My Mother’s Prince - The Transfer Letter - Part 14
The Transfer Letter
Some news doesn’t knock.
It just arrives in an envelope.
The next Monday, the manager called Meera into his cabin.
Five minutes later, she came out holding a printed letter.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
He knew that calm.
It meant something was final.
She walked to her desk. Sat down. Opened the drawer. Closed it again.
The tea boy whispered loudly, “Promotion confirmed?”
She nodded slightly.
“Yes. Head branch. From next month.”
The office clapped politely.
Growth. Opportunity. Bigger clients.
He clapped too.
Because that’s what you do when someone moves forward.
But inside, something felt like a page turning without asking him.
At lunch, people surrounded her.
“Party!”
“Don’t forget us when you become manager.”
“Head branch means AC works properly.”
She laughed at all of it.
He stayed at his desk.
Not avoiding.
Just… adjusting.
She walked over after the crowd reduced.
“You didn’t say anything.”
He looked up.
“Congratulations.”
“That sounds like bank SMS.”
He smiled faintly.
“I’m happy for you.”
She studied him.
“But?”
There it was again.
She always found the unspoken part.
“But I’ll miss arguing about debit and credit.”
She softened.
“Office will survive.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretched.
Not heavy.
Just honest.
That evening, they didn’t go to the bus stop immediately.
They stayed back finishing work.
The office felt quieter than usual.
“Are you scared?” she asked suddenly.
“Of what?”
“Distance.”
He didn’t lie.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He frowned. “Why is fear always good with you?”
“Because it means something matters.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“I’m still figuring things out,” he admitted.
“So am I.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be in two years.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t even know if I’ll stay in this company.”
She smiled.
“That’s called life. Not instability.”
He looked at her carefully.
“When you leave, it will feel different.”
She didn’t joke this time.
“It will.”
No dramatic confession.
No sudden declarations.
Just acknowledgement.
At the bus stop, wind moved lightly.
No rain today.
“You know,” she said softly, “I didn’t say yes to the transfer immediately.”
He looked surprised.
“Why?”
“I wanted to make sure I’m not running from something comfortable.”
He understood the sentence too well.
“And?” he asked.
“And I realized growth is not running away. It’s expanding.”
He nodded slowly.
“I don’t want you to shrink just because I’m not sitting next to you,” she added.
He gave a small smile.
“I upgraded to Version Two.”
“Good. Head branch version coming soon?”
He thought about it.
“Maybe.”
She stepped slightly closer.
“Listen,” she said gently, “whatever this is… it doesn’t need a label today.”
His heart skipped once.
“It just needs honesty.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer than usual.
“I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” she said calmly.
“Unless you decide to hide again.”
He almost laughed.
“Observed aggressively?”
“Always.”
When the bus arrived, she boarded first this time.
Before the doors closed, she looked back at him.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just steady.
And that steadiness gave him something stronger than promises.
It gave him direction.
At home, his mother sensed something shifting.
“She is leaving?”
He blinked.
“How do you know?”
“You walk slower today.”
He sat down.
“She got transfer. Good opportunity.”
“And you?”
“I’m proud of her.”
“And?”
He smiled faintly.
“I’m also scared.”
She sat beside him.
“My prince…”
He didn’t interrupt.
“People who grow will not always stay beside you physically.”
She paused.
“But if they inspire you to grow too, they never really leave.”
He absorbed that quietly.
That night, he didn’t feel broken.
He felt challenged.
If she was moving forward —
He wanted to move too.
Not to chase her.
Not to compete.
But to stand beside her without feeling small.
Slow burn.
Slow build.
No dramatic love confession.
Just two people walking toward their own better versions —
And hoping their paths remain parallel.
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