We'd just come off the Manali trip, where you'd only known me as the reserved, serious one running things, the version of me nobody really gets past. On that trip you asked me question after question, direct ones, the kind I don't usually get asked, and I remember feeling genuinely embarrassed, actually speechless at one point, which had never happened to me before in front of anyone. You took the cover I'd spent years building and knocked it over in a single day, without even trying that hard. I kept asking myself, quietly, how anyone gets past that kind of guard so easily. I didn't have an answer. I still don't, fully.

Then that night, out of nowhere, we actually started talking properly for the first time. You told me your good photo was pure luck. I disagreed, loudly, with far more confidence than the moment called for. You told me you had video evidence of my worst angles and were holding it hostage, and I remember thinking, this one doesn't let things go, she's going to remember everything.

Somewhere between a Gandhi joke I explained badly and you laughing at how seriously I took it, I noticed I'd stopped performing and just started talking. I don't usually do that. I did it with you, and I didn't even notice until much later how rare that was for me.

Quieter, but the warmth from the night before carried straight through. I remember being glad you were still there the next morning, that it hadn't just been a one-night thing.

A quiet day. I think we were both a little stunned by how easy the first one had been, and didn't quite know what to do with that yet.

A whole day of trading jokes, figuring out what actually made you laugh versus what just got a polite reply. I was taking mental notes even then, cataloguing you without telling you I was doing it.

We talked late into the night, and I noticed I was being less careful with my words around you. That was new for me. You said something that stuck, that maybe home was choosing you even when you wanted to go out. I remember thinking: this one says things I'll be turning over in my head for days.

You also told me, plainly, that you'd read me as calm and composed, someone steady rather than someone loud about things. You weren't wrong. It's genuinely how I am, most days, with most people. I noticed I wasn't performing that calm with you either, it just happened to be true, and it was strange to be seen accurately that early on.

I also remember asking myself, for the first time, a question I didn't have an answer to yet: do I actually like her, or do I just like that someone's paying this much attention to me. I didn't chase the answer that night. I just noticed the question existed.

The first of what became a habit, starting a conversation at a sensible hour and somehow still being awake, talking to you, well past midnight. Neither of us tried to end it.

I joked about keeping notes on the things you say. You told me to just get a diary like a normal person. I didn't take that advice, but somewhere in that conversation I started calling you "Silly Sreya," half teasing, half fond, and you didn't tell me to stop. I also admitted, without quite meaning to, that I'd noticed when you went quiet earlier, which, for someone who insists he's private and unbothered, was a fairly obvious giveaway.

At some point that same day I actually said sorry to you, plainly, and I remember it feeling strange to say something that direct so early on. I'm not someone who apologizes easily. I usually build a whole explanation around it first. That day, for some reason, I just said it.

And somewhere in the middle of all that teasing, you told me, very firmly, that you were never going to send me a voice note in this lifetime. I laughed it off, and let it go.

Nothing dramatic happened. I liked it anyway, I remember a song stuck in my head all morning and telling you about it just because I wanted to tell you something, anything.

We talked from one midnight to the next, practically. You mentioned, almost in passing, that some phrase you used to reserve for family had started slipping out with me too. I joked about running it through an AI to analyze whether that meant missing someone. You laughed and called me out for it immediately. But I noticed, you were tracking the changes in yourself too, out loud, to me. That went both ways from the start.

I noticed something about myself too, on a day like this one. I used to be a genuinely busy man, the kind who scheduled his own free time. Even in the early days of talking to you, some part of me was still half-busy while doing it, replying between things instead of actually being present in the conversation. I couldn't tell you the exact point it flipped. I just noticed, somewhere around days like this, that I'd started finding time for you instead of just finding time between things for you.

Short and sweet, just a morning check-in. Even those started to matter to me, a sign, I think, that I'd started building my day around whether I'd hear from you.

Barely spoke. I remember missing it more than I expected to, which told me something I wasn't ready to say out loud yet.

A heavier, deeper conversation. We joked about the proposals we'd each had before, I claimed something like nineteen, you doubled down and said twenty girls had proposed to you, and neither of us believed the other for a second.

But underneath the joking, I told you something I don't usually tell anyone, that there was a stretch of time, years ago, when I genuinely didn't have the money to even buy an engagement ring for someone. Not a small shortfall, a real one, the kind that keeps you up at night.

You didn't make it a big moment. You just listened, and let it sit there without turning it into pity or a performance. That's exactly why I could say it to you at all. I think that was the day I started trusting you with the real version of me, not the tidy one.

Somewhere in the same conversation, without really planning to, I told you I'd cried, and that it was because nobody had understood me at the time. You asked when the last time was, gently enough that it didn't feel like an interrogation. I said years ago. You joked about your own tears being tears of joy, and let me have my answer without picking it apart. If I'm honest with myself, though, I couldn't actually picture the moment I was describing. I said it because it felt true in general, not because I remembered one specific night. Maybe I stretched it a little just to have something real to hand you. I don't want to do that again, not even a small stretch, not with you.

Later that same night you told me something about yourself that I don't think you meant as a big reveal, but I heard it as one anyway. You said you didn't want to give anyone the power to hurt you, that you'd rather not get hurt at all than risk it. You also admitted, almost as a joke, that you're a hopeless romantic, that you'd rather be a fool in love than be smart with the wrong person. I remember thinking: she's not closed off, she's just careful. There's a difference, and it made me want to be careful with you too. I also remember asking myself, quietly, a slightly bigger version of the question from before, whether what I felt for you had already turned into something more than liking. I still didn't answer it that night. I just noticed it had gotten harder to dodge.

Nothing eventful, we talked, and it was easy. I was starting to expect that from you, and love that I could.

An early morning exchange, the kind where neither of us was fully awake but kept typing anyway. I didn't mind losing the sleep.

We talked most of the day without either of us trying too hard. Comfortable, in the best way, the kind of day I didn't know I needed until you gave it to me.

Just a couple of lines. Small days count too, and I never once thought of you as an afterthought on them.

Warmer than the early weeks, though I couldn't tell you exactly what changed. You called something "aesthetically pleasing" in that dry way you have, and I remember grinning at my phone like an idiot over one word.

I also sent you a photo of a sunflower I'd bought, just because I saw it and thought of you. You teased me, asking if I take a photo of everything I pass on the street or everything I see in a shop window. Maybe I do. You asked, half joking, whether I even actually liked sunflowers, and I told you I couldn't think of anyone who doesn't. That was the start of something, I just didn't know it yet, sending you small, ordinary things I noticed in my day, because I wanted you to notice them too.

Nothing remarkable happened, and I liked that it didn't need to. I told you some nonsense story about climbing an entire hill after one brownie, and you let me have the moment instead of fact-checking me.

Casual, comfortable, the kind of day where you were just part of how my day went, without either of us announcing it.

Life pulled us both in different directions for a bit. I still thought of you more than the message count would suggest.

One message the whole day, because I was buried in back-to-back meetings from morning to night. I remember catching myself, somewhere between two calls, thinking about something small you'd said days earlier and almost laughing out loud at my desk. Nobody in the room would have understood why. Sometimes that one message is the only proof there is that someone's still thinking of you, even on a day that gave them almost no room to say so.

I was out on Lakshadweep for work, and the boat we were on that morning collided with something and things went sideways for a minute, nothing serious for me, a knock to the head and a leg injury, an X-ray to be safe. It rattled me more than I let on in the moment, one of the young men travelling with us didn't make it, and it stayed with me the rest of the day even while I kept working through it, because that's mostly what I know how to do with hard things.

By evening my own body decided to pile on, fever, chills, a headache that wouldn't quit. I told you plainly instead of brushing it off, and you didn't let it go, you kept asking if it had actually been confirmed, telling me to get it checked properly. It was a small thing in the scope of the day, but I noticed it, that you worried out loud instead of just saying feel better and moving on.

A single message, both of us busy elsewhere. Even the quiet days had you in them somewhere.

We started talking about love marriages and somehow ended up debating what marriage even means, like it was the most natural thing in the world to discuss with you. We weren't talking about us directly. We both knew we were.

I got a little carried away describing an empty chair facing the sea, something about how a single empty chair looking out at the water doesn't feel abandoned, it feels like an invitation to sit with yourself, like it was placed there on purpose. I don't know why I said it. I think I wanted you to see that there was more in my head than deadlines and deals.

Later that night I asked you to send me a voice note. You reminded me, laughing, that I was the one who'd once told you your voice notes weren't clear and that I couldn't understand a thing. Fair. I was asking anyway.

You said you'd probably end up with an arranged marriage, and that it wasn't a bad thing. I gave you a whole speech about things losing their meaning when they go stagnant, like you'd asked for my life philosophy and not just my opinion.

You called me out for it, gently, telling me I was losing my own standards by arguing so hard for a stranger's hypothetical happiness. And later, about how you actually process things, you explained that once you've figured out your own worth, you just let things go instead of dwelling on them.

You also called me out on something else that day, half-laughing: that all my philosophy was coming from a guy who was afraid to fall in love again. You weren't entirely wrong. I just wasn't ready to admit it to you yet.

Earlier that same day I'd sent you the same photo for the third time, fishing for a reaction, and you actually pointed it out. I called myself childish for it. You didn't let me get away with the easy self-criticism, you said it wasn't childish, that everyone gets bored of the same compliments and craves new ones, and that I just happened to only show you my pictures, not everyone else. You were right, and it made me ask myself a second version of that earlier question: was I just craving attention, or was it specifically your attention I was after. By the end of that conversation I already knew which one it was. I just wasn't saying it out loud yet.

Looking back, I think some part of me was already arguing for something I hadn't said out loud yet, that I didn't want your fate to just be decided for you. I wanted to be part of the answer.

A good, steady day. No big moment, just the quiet pleasure of talking to you and knowing you were actually listening, not just replying.

A relaxed evening, picking up threads from earlier in the week like we'd never dropped them.

A comfortable day about nothing in particular. That ordinariness had become one of my favourite things, proof that this wasn't just the excitement of something new, it was becoming something steady.

A light day. Not every day needs to be a big one to matter.

You said you pictured something intimate, even though you were fairly sure your parents would have bigger plans. I asked, half-joking, whether I'd be invited. It was the first time you'd described that day to me in any detail at all, and I held onto every word of it.

Later that same night I wrote you something I'd been thinking about for a while: that I loved a flower so much, I left it alone instead of picking it. I don't think I explained what I meant, and maybe I didn't need to. Some things you want to keep exactly as they are, not take for yourself just because you can.

Long and lively, with the usual mix of teasing and small disagreements that had by then become simply how we talked.

Somewhere in the middle of it, out of nowhere, you asked if we should go on an Uttarakhand trek together. I said anytime, let's go, without even thinking about it. You said you really wanted to do something like that, something without overthinking it first. Then, almost in the same breath, you said you probably couldn't. I don't think you meant it as a big moment, but I kept it. It's still sitting somewhere in my head as an unfinished plan, one I hope we actually get to keep.

More back-and-forth than usual, the good kind, where you push back because you trust the other person will still be there afterward. You told me that day that I'd been giving you something you'd been missing for years. I didn't know what to do with that except keep showing up.

It was also one of those days where meetings ran into more meetings and I barely had a free hand to type. I told you as much that evening, that I'd been busy the entire day, but that if I was texting you at all, even one line, it was because you meant something to me, not because I had time to spare. I don't think you realize how much of my so-called busy days are still built around finding the ten minutes to talk to you.

I can't point to one single thing, but this was one of those days that was just good, start to finish. I told you something that night that I still stand by, that you'd never once added a song to any picture you sent me, until the one I admired most out loud. Small detail, maybe. But I notice the small things about you, the same way you'd already been noticing them about me.

We barely talked. I noticed the gap more than I expected to, especially after the day before.

A full day of talking, nothing to report except that I never once tired of it.

You mentioned a proposal that had come in for you, and told me not to think too much about it. I asked more questions than a truly unbothered person would have. I wasn't unbothered. I think that was the day I admitted to myself how much I minded the thought of you choosing someone else.

We kept talking around the same topic from the day before, back and forth in voice notes now more than texts, it was becoming our language. You said you were okay with the idea of an arranged marriage. Neither of us said the obvious thing out loud. I think we were both circling it from different directions, listening for how the other would react before saying it plainly.

Somewhere in the same conversation I sent you another flower photo, and you called it out, laughing, asking if I was planning to send you a gallery full of them. I told you the truth: now, wherever I see a flower, I think of you. I've become the kind of person who stops walking to take a photo of a flower for someone. I never used to be that person.

Things settled back into our usual rhythm after a couple of heavier days. I was grateful for the ease of it, and for how you never made me feel like I'd overstepped by caring so much.

I also told you that day, half as a joke and half completely serious, that meetings aren't where my happiness comes from anymore, you are. It's a strange thing to realize about yourself in the middle of a work call, that the actual good part of your day is a person, not a deal closing. I've genuinely enjoyed your company more than I've enjoyed most things I used to think mattered.

Nothing dramatic. Just you and me, talking, the way we'd gotten used to.

Easy, warm conversation. You even asked me, half-daring, to roast you honestly for everything I'd noticed about you, no flattery, just the truth. That's very you: you'd rather hear something real than something nice.

A couple of lines. Small, but I noticed them, the way I'd started noticing everything about you.

We talked from just after midnight to just before the next one, mixing voice notes and texts like it had already become second nature. I didn't mind losing the sleep over it.

Not much happened, and that was fine. You were still on my mind either way.

We talked almost the entire day. Marriage came up again, and it clearly wasn't a topic either of us was avoiding anymore, even if neither of us was saying the quiet part directly yet. Songs came up too, again, whether I could actually carry a tune or not.

That morning, before any of that, I'd said sorry for something small, and you called me out on it, gently but pointedly, saying you never have any trouble saying sorry or thank you, unlike some people. You weren't entirely wrong about me. I don't say sorry easily. I tend to explain myself instead, build a whole case for why I did what I did, when the simpler thing would just be to say I was wrong. I noticed that about myself that day, watching how easily it came to you and how hard I made it for myself.

We also brought up Uttarakhand again that day, half-joking, the same way we had a couple of weeks earlier, like neither of us had quite let go of the idea.

Late that night I told you the thing I liked most about you, and it wasn't anything poetic. I told you that you just forget things. You looked confused for a second, so I explained: it means I'm extremely comfortable around you, because I know there won't be a follow-up question three weeks later about something I said carelessly. You corrected me gently, telling me you don't forget the feeling, only the detail.

That one line rearranged something for me. You don't hold onto the small details to use against me later, you let those go easily. But you never forget how something actually made you feel. That's not the same as forgetting at all, and it's honestly better than what I was giving you credit for. It's also exactly why I've been able to be so open with you, I stopped bracing for things to be thrown back at me, and just started talking.

A calmer day, after everything the day before had stirred up.

Early morning, brief. Even brief mornings with you were good mornings.

A handful of messages in the evening. Some days, that's all you need to feel close to someone.

A steady, normal day. By this point, "normal" with you had become the best compliment I could give any day.