“You say it to me. But I’ve seen how you are. You never forgive yourself. You don’t believe in second chances for you. You work like someone’s chasing you, like if you slow down, you’ll fall apart. So why do I get to be human and not you?”
The room feels heavier suddenly.
I let out a breath, slow and deliberate, before answering.
“Because I don’t think I’ve ever felt human, Aditi.”
She looks at me, startled.
“I’ve felt like a machine for as long as I can remember. Something built to perform. Win. Survive. Do better than yesterday. I’ve seen blood and betrayal and people who only love what you can do, not who you are. I’ve had to be ruthless. Efficient. Cold.”
I pause. My hands curl into fists on the desk.
“But then you walked into this office with your oversized files and chipped nail polish and this ridiculous determination to work harder than me—and you looked at me like I was more than just power or success. You looked at me like I was worth something.”
My voice drops. “You are the first person who didn’t flinch from me. Who called me out on my temper, argued with me, and made me laugh without even trying? You—you made me feel human. And I didn’t even know how much I needed that until you gave it to me.”
She’s crying now, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them. Just listens.
“So no,” I say gently, “you don’t get to treat yourself like you’re less because you made a mistake. You’re not allowed to forget that you’ve been brilliant and brave and far more than this one moment.”
She closes her eyes, and for a second, I think she might break. But instead, she exhales shakily, pressing the phone to her chest like it holds her together. The silence between us stretches, full of everything neither of us knows how to say.
She chuckles sadly. “You might have saved me today,” she whispers, and I know she doesn’t mean literally but that I saved her from spiraling, from not believing in herself. I could end ithere. Stand up, walk away, and let this be enough. It should be. It would be safer.
But she looks at me, and it’s the kind of look that cuts through all the layers I’ve spent years building. Not sharp. Not searching. Just open. Like she sees me. And it terrifies me.
“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to need anyone,” I say, voice lower now, more honest than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. “Because the second you do, they leave. Or they let you down. Or they use it against you.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t speak. She waits.
“I don’t let people in, Aditi. I don’t let them close. But you—" My throat tightens. “You didn’t ask for a key. You just... stayed. Argued. Called me out. Sitting across from me night after night like this was normal. Like I was normal.”
I swallow. “And now... now I’m scared.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Of what?”
I look down, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood.
“That if I tell you what I really feel, I’m afraid you’ll stop seeing me the way you do.”
Her breath catches, and I hear it.
“You think I’m saving you, Aditi,” I whisper. “But you... you’re saving me.”
She doesn’t respond.
Not with words, anyway.
She stands slowly, walks around the desk, and sits beside me—close, but not touching. Her knee brushes mine. Her fingersremain wrapped around the phone I gave her, but her other hand rests on the edge of the desk, inches from mine.
Neither of us moves.
The office is silent except for the hum of the city below and the occasional ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The kind of silence that feels alive. Waiting.
Finally, she speaks. Voice soft. Barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
