# Suhani (Mulank 8) & Dhruv (Mulank 7)
**He Came for Ten Minutes. He Stayed for Every Chapter.**
“Ten minutes,” Dhruv said, sitting opposite Suhani.
She glanced at the clock above the café counter.
“You’ve already spent five finding parking. Choose your words carefully.”
He laughed. She hadn’t expected that. In their messages, he always seemed so serious.
Two hours later, the waiter asked whether they wanted another coffee.
Neither of them had noticed the first cups were empty.
That evening, Suhani learned that Dhruv could talk endlessly about a book but hesitate over a simple compliment.
Dhruv learned that Suhani stirred her coffee when she was nervous—even after the sugar had dissolved.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Stirring.”
She put down the spoon.
“You notice too much.”
He looked at her, then quietly said, “With you, apparently.”
For once, Suhani had no reply.
—
Their friendship grew through ordinary things.
He sent her songs with no explanation. She demanded to know which line had reminded him of her.
She told him to eat properly. He started sending photographs of his dinner as evidence.
Dhruv liked being alone. Suhani respected that, though she sometimes wondered where solitude ended and shutting her out began.
Suhani liked having a plan. Dhruv admired her determination, though he worried there might be no space in her carefully organised life for someone still figuring things out.
Neither said these things yet.
Then Suhani invited him to her first public storytelling evening.
“Only if you’re free,” she added quickly.
Dhruv heard an optional invitation.
Suhani had meant, *Please be there. I’m frightened, and I want one familiar face.*
“Thursday might be difficult,” he replied.
“That’s okay.”
It wasn’t quite okay.
—
On Thursday, Suhani stood backstage, reading the same opening sentence over and over.
Her phone lit up.
**Dhruv: Which entrance?**
She called immediately.
“I thought you couldn’t come.”
“You said you were going on at seven.”
“You remembered?”
“Suhani. Which entrance?”
When she stepped onto the stage, he was in the second row, slightly breathless, holding his motorcycle helmet in his lap.
She lost her place halfway through.
Dhruv didn’t mouth the words or make a reassuring gesture that everyone could see.
He simply stayed looking at her, patient and attentive.
She took a breath.
And began again.
Afterwards, he found her outside.
“Well?” she asked.
“You rushed the first paragraph.”
Suhani stared at him.
“Wonderful. Thank you. Very romantic feedback.”
He blinked. “Was I supposed to be romantic?”
She looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“No. Forget it.”
“Suhani.”
“What?”
“I missed my turn twice getting here because I was rehearsing how to tell you that you look beautiful.”
She turned back.
“And you opened with the paragraph?”
“I panicked.”
Her laughter arrived before she could stop it.
He smiled, relieved.
Then she said, “For the record, I wanted you here more than I knew how to ask.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
—
It wasn’t effortless after that.
Once, overwhelmed by a family problem, Dhruv withdrew for two days. Suhani called, then worried, then became angry at herself for worrying.
When he finally answered, she didn’t pretend it was fine.
“You can need space,” she told him. “But please tell me. Otherwise, I’m standing outside a door wondering whether I’m still welcome.”
Dhruv listened.
“I didn’t want to bring my problems to you.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything immediately. Just let me know where we stand.”
He began doing that.
And when Suhani had difficult days, she slowly stopped making herself sound stronger than she felt.
One evening, she called him and said, “I don’t need a solution. Can you stay on the phone for a while?”
“Yes,” he said.
So they washed dishes in their separate kitchens, talking about almost nothing.
She slept better that night.
—
A year later, Suhani had another storytelling evening.
Before leaving home, she received a photograph from Dhruv.
The second row.
An empty seat beside him.
**Dhruv: Here early. No parking excuses today.**
**Suhani: You know I’ll be onstage, right?**
**Dhruv: Afterwards.**
She smiled at the screen.
**Suhani: How long can you stay?**
His answer came immediately.
**Dhruv: I’ve stopped bringing ten minutes when I come to see you.**
That night, Suhani read her story without losing her place.
And when the applause ended, she knew exactly where she wanted to sit.
*Fiction inspired by numerology; numbers don’t determine personality or compatibility.*
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