Saisha's pov:

"This is the final week," I told myself while sipping on my third black coffee of the day. The mug trembled slightly in my grip. Lack of sleep, nerves, pressure - everything had built up into a tight knot in my chest.

The Paris internship was meant to be a dream. And it was. But no one tells you how exhausting dreams can be when you're trying to be perfect all the time.

Deadlines clashed. Shoot locations were shuffled. One of the editors messed up a file that had my name on it. I got blamed. Again.

And the final year project pitch — the one I'd prepared months for — was suddenly rescheduled because the external faculty couldn't make it.

Perfect.

I was tired. Overwhelmed. Homesick. And right now, I just wanted to breathe without expectations.

Everything was closing in — tighter than the chilly Paris wind outside the studio windows.

And just when I thought I was done...

"Saisha, these captions are mismatched with the timelines," the assistant pointed out, frowning.

What?

I opened the file and damn. He was right.

Some intern had shuffled the order. But guess what? It was my name on the submission.

So, I stood there, biting back tears while the supervisor scolded me in crisp, clipped English.

I took the blame. I always do.

And I fixed it.

Hours passed. My fingers danced furiously on the keyboard, my shoulders aching.

I didn't eat.

Didn't notice it was already night.

It was around 10:30 PM.

The studio lights had dimmed, and I was still huddled at my desk.

My phone buzzed.

Pranu 💌 calling...

I let it ring twice. Then picked up.

"What?" I said, sharper than I intended.

There was a pause.

"I just wanted to ask if you ate something," Pranay said softly.

"I'm working, Pranay!" I snapped. "You always call at the wrong time. Can't you understand I'm drowning in work here?"

"I didn't— I just thought—"

"You just thought I needed a reminder to eat like I'm five? You think your sweet calls will magically fix things when I have ten deadlines, and everyone around me is expecting perfection from me? You have no idea how it is here!"

He went quiet. I didn't stop.

"Every time you call, it breaks my flow. You don't get it, do you? I can't keep stopping to answer just because you miss me. I don't have time for these romantic talks right now!"

There was a pause. A painfully long one.

Then he spoke, voice low and almost apologetic.

"...Sorry for disturbing you, Saisha. I won't call again tonight."

Click.

And just like that, the silence in the room was louder than my shouting.

I stared at the phone.

The screen faded to black.

And so did my heart.

What the hell did I just do?

I slammed the laptop shut and buried my face in my hands.

It wasn't his fault. He was being gentle. Loving. Caring.

And I...I just yelled at him for loving me too much.

A tear slipped down my cheek. Then another.

"I'm sorry, Pranu..." I whispered to no one.

Then I opened my browser and ordered the first thing that came to mind:

A bouquet of red and white lilies — with a handwritten note.

 "To the man who calls me even when I don't deserve it.

I'm sorry for shouting. I miss you more than you know.

Don't stop calling me... even when I act like this.

Love,

Your very overwhelmed idiot,

Aishu."

Pranay's pov:

I stood outside the little apartment Saisha had been staying in. A quiet Parisian lane, the kind you see in movies - cobbled roads, flickering lamps, and a strange chill even in early summer.

I had been planning this for weeks.
Wrapped up a major shoot in Kerala, caught a connecting flight to Chennai, then endured hours of flying with my legs cramped and head pounding , all just to see her.
Hold her.
Surprise her.
Make her laugh the way she always does after complaining that I never warn her about surprises.

I imagined her opening the door, startled.
Then breaking into a smile.
Throwing her arms around me.
And saying something like, "You idiot, you really flew all this way for me?"
And I'd have smiled and said, "Always."

But instead, I was now standing here, outside, tired, shoulders sore, with no sign of her.

It was past 10 PM.

Her room lights were off.

I checked the address three times. It was right.

I pulled out my phone and called her.

Ring. Ring.
And then,she picked up.

"What?" came her voice. Sharp. Almost irritated.

I blinked.

"Uh... hey," I said, a little unsure. "Just wanted to ask if you've eaten."

"Pranay, I'm working! Don't you understand that I'm overwhelmed? Can't you call at a better time?"

My throat tightened. "Aishu... I just—"

"You just thought I needed to be babysat again? God, you have no idea how much pressure I'm under. I don't need more distraction right now, okay?"

I swallowed hard.

A beat of silence passed.
And I said the only thing I could say to hold the broken pieces of my heart together—

"...Sorry for disturbing you."

Click.

I stood there, staring at my phone like it had turned into a stranger.

I came here. For her.
After months. With sore muscles, a bag full of gifts, and a thousand words in my heart.

But all I got was... that.

I entered quietly. The landlady had given me the spare key in advance.

The flat was neat. Cozy. Still smelled like the coffee she brewed in the mornings.
Still felt like her.

But she wasn't here.

I dropped my bag.

And sat down.

Is she already tired of me?

That thought stabbed sharper than any words ever could.

I know she's stressed. I know she's overworked.
But... am I so dispensable now that speaking to me feels like a chore to her?

I work too. I deal with clients, edit day and night, attend meetings across cities.

But I've never... shouted at her when I was exhausted.

Because her voice is my safe place. Not my outlet for frustration.

But maybe... maybe she doesn't need me the way I need her.

God, my head was splitting.

I leaned back on the couch, closed my eyes. But every moment on that flight , where I kept practicing how I'd surprise her — now felt like a mockery.

I couldn't sleep there. Not in the room I decorated with fairy lights for her return.

So I went into the small guest room, threw off my jacket, and fell onto the bed like a crumpled paper.

For once, I let my silence carry the pain.

I wasn't some goddamn machine to hide that i am hurt every time.

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