The rhythm of life had changed again, but this time, it wasn't accidental. Aradhana Jha had drawn new lines in her life—lines that separated love from distraction, family from pressure, and dreams from noise.

At sunrise, while the world still slept, her books opened.
By midday, she attended college.
Evenings belonged to revision, mock tests, and old UPSC interview recordings.
And in between, there were silent texts, missed calls, and unread messages.

From Nilkanth.

Silence Between Them

Nilkanth noticed it immediately.

One evening, as he sat with Ganesh and Kunjh at their usual tea stall, he kept checking his phone.

"Aaj kal Aradhana message kyun nahi karti?" Kunjh teased.

( Why doesn't Aradhana message you these days?)

"Bhaiya, usko toh UPSC ka bhoot chadh gaya hai." Ganesh added, slurping his tea.
(She's possessed by UPSC prep now.)

Nilkanth didn't laugh.

Instead, he muttered, "Toh uska bhoot hi sahi, main uska pehredaar ban jaunga."
(Then let that ghost stay—I'll be the one who guards it.)

He knew her silence wasn't rejection. It was commitment. To herself. To the promise she made. To the dream her parents had stitched into every corner of her childhood.

And he respected it.

But that didn't make the waiting easier.

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Back at home, Thakur Constructions was facing trouble. A major government road project had been delayed due to missing documents, and government officers had begun tightening their visits. Ramesh Thakur grew impatient, barking orders at workers and lashing out at suppliers.

One evening, after a particularly rough day, Nilkanth took control.

He walked into the office wearing a pressed shirt and left his bike keys on the desk.

"Bauji, paperwork main sambhal lunga. Aapko sab kuch akela nahi karna padta."
(Bauji, I'll handle the paperwork. You don't have to do everything alone.)

Ramesh raised an eyebrow., but didn't argue.

He simply sat, opened the files, and got to work.

Day by day, his sharp mind started to shine—not just in conversations but in spreadsheets, land contracts, site visits, and client calls.

By night, he still missed Aradhana.

But by day, he was becoming a man worthy of her.

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Three weeks passed with minimal contact.

Then one Sunday afternoon, Aradhana stepped out for a quick visit to the temple. As she passed the golchakkar, she heard the familiar engine hum of a Royal Enfield Bullet behind her.

"Aradhana!"

She turned. Nilkanth slowed down, riding alongside her.

"Temple ja rahi ho?"

(Going to the temple?)

"Haan." She was surprised to see him—his shirt was tucked in, hair neatly combed.

"Tum achanak se itne sudhre kyun lag rahe ho?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

( Why do you suddenly look so... disciplined?)

"Tumhare pyaar ka side-effect hai," he smiled.

( It's the side effect of your love.)

She rolled her eyes. "Main padh rahi hoon, Nilkanth. Aur tumhe bhi yeh samajhna hoga."
(I'm studying, Nilkanth. And you have to understand that.)

He nodded seriously.

"Samajhta hoon. Isiliye toh aaya tha. Sirf yeh kehne ki... main intezaar kar raha hoon. Jab tak tum IAS nahi ban jaati."

( I do understand. That's why I came. Just to say... I'll wait. Until you become an IAS.)

Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed strong. "Tab tak tum bhi kuch ban jao. Sirf mere intezaar mein mat raho."

(Then you become something too. Don't just wait for me.)

Nilkanth smiled and saluted. "Jee madam. Agle quarter tak Thakur Constructions ka audit clean karwa ke dikhata hoon."
(Yes, madam. I'll make sure Thakur Constructions passes its audit this quarter.)

And with a cheeky wink, he drove off.

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Back home, Aradhana returned to her books. That evening, while flipping through her UPSC prep diary, a folded note fell out.

It wasn't hers.

It was a letter.

To Aradhana,
When you read this, I hope you are wearing your reading glasses, your hair tied in a loose bun, and that serious look you get when you solve logical reasoning problems.

I hope you remember how I looked the first day we danced. I was awkward. Arrogant. You hated me. And I deserved it.

But today, I've changed—not just for you, but because you made me want to be better.

And someday, when you're sitting in your office as an IAS officer, and I bring you a home-cooked tiffin during your lunch break, I hope you smile and say—

"Itna tel kyun hai isme?"
(Why is there so much oil in this?)

And I'll say—"Because no one can match your Maa's cooking, but I'm learning... for you."

Always yours,
Nilkanth

Aradhana closed the letter and held it to her chest.

For the first time, tears rolled down her cheeks—not of fear or confusion.

But of certainty.

Meanwhile...

Far away, in a government building, Ramesh Thakur was speaking to a contractor.

"Us Jha ladki ke ghar ke paas jo road ka tender gaya tha, uski files mujhe dikhao."
( Show me the road tender files near that Jha girl's home.)

The contractor hesitated.

"Us ladki ke ghar ke paas construction hone wala hai. Agar main chaahun... toh uska poora area ujad sakta hai."

( There's going to be a construction near that girl's house. If I want... I can destroy her whole neighborhood.)

A cold plan had begun to form.