good jazz. The kind that makes you feel things you didn't know you were avoiding.

Kabir: Thought you might hate it a little less than I do.

I laughed out loud, alone in my bed, the sounds of Marine Drive traffic humming like a lullaby outside my window.

Me: That's quite possibly the worst sales pitch for a date I've ever heard.

Kabir: Who said anything about a date?

Me: Pick me up at 2?

Kabir: Done.

Sunday afternoon was sun-drenched and heavy with that particular Mumbai humidity that makes your clothes stick to your skin in ways that are both annoying and oddly comforting. I found myself choosing a nicer kurta than usual — something in soft cotton that didn't scream trying too hard but definitely whispered I made an effort.

Myra, being Myra, noticed immediately on our group chat.

Myra: Someone's dressing like she's going on a NOT-date 👀

Me: It's just a café. With books. And supposedly terrible coffee.

Riya: Sure, babe. And I only eat golgappa on Sundays. We totally believe you.

Veer: Arre, just tell us who the guy is na. We promise not to stalk his Instagram.

Nishant: Too late. Already found him. 😎

I threw my phone aside, choosing to ignore their collective nosiness. Mostly.

Kabir was already waiting downstairs, leaning against a black Honda City, wearing sunglasses and a grey henley. He didn't smile when he saw me. But he looked... settled. Like he'd made peace with whatever internal argument had been playing in his head.

"You're punctual," I said, settling into the passenger seat.

"You sound surprised."

"Most people in this city operate on IST — Indian Stretchable Time."

He started the engine, and soft Korean jazz filled the space between us. "I'm not most people."

"No," I said, studying his profile as he navigated through Bandra's chaotic Sunday traffic. "You're really not."

The drive was comfortable in its quietness. He played music I'd never heard before — melancholic and beautiful in ways that made my chest feel tight.

"Korean jazz?" I asked. "That's... specific."

"Only the sad kind works for me."

"You're full of surprises, Kabir."

He glanced at me briefly, his eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses. "So are you, pahadi girl."

The café was tucked away in a narrow lane, the kind of place you'd never find unless someone who belonged to this city's hidden corners showed you. Inside, it smelled like old books and burnt coffee, with jazz playing just loud enough to create atmosphere without drowning conversation.

We didn't talk much at first. We browsed the shelves like two people who understood that books were safe territory — easier than diving into the dangerous waters of whatever this was becoming.

He pulled out a copy of Kafka on the Shore and handed it to me. "You'd like this. It's weird and beautiful and makes no sense until suddenly it makes perfect sense."

"Like what?"

"Like you."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because..." I fumbled with the book, pretending to read the blurb. "Because it's dangerous."

"Maybe I like danger."

I looked up at him then, really looked. His eyes were dark and steady, and there was something in them that made my stomach flip. "Do you?"

"With you? Yeah. I think I do."

We found a corner table, and over cups of coffee that were indeed terrible, something shifted between us. The careful distance we'd maintained began to dissolve.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he said suddenly.

"That's a dangerous question."

"I like those too."

I stirred my coffee, buying time. "I came to Mumbai to run away from something."

"What kind of something?"

"The kind that breaks you so completely that you don't recognize yourself in the mirror anymore."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I came to Mumbai for a fresh start too."

"From what?"

"From myself, mostly. From becoming someone I didn't like." He paused, looking out the window. "I was angry all the time. At work, at home, at everything. Started smoking too much, drinking alone."

I nodded, understanding the weight of that without needing more.

We talked about books then — our favorite authors, the stories that had shaped us, the words we wanted to write but were too scared to. He told me about his collection of half-finished notebooks, all containing stories he'd started but never had the courage to complete.

"What stops you?" I asked.

"Fear that they're not good enough. Fear that they are." He smiled ruefully. "Classic writer problems."

"I have seventeen drafts of the same story on my laptop," I admitted. "About a girl who falls for someone completely wrong for her."

"Autobiographical?"

"Painfully so."

We were laughing about my terrible dating history when he suddenly asked, "Do you watch those Korean shows? The really dramatic ones?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "K-dramas? Where did that come from?"

He looked slightly embarrassed, running a hand through his hair. "That jazz playlist I was playing earlier — half of it is from Korean drama soundtracks. Thought you might have noticed."

"Yup I notice that" I told him. "Can i see your playlist" I asked him.

He handed me his phone

As I scrolled through his Spotify, I found playlists with names like "For Rainy Days" and "Midnight Drives" — all filled with haunting Korean OSTs mixed with indie tracks.

"Oh my god, you're one of us," I said, grinning. "What's your favourite K drama?"

He leaned back, considering. "Probably My Mister. Or Move to Heaven. The ones that don't pretend life is simple but still find beauty in all the mess."

"It's Okay to Not Be Okay is mine. Hands down."

His face lit up — the first completely unguarded smile I'd seen from him. "Moon Gang-tae and Ko Moon-young. Emotional trauma wrapped in the most beautiful cinematography and costumes I've ever seen."

"I judge people based on their favorite K-drama," I said, leaning forward.

"Oh yeah? What's the verdict?"

The way he was looking at me, the afternoon light catching the gold flecks in his dark eyes, made me feel bold. "You're dangerously close to becoming my favorite person."

The smile faded, replaced by something more intense. "Good," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Because I don't do second place."

The air between us shifted, charged like the moment before monsoon rains break.

When he drove me back to my building, he didn't offer to walk me up. Instead, he turned off the engine and looked at me with those impossibly dark eyes.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not asking me to explain the hard stuff."

I unbuckled my seatbelt but didn't move to get out. "Thank you for not pretending you don't have hard stuff. For not making me feel crazy for having mine."

He nodded slowly. "You smoking tomorrow? On the terrace?"

"Probably. It's become a habit."

"I'll join you."

"Okay."

"Okay."

I got out of the car and walked toward my building, hyperaware of his eyes on me. At the entrance, I turned back. He was still watching.

"Kabir?"

"Yeah?"

"This was..."

"I know."

I nodded and walked inside, my hands trembling as I pressed the elevator button.

Because I knew something had begun. Not love — not yet. That was too simple, too neat for what this was.

This was something rawer. Something that acknowledged we were both carrying wounds but choosing to be careful with each other's damage. Something that could either help us heal or shatter us completely.

And the scariest part?

For the first time in years, I wasn't running.

I was staying. I was choosing to see what happened when two broken people decided to be brave together.

The elevator doors closed, and I caught my reflection in the steel surface — flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

I looked like someone who was about to fall.