It started with a phone call Maya almost ignored.
The screen lit up with Unknown Number just as she was about to put her phone on silent. She stared at it, debating. She’d just gotten home from work, her sandals were off, and her tired feet were thanking her. Outside her Mumbai apartment, monsoon rain tapped against the balcony windows like an impatient guest.
She sighed and picked up.
“Hello?”
A warm, slightly nervous voice responded. “Hi, is this Maya Rao?”
“Yes…?”
“This is Aryan Shah. I—I got your number from Rhea, my cousin? You work with her at the firm?”
Maya blinked. She did know Rhea, sort of. Mostly watercooler small talk.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he continued. “Rhea said you’re a photographer?”
“I am,” she said cautiously.
“I know it’s last minute, but my sister’s engagement got preponed. The photographer we booked bailed. We need someone tomorrow. Just for the ceremony—four hours, max.”
Maya’s gut instinct was to say no. She didn’t shoot weddings anymore, not since the last one left her exhausted and underpaid. But something in Aryan’s voice made her pause. Maybe it was the polite desperation. Or maybe it was the way he said her name, like it meant something.
And then she said it.
A simple, clean, irreversible: “Yes.”
The engagement was at a sea-facing villa in Alibaug. Aryan met her at the gate, hair tousled by the wind, dressed in a blue kurta that somehow made him look both elegant and endearingly clumsy. He carried two things: a tray of chai and a look of mild panic.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, handing her the tea like it was an award.
“No problem,” she said, adjusting the strap of her camera bag.
But it was a problem.
Because once she stepped inside, everything changed.
Maya didn’t expect the place to feel so alive. The Shah family wasn’t just rich; they were warm. Laughter echoed through the halls, kids ran barefoot across marble floors, and the scent of marigolds and sandalwood hung in the air.
She started clicking.
Aryan's sister, Anika, was stunning—radiant in a rose-gold lehenga, laughing into her fiancé’s shoulder. Maya snapped candid after candid, her lens drinking in light and joy. But every so often, she found her gaze drifting back to Aryan.
He wasn’t photogenic in a typical way. He blinked in group shots, leaned the wrong way, smiled like he was apologizing for taking up space. But off-camera—when he didn’t know she was looking—he was something else. He refilled people’s drinks before they asked. Calmed a crying baby with a balloon from his pocket. Helped an elderly aunt down the steps with the grace of someone who didn’t need to be asked to care.
At one point, he passed her a samosa on a napkin.
“Fuel,” he said. “You’ve been running around for three hours.”
Maya took it. “Thanks.”
They stood in companionable silence, the sea breeze tossing her hair. He watched the waves for a second before saying, “You always wanted to be a photographer?”
She nodded. “Since I was ten. My dad gave me a point-and-shoot camera for my birthday. I took blurry pictures of our dog for weeks.”
Aryan chuckled. “That’s the origin story. I like it.”
She asked, “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a structural engineer,” he said, then mock-groaned. “Basically, I argue with cement and glass all day.”
She laughed.
That evening, when she packed up and prepared to leave, Aryan walked her to the gate.
“Hey,” he said awkwardly, “I know this might sound weird, but… would you like to have coffee sometime? Not as a client. Just—me.”
A million reasons to say no ran through her head. Too soon. Too strange. Too fast.
And then she said it again.
A soft, surprised: “Yes.”
They met at Kala Ghoda Cafe the next weekend. Then again. And again.
Once at Marine Drive, where they ate ice cream in silence watching waves slam the wall. Once at a book fair in Bandra, where he bought her a secondhand copy of Siddhartha. And once, on impulse, at a night flea market where they got henna tattoos and laughed till they cried when hers came out spelling “Mayo.”
Three months passed like dreams told in reverse—light to dark, funny to deep.
Aryan told her about his mom’s illness when he was in college. Maya told him about the boyfriend who ghosted her after promising forever. They didn’t rush. They just grew. Like vines on a forgotten wall, reaching gently toward the sun.
One rainy evening, while sipping ginger chai in her apartment, Aryan asked: “Why did you say yes that first time? When I called?”
Maya smiled. “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe the universe was bored and thought, ‘Let’s stir things up.’”
He grinned. “Well, I’m glad it did.”
Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a tiny box.
She stared.
“Relax,” he said, laughing. “It’s not that. It’s a pendant. You said you lost your old camera charm.”
Inside was a delicate silver pendant shaped like a vintage camera.
“I saw it in Delhi and thought of you.”
Her voice caught. “It’s perfect.”
No declarations of love. No dramatic music. Just the sound of monsoon rain tapping like applause on the glass.
Then came the shift.
It wasn’t a fight. Not really. It was a pause that turned into silence that turned into space.
Aryan’s new project consumed him. Long hours. Unreturned texts.
Maya didn’t want to be “needy,” so she stopped asking.
Weeks passed.
One afternoon, while editing photos at a café, she glanced at her phone and saw a message from Aryan.
Can we talk?
Her heart stuttered.
They met at their usual spot.
Aryan looked tired. Not just sleep-deprived, but soul-deep exhausted.
“I might be moving to Singapore,” he said. “It’s a one-year contract. Big firm. Great opportunity.”
She swallowed. “You should take it.”
He stared at her. “Just like that?”
“What do you want me to say? Don’t go?”
“No. But maybe… ask me to stay?”
She hesitated. Then said, “I can’t ask you to give up your dreams for me.”
He looked away. “Would you wait?”
The word formed in her throat—yes.
But something else came out.
“I don’t know.”
He left in September.
She watched his flight take off from her phone screen. No airport goodbyes. Just two people who once shared the same world now living in parallel universes.
Months passed.
Maya threw herself into work. Booked exhibitions. Won a photo contest. People said she looked “happy” again.
She wasn’t sad.
But she wasn’t whole, either.
Sometimes she checked his socials. Sometimes he liked her posts but didn’t message.
One day, she received a parcel.
No note.
Inside was a photograph.
Black-and-white.
It showed her at the Alibaug villa, standing alone, camera in hand, hair flying in the wind. She didn’t even know he’d taken it.
Folded behind it was a sticky note:
I still see you. I always will.
P.S. I said “yes” too. Just later than you.
She cried harder than she expected.
And then she smiled.
One Year Later
She was back in Alibaug. This time, as a guest.
Anika had invited her to a post-wedding celebration. Maya wasn’t sure she’d come. But she did.
The villa looked the same. Same flowers. Same laughter.
And then, through the crowd, she saw him.
Aryan.
In a white kurta, holding two cups of chai like fate had pressed repeat on the world.
She walked over, heartbeat loud in her ears.
“I said yes,” he said before she could speak.
“To what?” she asked.
“To staying.”
She stared.
“I turned down the extension,” he continued. “Got a role in Mumbai. It’s not as big, but it feels… right.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to see if you’d still say yes,” he said, eyes soft.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
She reached for the chai.
And smiled.
“Yes.”
THE END
React
