The Mumbai evening was like an old ghazal — slow, wet, and quietly haunting.
Trisha Verma, 29, a creative head at an ad agency, sat alone in her Versova flat. Wrapped in woollen socks, with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, she was lost in the stillness — not searching for inspiration, but for a forgotten part of herself. The rain tapped against her window like verses she hadn’t finished writing.
Her phone lay in front of her. A message glowed softly on the screen:
“I still find myself in every reply of yours, Ayan…”
She had typed this line many times before. And just as many times, she had deleted it.
But tonight… her fingers didn’t stop.
Send.
A blue tick appeared almost instantly.
And the name above it: Aryan Sharma.
Her boss.
Trisha’s heart froze.
It wasn’t a typo. It was an earthquake.
The phone rang. It was Meenal — her oldest friend.
“Are you okay?” Meenal asked.
“No…” Trisha whispered. “I sent Aryan the message. Not Ayan.”
Meenal paused for a beat and then smiled gently, “So life changed the script. Let’s see how you play the next scene.”
The next morning, walking into the office felt like walking into a dream where every sound was distant, every step heavy. Trisha's thoughts spun like a carousel. Had Aryan read it? What would he say? Or worse… would he say nothing at all?
Aryan was normal. Too normal. No raised eyebrow, no cryptic smile. Just… that one glance — brief, unreadable, lingering.
By afternoon, Trisha found herself pulled back into the memory of her college days — the poetry stage, Ayan’s warm applause, and that one unfinished poem:
“Your leaving is also a poem…”
The words echoed now, as if time hadn’t passed at all.
As the day melted into evening, a Slack message blinked on her screen:
“Can you come to my cabin before leaving?”
Her heart skipped.
Aryan’s cabin felt different tonight — not colder or warmer, just aware.
Trisha stepped in, voice trembling, “Sir… about that message—”
Aryan held up his hand gently. “I know. It wasn’t meant for me.”
Then, after a pause, he said, “But… I needed to hear it.”
He told her about Siya — a poet from his college days. She had once sent him a message like that.
“I never replied,” he admitted. “I thought showing emotions was weakness.”
Trisha's eyes welled up, not just for him, but for herself.
“Your words,” Aryan said, “helped me meet the poet in me again.”
From that day on, something shifted.
Aryan smiled more. Tea breaks turned softer. Deadlines weren’t the only things they spoke of anymore.
One day, Trisha found a handwritten note on her desk:
“Your line — ‘Truth is not always kind…’ — touched me deeply.”
When she told Meenal, her friend simply said,
“Maybe that message wasn’t meant for Aryan — but you needed to send it… and he needed to receive it.”
Weeks passed. The rains gave way to golden mornings, and the city changed moods like a theatre set. Trisha and Aryan's bond deepened — not loud, not obvious, but unmistakably present.
They exchanged book recommendations, scribbled quotes on yellow Post-its, and occasionally, shared stories without finishing them — as if saving the last lines for another time.
And then, one ordinary morning, a post from Ayan.
A photo with someone new. The caption:
“She reads me like a poem I never finished.”
Trisha felt the tears rise — but this time, they weren’t from heartbreak. They were from relief. Like an old burden had been lifted quietly from her shoulders.
That evening, on a shoot in Goa, something else unfolded.
Under a sky full of stars, sitting barefoot on the sand, Aryan asked softly, “Did you ever send that message to the person it was meant for?”
Trisha smiled. “Now, there’s no need. After you read it… something got resolved.”
Aryan nodded. “The universe sends the words to whoever needs them.”
In that still moment, something unspoken bloomed between them — a silent connection, a quiet possibility.
Back in Mumbai, the monsoon had left behind a city scrubbed clean and shimmering. But for Trisha, something had changed.
The news came like a whisper.
Aryan had resigned.
“I want to start something of my own now,” he told her. “Someplace where there are no deadlines — only hearts.”
He didn’t ask her to join him.
He didn’t need to.
A week later, Trisha found an envelope on her desk.
For you.
Inside, a note:
“What you sent by mistake… was meant to be received by me.
Your words changed me.
If you ever want to write something together — professional or personal —
you know where to find me.
— Yours, Aryan.”
Trisha smiled.
She picked up her phone and typed:
“I think… I’ve finally found the right person.”
The reply came almost instantly:
“So let’s write the next chapter together.”
That was a year ago.
Now, Trisha stood in a sunlit studio in Alibaug, surrounded by painted canvases and coffee mugs stained with too much conversation. She and Aryan had co-founded a boutique agency — one where poetry met storytelling, where campaigns began not with strategy decks, but with handwritten prompts.
Their first project? A film titled “Mistakenly Yours.”
It wasn’t about advertising.
It was about serendipity.
About words that miss their target and land exactly where they’re supposed to.
People loved it.
It wasn’t viral. It was quietly unforgettable.
Just like Trisha and Aryan.
One evening, while sipping cutting chai on their small terrace, Aryan said, “You know, I used to believe that wrong messages ruined things.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now I believe… they rewrite everything.”
Trisha smiled, leaned back, and looked at the sky.
It was one of those dusks where the clouds hold hands and the light writes sonnets across the horizon.
She didn’t need grand declarations anymore.
Sometimes, love doesn’t enter like a storm.
Sometimes, it arrives as a mistaken message…
that finds the right inbox…
at exactly the right time.
And sometimes, that’s all a story needs —
one accident
to become
a destiny.
React
