Astha tapped her fingers on the table, staring at the lunch pack as if it might reveal its sender if she glared at it hard enough. She knew most of the office had been excited about the Secret Santa game, but this was different. This wasn’t a random coffee mug or a novelty keychain.
This was thoughtful. And that made her uneasy.
She glanced around the office, scanning faces, trying to catch anyone watching her. But everyone seemed preoccupied with their work. No one looked guilty. No one even seemed remotely interested
in the fact that she had just received an anonymous meal tailored to her exact taste.
“Okay, Secret Santa,” she muttered under her breath. “Game on.”
Later that afternoon, she walked into Arin’s office and dropped her article onto his desk.
“Here,” she said, arms crossed. “Raw. Unfiltered. No holding back.”
Arin raised an eyebrow as he picked up the pages. “That was fast.”
“You said no filters, so I didn’t waste time second-guessing myself,” she replied, then leaned against the doorframe. “Now, let’s see if I pass your impossible standards, Verma.”
Arin smiled. “Let’s find out.”
He started reading, his usual smug confidence shifting into something quieter. His eyes moved across the pages, his expression unreadable. Astha watched him closely, searching for any sign of reaction, but his face was frustratingly neutral.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Arin set the pages down. He steepled his fingers, watching her.
“This is—”
Astha tensed, waiting for him to say something cutting, to pick it apart.
“—brilliant.”
She blinked. “What?”
Arin leaned forward, his voice softer but firm. “This is the best thing you’ve written since I got here. It’s raw, powerful, and it actually feels like you.”
Astha wasn’t sure how to respond to that. A part of her was relieved, even pleased, but another part of her hated that he had been right.
“I take it that means you’ll stop editing my work now?” she asked, masking her unease with dry sarcasm.
Arin chuckled. “No. But I might just let you win a few arguments.”
Astha rolled her eyes, turning to leave. “Unbelievable.”
“Astha,” Arin called out just before she reached the door.
She turned slightly.
“Keep writing like this,” he said. “The world needs more of it.”
She didn’t reply, but something about the way he said it stuck with her.
That evening, as she packed up to leave, she found another small note on her desk.
“Keep going. Your words are magic.”
No gift this time. Just the note.
Astha clenched her jaw.
Secret Santa or not, she would find out who was behind this.
And something told her she might not be ready for the answer.
That same afternoon, as Arin returned to his office, he found a small package on his desk. Curiously, he unwrapped it and found a complete sewing kit, complete with scissors, neatly packed in a tin case. A note sat atop it:
Cut and sew at the right places, please, Mr. Editor!
Arin let out a rare laugh, shaking his head as he examined the tiny spools of thread, needles, and neatly polished scissors. Someone was clearly having fun with this game.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping the note against his palm, before glancing toward Astha’s desk in the distance.
This Secret Santa game was proving to be more interesting than he had expected.
And he had a strong suspicion about who was behind his gift.
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