The Word He Wasn’t Ready For
Growth is slow.
But misunderstanding?
Instant delivery.
It started harmlessly.
The tea boy, who clearly believed himself to be a full-time commentator, announced loudly one morning:
“Accounts sir and Meera madam always leaving together these days.”
The office reacted the way offices do.
Half-smiles.
Side glances.
Unnecessary stretching of eyebrows.
He froze.
Meera rolled her eyes.
“Please focus on tea distribution,” she told him calmly.
But something had shifted.
Not outside.
Inside him.
That afternoon, during lunch, two colleagues casually joked,
“Careful, man. Office romance ends in either wedding or resignation.”
He laughed awkwardly.
But the word stuck.
Romance.
It sounded too big.
Too risky.
Too… real.
He went back to his desk and avoided looking toward her side.
Meera noticed.
She always noticed.
Later in the evening, she walked to his table.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“No. This is different quiet.”
He kept typing.
“Nothing.”
She waited.
“Did someone say something?” she asked directly.
He hesitated.
“No.”
Silence.
Then she said softly,
“You know, if you’re uncomfortable… tell me.”
He stopped typing.
“Uncomfortable?”
“With people talking.”
He looked up at her for the first time since morning.
“I don’t want your name linked to… gossip.”
She blinked.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to create problems for you.”
Her expression changed — not angry, not hurt — just thoughtful.
“So your solution is to avoid me?”
“I’m not avoiding.”
“You didn’t sit with me at tea.”
“I had work.”
“You always have work.”
The words landed gently but clearly.
He felt cornered.
Not by her.
By his own fear.
“I just don’t want things to become complicated,” he said quietly.
She studied him.
“Do you think talking to me is a complication?”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
He didn’t have a neat answer.
Only fragments.
Fear of distraction.
Fear of failure.
Fear of losing focus.
Fear of losing… something unnamed.
He finally said the simplest truth he knew.
“I’m still trying to stand properly. I don’t want to fall.”
Her eyes softened slightly.
“I’m not a hole in the ground,” she said.
He almost smiled.
But the tension remained.
That evening, they didn’t wait at the bus stop together.
He left early.
Or rather, he pretended to leave early.
From across the road, he saw her board the bus alone.
For the first time since the rain day, the silence between them felt empty.
At home, his mother noticed the absence of brightness.
“No rain today?” she asked casually.
He shook his head.
“Office issue?”
He sat down slowly.
“Amma… if something makes you happy but also scares you… what do you do?”
She looked at him carefully.
“Is it legal?”
He stared.
“Yes.”
“Then why fear?”
“I don’t want to lose focus.”
She smiled gently.
“My prince… life is not an exam hall. You don’t fail for feeling.”
He didn’t respond.
Because feeling was exactly what scared him.
The next day at office, Meera was normal.
Polite. Professional.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just balanced.
And that balance disturbed him more than closeness.
At lunch, she spoke to others.
In meetings, she didn’t look at him unnecessarily.
He realized something uncomfortable.
He missed their small conversations.
The aggressive observation.
The sideways jokes.
The shared silence.
And for the first time —
He understood something clearly.
It wasn’t gossip he was afraid of.
It was attachment.
Because attachment meant vulnerability.
And vulnerability meant the possibility of loss.
That evening, while closing his ledger, he stared at the numbers without seeing them.
Maybe running from something doesn’t prevent falling.
Maybe it just guarantees loneliness.
But he wasn’t ready yet.
Not fully.
Not bravely.
Not honestly.
And somewhere between caution and confusion —
Distance had quietly taken a seat between them.