Prakriti

The building was nearly complete.

Where there had once been noise and disorder, there was now structure—glass catching light, walls holding shape, spaces breathing exactly as she had imagined. A year and a half of decisions, revisions, disagreements, and trust stood quietly in front of her.

So did Rudraksh.

They walked through the site together, reviewing final details. Their conversations were smooth now—effortless, familiar.

“You know,” he said, stopping near the entrance, “I’ve stopped questioning your instincts.”

She smiled, pretending to study her notes. “That took you long enough.”

“I like to be thorough.”

She glanced at him. “I’ve noticed.”

He met her gaze, just briefly. Something shifted. Not enough to name—but enough to feel.

Later, during a final meeting, she caught herself laughing at one of his remarks. He noticed too.

“You’re unusually amused today,” he said.

“You’re unusually funny,” she replied without thinking.

The silence that followed was short—but warm. She felt it rise to her cheeks before she could stop it. He looked away first.

They still knew when to turn serious. When decisions were discussed, their tones sharpened into focus. When work demanded it, familiarity stepped back politely.

But in the pauses—those moments between professionalism—something lingered.

As they wrapped up for the day, he said, “I’ll miss these discussions.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You will?”

He nodded. “They’ve become… routine.”

She smiled softly. “I’ll miss them too.”

What she didn’t say was that she would miss him.