The atmosphere in the office was lighter than usual after Mahesh Singh’s birthday celebration. Employees still talked about how much he had cried, how much joy had radiated from his face, and how a simple tradition had left such an impact. Even Astha, despite her continued skepticism, couldn’t ignore the warmth the initiative had brought to the workplace.
But she wasn’t going to admit that to Arin.
Later that afternoon, as she reviewed her latest article, she spotted yet another revision from him that she didn’t agree with. Huffing in frustration, she grabbed the papers and stormed into his office.
“You’ve changed my intro again,” she announced, holding the pages up.
Arin looked up from his computer, completely unfazed. “Because your intro was passive. This version is more direct.”
Astha narrowed her eyes. “You are obsessed with making everything sound dramatic.”
“I prefer the word ‘engaging,’” he corrected, leaning back in his chair. “Your writing is strong, Astha, but you play it safe. I know you have more fire in you. Why do you keep holding back?”
Astha crossed her arms, lips pressed into a firm line. “I don’t hold back. I just don’t feel the need to be overly dramatic about everything.”
Arin studied her for a long moment before he smiled, as if he had figured something out. “Fine. Let’s test something, then.”
She frowned. “Test what?”
Arin sat forward. “Write me something—not as a journalist, but as a writer. No filters, no holding back. Write about anything. But make me feel it.”
Astha scoffed. “I don’t have time for pointless exercises.”
“Then I suppose I’ll just keep rewriting your work until you prove me wrong,” Arin replied smoothly.
Her jaw clenched. “That’s manipulation.”
“That’s motivation.”
She exhaled sharply, knowing he wouldn’t let this go. “Fine. One piece. And if I do this, you leave my writing alone?”
Arin grinned. “Deal.”
Astha snatched her papers back and stormed out of his office, muttering something about “insufferable editors” under her breath.
This time, she was determined to prove Arin wrong. She spent her entire lunch break writing—pouring her thoughts onto the page with an intensity she hadn’t tapped into in a long time. She crafted each sentence carefully, ensuring that her words weren’t just structured well, but carried weight, emotion, impact.
Just as she was finishing the final paragraph, a peon walked by and placed a lunch pack on her desk. Astha looked up, frowning. “Who sent this?”
The peon shrugged. “No idea, ma’am. Someone just asked me to leave it here.”
She hesitated before opening the pack. Inside were all her favorite items—things she often ordered from the cafeteria but hadn’t had time to get today. A small note was tucked inside.
Food gives you energy! Eat!
Astha stared at the note, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her heart thudded slightly, though she wasn’t sure why.
Her secret Santa had just made things personal.
She was more determined than ever to find out who it was.
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