The morning after their annual meeting, Mira walked into her office at Blush & Bindings as if nothing had happened. The glass doors hissed closed behind her, and the scent of peonies mixed with eucalyptus floated in the air — artificial, curated, like everything she designed. The irony wasn’t lost on her: a woman who didn’t believe in love ran one of Mumbai’s most successful luxury wedding planning agencies.
“Good morning, Mira ma’am!” her assistant chirped, handing her a latte with almond milk and a list of urgent client calls.
Mira nodded, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Her red lipstick was flawless; her hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. No one could tell she’d spent last night wrapped around a man she met only once a year. No one could see the storm she kept at bay with to-do lists and timelines.
Behind her poised exterior was a ritual. Every October 11th, she buried the memory of Room 407 under flower arrangements and seating charts. But no matter how many weddings she orchestrated, love remained a performance she couldn’t believe in.
That was Mira’s rule: plan it for others, never wish it for yourself.
---
Far away in Sikkim, Kabir crouched near the edge of a cliff, adjusting the focus on his camera. The valley below was dusted in golden fog, and prayer flags flapped in the breeze. He clicked. Then again. And again.
His assistant, Sameer, looked up from the van. “Boss, you’ve shot that angle five times now.”
Kabir didn’t respond.
Truth was, he hadn’t seen the frame through the lens.
He was still seeing her.
Mira.
The way her lips had trembled when she asked him to stay. The way she’d whispered, too late, that she wanted him to. He had walked away, telling himself he was doing the right thing. That love had no space in a relationship built on yearly silences.
And yet, he checked his calendar that morning. 337 days to go.
That’s how he lived now — by the countdown.
---
Kabir’s life had once been scripted for permanence. At 28, he’d been engaged to a woman named Ananya — another photographer, full of passion and plans. They’d been perfect on paper. Instagram posts, joint exhibitions, shared dreams.
Until she cheated.
With someone who promised her a more “settled” life. Kabir, with his backpack and passport, hadn’t been enough.
That betrayal had etched an invisible scar across his heart — not because she left, but because it taught him that love could lie even in the most beautiful frame. Since then, he’d stopped making promises. Except one — October 10th, Room 407.
That night with Mira had started as an escape, but every year, it dug deeper into him.
And this year… it almost felt like she had reached for him.
Almost.
---
Back in Mumbai, Mira oversaw the rehearsal of a massive destination wedding. A helicopter entrance, floating mandap, and imported tulips. The bride was crying because her lehenga zip broke; the groom was missing for a poker game.
Mira fixed it all. Efficient. Detached. Impeccable.
Later, as she walked through the empty ballroom, she stared at the fairy lights above. Her phone buzzed. A voice note from her mother.
> “Beta, when are you getting married? Your cousin’s daughter is already engaged. Don’t you want a family?”
Mira pressed delete.
What she wanted was something her mother wouldn’t understand — something that lived only one day a year.
She pulled out a small silver pendant from her purse — a camera charm Kabir had gifted her the second year. “Just so you don’t forget what I see in you,” he had said.
She wore it under her saree at every wedding.
Nobody knew.
---
Kabir arrived at a mountain village by late afternoon. Children chased him, asking for photos. He smiled, letting them peek through his lens. One girl pointed to his wrist — a bracelet of blue beads.
“Is this from your wife?”
Kabir laughed. “No wife.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
He paused, then added, “Just someone… I meet once a year.”
The girl frowned. “That’s silly. If you like her, why only one time?”
Kabir had no answer.
---
That night, Mira sat on her balcony, wine in hand. The city blinked below like a restless animal. She hated how loud silence became when the ritual ended. How she had no pictures of him, no texts, no proof he existed — just memories etched into Room 407.
A notification blinked on her phone.
Instagram: @kabirvoyager posted a new photo.
Her heart jumped.
The photo: a landscape of prayer flags, fluttering skyward.
The caption: "There are distances the map can't show."
She stared at it for minutes.
Then opened their private chat — the one they never used.
She typed: “Did you find what you were looking for in those mountains?”
And deleted it.
Some distances weren’t meant to be crossed.
At least, not yet.
---
The distance between them wasn’t measured in miles.
It was measured in memories. In restraint.
In words they didn’t say, and in feelings they pretended didn’t exist.
But both Kabir and Mira, in their different worlds, had already begun counting again.
For the next October 10th.
For the next heartbeat in Room 407.
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