Half-done Verse

There’s something almost sacred about meeting someone in a place you don’t belong. That’s how it felt with Aaruhi—I was just the office’s quiet poet, a guy whose mind wandered more than his emails sent, and she was… well, she was bright, effortless, like she’d been written into a world of work plans and deadlines just to give it some life.

She’d find me sitting alone in the cafeteria sometimes, jotting down a thought that needed catching or scribbling some half-done verse onto a napkin. My words rarely made it out of my notebook, but she noticed. And one day, she stopped by my table.

“What do you write in there?” she asked, glancing down at my mess of half-formed lines.

“Just… poems,” I replied, shrugging, a little self-conscious.

“Read me one?” She smiled, but it was more of a dare.

I looked down at the words on the page, feeling the vulnerability settle over me, then read, “From tum pasand aane lage ho, to… isn’t the sunset beautiful?”

For a moment, I thought she might laugh, but she didn’t. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes narrowing just a bit like she was trying to see past the words, into what they were hiding. And at that moment, I knew—this wasn’t just an office crush. It felt deeper, like two people who found each other in an unexpected, quiet way.

After that, she started joining me on those lunch breaks, listening to poems that felt as raw as they were unfinished. And each time, her eyes would linger a little longer, her smile a little softer. That line kept echoing in my mind: “Tum pasand aane lage ho…”

One rainy evening, I found myself walking her to the metro. It had been a long day, full of projects and deadlines, and we were both tired. But there, under the dim streetlights, everything felt different, like the world had slowed just for us. She nudged my shoulder with hers, breaking the silence.

“Write about this,” she said, twirling under her umbrella.

“About a metro walk?” I laughed, shaking my head.

She grinned. “Yes. About simple things. Who’s to say simple things can’t be beautiful?”

Her words settled over me, like a quiet challenge. So I did. I went home and wrote about rain and streetlights, about two people just… being there, nothing extraordinary, just calm and real. And I realized, somewhere between the lines, that this was becoming my favourite part of each day.

After that, it became easy with her. In the middle of our crowded office, she’d find ways to carve out moments, passing me sticky notes with quick scribbles—“lunch?” or “catch you in 5?” And in return, I’d slip her tiny, folded poems I’d written on the backs of meeting agendas. It was our quiet world, a poem no one else could read.

One Friday night, the office organized a big team dinner. People mingled, laughed, and, of course, drank. She and I ended up off to the side, half-hidden from the bustling crowd. She sipped her drink slowly, watching everyone with this faraway look, like she belonged and didn’t belong at the same time. It made her feel like she was from another world—maybe that’s why I found her so captivating.

“You ever write something that you know no one will read?” she asked, her voice soft, almost drowned out by the laughter around us.

“Yeah, all the time,” I replied, smiling. “Sometimes, those are the best ones.”

She nodded, staring into her glass, then looked at me. “Read me something. One of those.”

And so I did. I recited a quiet poem I’d written just a few nights before, something raw, something vulnerable. She listened intently, her expression softening with each line, and I could see her guard lowering, if only a little. At that moment, I knew this was as close as she’d let anyone in. But it was enough—it was more than enough.

The next few weeks went by in a blur. She was busy with projects, and our lunch breaks became sporadic. The notes stopped coming. She was still there, but the space between us grew a little wider each day. It felt strange, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to ask why.

Then, one morning, she was gone. Someone mentioned in passing that she’d left for another job, a new start in a different city. She’d told no one, not even me.

I found myself sitting at her empty desk, looking through the few things she’d left behind. There, tucked beneath her notepad, was a single note, written in her familiar handwriting: “Write about this. Even the goodbye.”

At that moment, I knew there’d never been anything simple about us—not her laughter, not the quiet conversations, not the way she’d understood my words better than I had. She was a poem I’d never get to finish.