Rudraksh

Rudraksh hadn’t planned on making friends.

It had never come naturally. Conversations always felt transactional—useful, efficient, distant. But with Prakriti, something shifted slowly, without announcement.

She had started correcting him openly now.

“You’re wrong,” she said once, without hesitation. “And you know it.”

He smiled. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

She did. Always.

They laughed more than before. Brief moments—between calls, during site walks, over coffee that grew cold while discussions lingered. Nothing personal enough to cross a line. Nothing shallow enough to feel empty.

Once, during a long day, he remarked, “You don’t talk much about people.”

She shrugged. “There aren’t many to talk about.”

He understood that too.

They shared that quiet truth—that friendships had always felt like something that happened to others. And perhaps because neither of them expected it, what formed between them felt honest.

Yet Rudraksh was careful.

When meetings began, he straightened his posture. When decisions were made, he ensured her authority remained clear. Respect never blurred, even when familiarity grew.

One afternoon, as they wrapped up for the day, she said, “You know, for someone so serious, you’re surprisingly tolerable.”

He paused, then replied, “Coming from you, I’ll take that as praise.”

She smiled. He did too.

Friendship, Rudraksh realized, didn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes, it simply settled in—
without demanding space,
without breaking rules.