Chapter 17: The Moment He Found Her
Mumbai did not slow down for anyone—not for fear, not for love, not even for destiny rearranging itself in the rain.
The airport doors slid open at **9:58 p.m.**
Dhruv Khanna walked out like a man whose body had arrived before his breath could catch up. His coat was still creased from travel, his tie loosened without care, his eyes scanning everything and nothing at once. The city lights reflected off the wet tarmac outside, blurring into streaks of white and gold, but he barely noticed.
All he could hear was one sentence echoing inside him, over and over.
*Madam is missing.*
For the first time in years—no, decades—Dhruv Khanna felt something close to panic claw at his chest. Not the controlled urgency of boardrooms. Not the calculated pressure of negotiations. This was raw. Unfiltered. Unacceptable.
He pulled out his phone, dialing before the car door even shut.
“Niddhi,” he said the moment she answered.
Her voice broke instantly. “Bhaiya… she isn’t answering. Her phone is switched off. She left for TISS in the afternoon. She should have been home hours ago.”
Dhruv closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
“Stay calm,” he said, though his own hands were trembling. “I’m on my way. Send me the exact location of the campus.”
“I already did,” Niddhi whispered. “Please find her.”
“I will,” he said firmly. “I promise.”
The car sped out of the airport, tires cutting through waterlogged roads. Mumbai roared around them—horns, engines, rain pounding mercilessly against glass—but inside the car, there was only silence and the sound of Dhruv’s breathing growing uneven.
*Why didn’t I tell her I was coming?*
*Why did I leave again?*
*Why does the world only teach you what matters when it’s almost too late?*
Every red light felt like an insult. Every slow vehicle ahead felt unbearable.
“Drive faster,” Dhruv said, his voice low but edged with something dangerous.
“Sir, the rain—”
“I said faster.”
The driver nodded, gripping the wheel tighter.
Dhruv leaned back briefly, dragging a hand through his hair. Images assaulted his mind without permission—Suhani standing alone, rain soaking her clothes, fear trying to stay polite on her face. He imagined her apologizing even while being lost. Imagined her trying to stay composed, because that was who she was.
The thought hollowed him out.
At the apartment, Niddhi sat on the edge of the couch, phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline. She replayed every conversation, every casual moment she hadn’t taken seriously.
*She said she’d be late.*
*She said the submission might take time.*
*Why didn’t I insist on going with her?*
Her phone rang again.
“He’s close,” she whispered to herself. “He’ll find her.”
But fear is not logical. It does not listen to reassurances.
Back on the road, Dhruv reached the campus area.
It was almost deserted now.
Security guards stood under tin roofs, bored and drenched. Tea stalls were packing up. The rain fell harder, as if mocking urgency.
Dhruv stepped out of the car, rain soaking him instantly.
“Has anyone seen a young woman?” he asked sharply, describing Suhani with precision that surprised even him. “She was here this evening.”
The guard frowned, thinking. “Many students left earlier, sir. Some are still waiting near the road for autos.”
Dhruv’s heart leapt painfully.
“Which road?”
The guard pointed.
Dhruv didn’t wait for the car. He walked—no, ran—through the rain, shoes splashing through puddles, coat forgotten, dignity discarded.
*Please,* he thought, not knowing to whom. *Please let her be safe.*
And then he saw her.
She stood near a small roadside stall, half-hidden by a cluster of people sheltering from the rain. Her hair was damp, her dupatta clutched tightly around her shoulders, her bag held close like armor. She wasn’t crying.
That made it worse.
She looked… small.
Dhruv stopped breathing.
For a second, the world narrowed to that single image—Suhani Singh, standing alone in a city that was not yet hers, waiting patiently for something that should have arrived long ago.
He crossed the remaining distance without thinking.
“Suhani.”
She turned.
Her eyes widened, confusion flickering into disbelief, then something softer, shakier.
“Dhruv?” she whispered. “What are you—”
He didn’t let her finish.
He pulled her into his arms with a force that startled both of them.
Not polite.
Not careful.
Not restrained.
He held her as if she were something the world had almost taken from him.
Her face pressed against his chest. She smelled of rain and familiarity and something that felt dangerously like home. For a moment, she froze—then her hands slowly came up, gripping his coat.
“I thought—” Her voice cracked. “My phone died. I tried—”
“I know,” he said hoarsely, his chin resting against her head. “I know.”
He didn’t release her immediately. He couldn’t. His arms tightened slightly, as if afraid she might disappear if he loosened his hold.
People around them glanced, curious, but neither noticed.
“You scared me,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Rain streaked down his face, mingling with something that looked suspiciously like relief.
“I’m sorry,” she said instinctively. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted gently but firmly. “Don’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault.”
She swallowed.
“I waited,” she said softly. “I thought the rain would slow down. I didn’t realize how late it had become.”
Dhruv nodded, exhaling slowly, grounding himself.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
Back in the car, warmth slowly replaced cold. The driver handed Suhani a towel. Dhruv watched her carefully, noting every tremor, every tired blink.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she replied. “Just… overwhelmed.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”
The words landed deeper than he intended.
At the apartment, Niddhi flung the door open before they could knock.
“Suhani!”
She wrapped her arms around her tightly, tears finally spilling.
“I was so scared,” Niddhi said. “So scared.”
“I’m fine,” Suhani whispered. “I promise.”
Niddhi pulled back, wiping her face, then turned to Dhruv.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she said fiercely.
Dhruv gave a tired smile. “Trust me. I won’t.”
Later, after warm tea and dry clothes, Suhani sat quietly on the couch, exhaustion settling into her bones. Dhruv stood near the window, rain still tapping insistently against the glass.
For the first time, silence felt earned.
“Thank you,” Suhani said softly.
He turned.
“For what?”
“For coming,” she replied simply.
He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.
“I would always come,” he said.
She nodded, as if filing that away carefully, not questioning it yet.
That night, as Mumbai finally allowed
the rain to soften, three hearts rested under one roof—unaware that something fundamental had shifted.
Fear had named love.
And neither Dhruv nor Suhani would ever be the same again.
