If my life were a novel, it would probably be the kind no one would buy.
Too much stress from work, too many family quarrels, and a head that never stops spinning with overthinking. That’s the drag I carry every single day.
I’m not the kind of person people run to. I keep to myself, quiet, introverted, and invisible. My days follow a loop so dull I could write it in one line: Home → Office → Home.
No surprises. No joy.
At work I’m a junior executive. Sounds fancy, right? It isn’t. It’s just paper stacks, files no one cares about, and emails that never end. Each click of the mouse feels like one more drop of color leaking out of life. Sometimes I catch myself staring at the screen too long and asking,
“Is this really my life? Will nothing ever change?”
There are moments when the ache goes deeper. Like when I watch my colleagues giggling with their boyfriends on the phone, stealing little pockets of happiness in the middle of deadlines. That’s when a thought brushes past me—if only I had someone too.
But then morning comes, and even that wish disappears into the old routine. Shower. Dress. Bus stop. Another day.
And it’s December now. Christmas. The whole city is wrapped in lights and stars and red hats. Everyone seems to be laughing, celebrating. Except me. I carry a blank space inside, a silence that refuses to be filled.
On the bus, I watch families talk, couples holding hands, children tugging at their parents’ arms. And I think quietly to myself: Will I ever have a life like that? A life where peace and happiness belong to me too?
The office is no different. People joke, people laugh. I pretend to laugh with them. Half the time I don’t even know their names. It’s all noise.
But today something unusual happened.
Everyone’s eyes seemed to follow me. Like I was part of a joke I hadn’t heard yet. And then my name was called—sharp, clear.
The GM.
I walked to his office, my heart pounding. A hundred possibilities running wild in my head—what mistake did I make? Is this about my appraisal? Am I in trouble?
I knocked. “May I come in, sir?”
His face, usually so hard and unreadable, had a smile on it. That was new. “Sit, Diya.”
And then he said words that knocked the air out of me.
“On December 28th, you need to go to Delhi. You’re going to meet the CEO of Bata Group Mr Arjun Kumar . Attend the meeting on behalf of the company.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. Me? Of all people—me?
“Sir… isn’t that Anjali madam’s job? I don’t have the experience or the knowledge…”
But he only smiled wider. “Anjali’s on sick leave. Others are away for Christmas. That leaves only you. Don’t worry, it’s simple—get the CEO’s signature, and return. Ajay will book your tickets.
No choice. No excuse. Just the weight of a decision made for me.
I walked out of his office numb, one thought spinning louder than the rest:
Why me?.
I knew everyone was busy with their Christmas plans. Everyone except me. No trips, no parties, no plans—nothing.
I walked over to Ajay’s desk and asked about the tickets the GM had mentioned. He looked up, smiled faintly, and said, “I sent the ticket to your WhatsApp. Just check it.”
I opened my phone. My heart sank.
It was a general coach train ticket. Two days in a crowded, filthy compartment, shared with strangers, cramped and uncomfortable. I stared at him, speechless. “Why… why this?” I finally asked, my voice tighter than I intended.
“It’s Christmas,” he said casually. “Every flight, every AC sleeper—everything is full. This is the only option.”
I couldn’t speak. Sadness mixed with anger bubbled inside me. I hated myself for being so helpless. I searched desperately for other tickets. He had been right. Everything was booked. That’s when it hit me—I was the only one GM could send. No one else was going to do this job.
A few moments later, the GM returned. “You can leave now,” he said, smiling. “You need to travel tomorrow. Go pack your things. Have a safe journey.”
I smiled back, but inside, a small, sharp part of me wanted to throttle him.
I walked out of the office, feeling every eye on me again, those weird little smiles following me. I just walked faster. Back in my room, I packed quickly, trying not to think about the journey ahead. Tomorrow morning, the train would leave at 5 a.m. I didn’t want to ruin the little sleep I could get.
When I woke up, I had been jolted from a bad dream. Glancing at the clock, panic hit—4 a.m. Already.
I grabbed my backpack and tried to move as fast as possible. It was just for three or four days, but I’d packed like I was leaving for a month. Taxi called. Rushed out. Ran to the railway station. Luck was with me—the train was ten minutes late.
I decided to catch a few minutes of rest before boarding. I settled into a hard plastic chair and placed my bag on the next one.
The station was alive with people. Phones ringing, announcements blaring, groups of young students laughing and joking, old people waiting patiently for loved ones. The smell of chai, hot samosas, and diesel hung in the air. The rhythmic clatter of arriving trains blended with the muffled footsteps of hundreds of travelers.
And then I saw him.
Just another face at first. But he wasn’t. He was crouched near a bench, playing with a poor little girl—a beggar child, I guessed. Not his niece, not a relative, just some random kid—but he treated her like she was the most precious thing in the world. Laughing, playful, patient, kind.
He was striking in a quiet way. Long, messy hair falling over his forehead, a thick beard and mustache framing his strong jaw. A faded cargo pant, a simple t-shirt, and a worn denim jacket. One hand holding a backpack casually over his shoulder, the other free to play with the little girl. There was something rugged yet gentle in him, something that made you look twice without realizing it.
I couldn’t look away. For a few minutes, I watched him. The world around me—the noise, the chaos, the cold, the smells—faded. It was just him and that child, a tiny bubble of warmth in a sea of strangers.
Then the announcement came: my train, platform seven. Reality returned, and I moved, my heart still caught on the scene I had just witnessed. Little did I know, that man, who had looked like any other stranger, was about to change everything.
The train doors clanged open, and a wave of people surged forward. The general coach was already packed beyond reason—families with overstuffed bags, youngsters laughing too loudly, vendors weaving through the crowd with trays of snacks. I clutched my backpack and tried to wedge myself in, the smell of dust, sweat, .Finding a space was nearly impossible. My legs ached before I even sat down. I balanced my bag awkwardly on my lap, squeezing myself into the narrow gap between strangers, all of them chatting, moving, jostling.Finally i got some seats to sit.i thanked god for his mercy.
And then I saw him again.
He moved with a strange ease among the crowd, greeting people, talking casually with a vendor, making the small children laugh. Somehow, he made connections effortlessly, like he belonged to every corner of the world at once. Everyone seemed drawn to him.
I, on the other hand, felt like a shadow—just watching, silent, unnoticed. My fingers traced the straps of my backpack, my mind spinning with irritation, awe, and something I didn’t recognize.
By some strange coincidence—or maybe fate—he ended up sitting directly opposite me. Not quite looking at me, just looking at me gave me a smile , then he moved his head, his eyes occasionally scanning the train, watching people, his long hair falling lazily over his forehead. He adjusted his backpack, relaxed, and yet somehow dominated the small space around him.
He smiled at a little boy struggling to settle a bag under the seat. “Here, let me help,” he said, and the boy beamed. Everyone around him responded easil nods, friendly greetings. And I, glued to my spot, could only watch.
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I barely breathed. Yet there was an odd pull—like the world had folded slightly around him and I had been trapped in the crease. Every laugh, every gentle word he spoke, reverberated in my chest, a soft, unwelcome thrum I couldn’t ignore.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I reminded myself he was a stranger. I tried to focus on the passing scenery outside the grimy window, on the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels. But I couldn’t. My eyes kept flicking back to him, the way he moved, the ease with which he lived in every moment, as if he belonged somewhere this world hadn’t taught the rest of us to go.
The train lurched forward, and my notebook trembled in my lap. I wanted to write, to distract myself—but the words refused. I was already watching a story unfold I hadn’t even agreed to be part of.
Outside, the world blurred by in streaks of green and brown—villages with tin-roofed houses, narrow fields where children waved at the train, old men sipping tea under banyan trees, small temples and half-broken stations flashing past. I kept my eyes on the window, letting the scenery distract me from the noise inside.
But his voice kept pulling me back.
He was talking with the people sitting next to him—a family with two little boys. His tone was calm, steady, almost musical. Not loud, not forceful, but the kind of voice that made people lean closer. I tried to bury myself in my book, eyes fixed on the same page for far too long, but I couldn’t help listening. His words made everyone around him smile. Even strangers seemed lighter near him.
And yet, he never once looked at me. Never spoke to me.
Maybe he knew I was different—too quiet, too closed off, not like other women who laughed easily and talked freely. I couldn’t blame him. That was just me.
So I pretended to read. Pretended not to listen. But the truth was, every word he spoke sank into me. Time slipped past without me noticing. The compartment grew fuller, noisier. Bags piled on racks, children cried, hawkers shouted. When I finally glanced at him again, he had fallen asleep. Even then, even in sleep, his face looked calm. Almost… innocent.
And then it happened.
In the crush of the coach, some men—cheap, vulgar, the kind that always find courage only in crowds—sat too close, too deliberately. I felt a hand brush against mine, then my leg. My stomach clenched. Heat rose in my chest—anger, fear, disgust—all tangled. I wanted to shout. I wanted to slap his face hard enough to break it. But nothing came out. My body froze, like it always had since childhood, when men on buses or streets thought they had the right to touch what wasn’t theirs.
We grow up learning to shrink, to keep quiet, to pray it ends quickly. Nobody listens. Nobody changes. So I closed my eyes and told myself nothing was happening. Nothing.
Until a sudden jolt shook me. A loud yell.
I opened my eyes. The man opposite me was awake. His foot pressed hard against the wrist of the one who had tried to touch me, his face burning with anger I hadn’t seen before. With one swift move, he twisted the man’s arm until the predator whimpered.
“Slap him,” he said, his eyes on me. His voice was steady, commanding.
I froze. “No…” I whispered.
“If you don’t, he’ll try again. To you. To other girls. Teach him a lesson.”
For a second I hesitated. My hands trembled. But then everything came back—the office humiliation, the loneliness, the helplessness, the dirty hand on my skin. Something inside me snapped.
I raised my hand and struck him across the face with all the force I had. The sound cracked through the compartment like thunder. For a heartbeat, even God must have blinked.
The man reeled back, shocked. Murmurs rose. Other passengers grabbed him, shouting, some spitting curses. A few fists landed before my stranger stopped them. “Enough,” he said firmly. “Throw him out at the next stop. Let him go. He won’t try this again.”
The man nodded frantically, broken.
And just like that, it was over.
He came back to his seat, settling down as though nothing had happened. His eyes softened when he looked at me. My palm burned—I wasn’t used to slapping anyone, not even in my dreams. I held it awkwardly, pressing my fingers together.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
Something in his voice washed the pain away. For the first time that day, I felt safe. I nodded, whispering, “Yes. Thank you.”
I tried to close my eyes, to pretend I could just drift off to sleep again, but my nerves betrayed me. My chest rose too fast, my breathing shallow. I was trembling. He noticed.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Calm down. Nothing will happen now. Give me your bag—I’ll put it here. Sleep. I promise, no one will disturb you.”
I let him take it. His hand brushed mine briefly, steady, certain. He slid my bag safely onto the upper rack, then leaned back in his seat, keeping his eyes on the crowd.
And somehow, with his voice still echoing in my ears, I drifted off. For the first time in years, I slept without fear.
When I woke up, the compartment was already bright with morning light. My neck ached a little, but it didn’t matter—because that had been the best sleep of my life. Deep, heavy, safe.
I turned to look at him.
But his seat was empty.
For a second, my chest tightened. He was gone. My eyes darted around in panic—his bag wasn’t there, and worse, mine wasn’t either.
A terrible thought struck me. Was he a thief? Did I trust too easily?
The people sitting nearby weren’t the same ones from yesterday. They spoke in a language I couldn’t follow, their voices strange, sharp, and unfamiliar. I asked something with my eyes, but no one understood. I looked out the window: the train stood still, at Nagpur Junction.
My throat felt dry. Fear crawled into my stomach. The urge to cry came suddenly and strong.
I stood up, heart hammering, ready to run through the coach and find him.
“Hey—stop! Where are you going?”
I spun around.
It was him. Standing in the doorway of the compartment, smiling, holding two paper cups and a packet.
Relief, anger, and something else I couldn’t name all rushed through me at once. I walked quickly toward him.
“Where were you? Why did you take my bag?” My voice came out sharper than I intended.
He chuckled softly, not offended. “Relax. I just went out for breakfast. Coffee… and a burger.” He handed me the cup and the warm packet. Then he lifted my backpack from his shoulder and placed it gently on my seat.
“Yesterday I promised you I’d look after your bag, didn’t I? This station is a little rough. Pickpockets everywhere. I didn’t want you to risk it.”
I stared at him, speechless.
“But… why didn’t you take your own bag?” I asked.
He shrugged with a smile. “There’s nothing worth stealing in mine. Just clothes. If someone wants them, I’m happy to give them away.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled too. I thanked him quietly, the fear in my chest dissolving into something warmer.
I was about to introduce myself, but he raised a finger. “Wait. Don’t. Let’s not say our names. Think about it—we’re strangers sharing only this journey. Why not keep it that way? It’ll be fun.”
I frowned, confused. But there was mischief in his eyes, and for some reason, I agreed.
So we talked.
He asked me where I was going, what I did, what my days were like. His questions weren’t shallow—he actually listened. I found myself talking more than I ever had with anyone, words pouring out of me like water finally finding its river. He laughed easily, gently, and every time he did, it felt like the whole train grew lighter.
When I asked him where he was going, his answer startled me.
“I don’t have a plan. But now… I’d like to come with you.”
My heart skipped. “Why?”
“Because it’s your first time traveling so far. Everything will feel strange. Let me help. Don’t worry—my company’s free.” He winked.
I wanted to argue, but the truth was—I felt stronger with him near me. Safer. And maybe for once, that was enough.
By evening, the window turned black again, the sky jeweled with stars, the moon running beside us like a companion.
“Come,” he said suddenly. “Let’s stand by the door.”
I hesitated. “It’s dangerous.”
“Not with me here,” he replied. His voice was so certain I believed him.
So I went.
The train roared through the night, wind rushing against my face, tugging at my hair, filling my lungs with something wild and new. I closed my eyes. For the first time in years, I felt light. Free.
“How is it?” he asked over the sound of the rails.
I opened my eyes, grinning without meaning to. “It’s… beautiful. Like flying. I’ve never felt this before.”
We leaned against the doorway, talking again. I asked him which place was his favorite—sure he’d say some distant city, some exotic land.
But he whispered, “Home.”
That one word puzzled me. Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow of pain, but he quickly changed the subject, asking me the same question.
“Kashmir,” I answered without thinking. “I want to see real snow. To dance in it. To feel it in every corner of my body until I can’t breathe.”
He laughed softly. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because…” I lowered my eyes. “I never get the chance. Maybe I’m not brave enough.”
He didn’t answer. He just smiled.
We sat on the floor together, the metal cool beneath us. The moonlight spilled in, bathing everything silver. I had seen the moon countless times, but never like this—never so close, never so alive. That night, it looked almost beautiful enough to touch.
And sitting there, beside him, I realized: maybe the moon had always been this beautiful. I just hadn’t had the right company before.
The next morning, the train screeched into New Delhi Railway Station.
The platform swarmed with crowd—porters shouting, chai-sellers weaving through the crowd, families dragging heavy suitcases, announcements blaring overhead. A thousand voices blended into a single roar, pressing in from every direction.
He carried my bag easily, and when I stumbled, he caught my hand like a gentleman. For a second, the noise and the chaos melted. His hand was warm, steady, and for an instant, I was back in my childhood—walking between my parents, their hands wrapped around mine. A feeling of safety I hadn’t remembered in years returned like a whisper.
But then reality rushed in again. My eyes darted around, my heart sank. I had never seen such a crowd.
We made our way to the taxi stand, only to find it empty. He inquired at the counter, and the man there shook his head grimly. “No taxis today. Yesterday one driver was killed in a political fight. There’s a strike.”
He turned back to me. “Then… bus?”
I could already imagine the crush of people, the suffocating ride, but there was no other choice. I bit down the curses burning in my mind for my boss, and nodded.
The bus stop was worse than I had feared. It looked as though half the city had gathered there—a sweaty crowd pressed against one another, bags and elbows jabbing, children crying, men shouting. Somehow, we squeezed inside a bus.
There was no room to breathe. But he stood in front of me like a shield, his arms braced against the crowd, creating a fragile pocket of space where I could stand. His shoulders blocked the pushing, his body absorbed the shoving.
It was my first time standing this close to a man. I hadn’t expected it, but strangely—it felt like the safest place in the world. His warmth, the calm rhythm of his breathing, the way he didn’t even glance at me—choosing instead to look away, as if to spare me any awkwardness. In the chaos of that overcrowded bus, I felt an impossible stillness, a quiet paradise meant only for me.
By the time we reached our stop, I was sweating and breathless. I stepped off, took a long breath, and then laughed at my own exhausted face. He laughed too, and for a moment we shared something light, unplanned.
The company building loomed tall, glass and steel gleaming. Bigger and grander than I had imagined. I froze at the gate, suddenly unsure.
“This… this is too much,” I whispered. “I’m not ready.”
He studied me for a moment, then said softly, “Listen. You don’t need to be
