Astha had always been careful about what she shared. She wasn’t the kind of person who poured her heart out, who spoke about dreams as if they meant something.
No, she had learned her lesson.
And that lesson was simple—
Words don’t change fate.
The newsroom was buzzing with its usual chaos.
Reporters typing furiously, phones ringing, coffee cups being refilled for the third time.
Astha was reviewing an article when Sheetal dropped into the chair beside her, grinning.
“Astha, why don’t you write poetry for the newspaper?”
Astha looked up, startled.
“What?”
Sheetal rolled her eyes. “You write so beautifully. Why keep it hidden?”
Astha sighed, shaking her head. “It’s just words.”
Sheetal frowned. “It’s more than that, and you know it.”
“No,” Astha said, her voice quieter.
“A poem is nothing but words strung together.
Words that don’t belong to each other.
They are just cries of the heart scribbled in haste.
They just speak of love, but they don’t change destiny or fate.”
Sheetal studied her for a long moment.
Then, softly, she said, “Don’t lose faith, Astha.”
Astha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I lost faith a long time ago.”
Across the room, Arin Verma sat at his desk.
And though he appeared focused on his work, he had heard every single word.
His hands stilled over his keyboard.
His mind replayed her words over and over.
“They just speak of love, but they don’t change destiny or fate.”
And yet—he was here.
Because of her poem.
Because her words had reached across time and pulled him into her world.
Because her poetry had already changed fate.
And one day, he would prove it to her.
One day, she would believe again.
But for now, he simply watched.
And waited.
And silently made a promise to himself.
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