Episode 2

Authors POV:

The world outside was drenched in silver. The city had been wrapped in a gentle drizzle since dawn, the streets glistening under the weight of last night’s rain. Arvisha pulled her shawl tighter around herself as she stepped into Kiran Uncle’s café, shaking off the cold before pushing open the glass door.

A warm gust of air welcomed her—the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and vanilla wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. The café was alive with the quiet hum of conversations, the occasional clinking of spoons against ceramic mugs, and the soft indie music playing in the background.

But Arvisha barely noticed any of it.

Her heart drummed against her ribs as she walked toward her usual table, her gaze flickering toward the sugar jar.

And there it was.

A small, folded piece of paper, peeking from beneath the jar as if it were waiting just for her.

She swallowed hard, ignoring the way her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up. The paper felt warm against her skin, as though the words inside carried the heat of whoever had placed it there.

Slowly, she unfolded it.

The same elegant handwriting greeted her, the ink slightly smudged at the edges, as if it had been written in haste but with purpose.

"Some stories are meant to be discovered… but only if you’re willing to chase them."

A shiver ran down her spine.

So it wasn’t a coincidence.

Whoever had left the first note had deliberately written back. They had seen her response, read her words, and decided to continue this unspoken conversation.

Her pulse quickened.

She glanced around, scanning the café for anyone who might be watching her, but everything seemed… normal.

Students were buried in books, a group of office workers chatted near the counter, and Kiran Uncle was busy making espresso. No one seemed remotely interested in her or the note in her hands.

She exhaled sharply, a mix of excitement and frustration bubbling inside her.

Who was doing this?

And why?

Her fingers traced the ink-stained words again.

The way they were written—it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t rushed or careless.

It was deliberate. Thoughtful. Almost poetic.

And something about that made her chest tighten.

Who writes like this?

Her mind raced through possibilities—was it someone she knew? A stranger? Someone who had been watching her struggle with her writing all these weeks?

Her grip on the paper tightened.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was a challenge.

She pulled out her notebook and flipped open to a fresh page. Her pen hovered over the paper for a long moment before she finally wrote:

"And what if I choose to chase this story? Will you finally reveal your name?"

She hesitated.

Should she write more? Ask something else?

No.

This was enough.

A test.

If they responded again, she would know this wasn’t just some fleeting joke.

She folded the note carefully and slipped it beneath her empty coffee cup, her heartbeat drumming in sync with the rain tapping against the window.

As she walked out of the café, she felt it.

A presence.

A shadow.

A whisper of something unseen but undeniably there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And for the first time in weeks, Arvisha felt alive.

Vayansh POV

Across the café, Vayansh Rathore sat in his usual spot, fingers curled around his coffee cup, eyes trained on the empty table Arvisha had just left.

He waited.

Waited until she was gone—until the door swung shut behind her and the sound of her footsteps faded into the city’s heartbeat.

Only then did he move.

His fingers brushed against the folded paper beneath the coffee cup, his heart hammering in a way he hadn’t expected.

For weeks, he had remained invisible. Watching, but never stepping too close. Writing, but never revealing.

And yet, with each letter, Arvisha was unknowingly pulling him into the light.

His jaw tightened as he unfolded her response.

"And what if I choose to chase this story? Will you finally reveal your name?"

A slow, amused exhale left his lips.

She was clever.

Brave.

Curious in a way that sent a strange thrill through him.

Vayansh wasn’t sure why he had started this.

Maybe it was the way he had watched her struggle, her frustration evident in the way she tapped her pen against the table, sighed at her blank notebook, stared out the window as if searching for inspiration that never came.

Or maybe it was because, in some strange, inexplicable way, he understood her.

Understood what it meant to be drowning in unsaid words.

And so, he had left her a whisper.

A single sentence, meant to remind her that unwritten stories still existed, waiting to be found.

But she had answered.

And now, this wasn’t just an observation.

This was a conversation.

His fingers tightened around the note.

For years, he had lived in the shadows of his own words—writing, but never sharing. Observing, but never engaging.

But now?

Now, he had stepped into the story.

And there was no turning back.