How does it feel to be in love?
Ah! This question gives me frustration.
I am thinking this while sitting at my office desk, pretending to be busy. I am trying to solve this stupid header menu for the last one hour but end up staring at the same line of code. It’s not that hard—I’ve solved bugs like this earlier—but my brain feels locked.
I adjust margins. Nothing changes. I press Ctrl + Z again. Technically, I’m working. At least I’m trying to. But I keep toggling between VS Code and YouTube, searching for the perfect song to focus.
“Aakriti, the client needs this header menu solved by today,” Mr. Sharma says.
“Okay,” I grin.
Mr. Sharma, my manager, just like any ordinary strict manager, thinks that interns are robots and can handle the work of two or more people. He wants all work to be done before the deadline so he can give us even more work.
I need a break. I minimize VS Code and open my secret_notes.txt file as Mr. Sharma walks away.
“Perfect Partner Checklist”
I started making this checklist after my cousin’s breakup.
I saw her heart break slowly—her forced smiles, her quiet tears, the way she stopped talking about love. Watching her like that scared me. It made one thought very clear in my mind: I don’t want my heart to break like this.
So I decide to be careful with love.
I tell myself that if I date a man who fits perfectly into my checklist, I’ll be safe. If I choose with logic instead of feelings, I won’t get hurt.
This checklist isn’t about finding love.
It’s about protecting myself from being hurt.
Perfect Partner Checklist:
✔ Must love books/K-dramas (or at least tolerate them)
✔ Same caste (Mom’s criteria, not mine)
✔ Knows how to cook (because I don’t want to cook every day)
✔ Notices when I’m cold and offers his jacket
“No regular drinks,” I add.
This is ridiculous.
My best friend Trisha’s voice echoes in my head from last night’s call:
“You can’t algorithm your way into love, AK. What if the right guy misses a checkbox?”
I close the file and return to work. No one notices me—and honestly, I don’t want them to.
I chose web designing because I don’t like talking to people. Coding feels safer; fewer conversations, fewer chances of awkwardness. It felt like a win-win—until I had to deal with clients and their endless, pointless changes.
My phone buzzes. It’s Trisha:
Trisha: Meet me at our fav café at 6 PM. Emergency.
After office hours, I reach the café. Trisha isn’t there yet. I place my bag on our usual corner table by the window. The café looks like a perfect Pinterest board.
I order two cappuccinos and start watching Descendants of the Sun, my current favorite K-drama. Two minutes in, and I’m hooked. Captain Yoo Shi-jin smiles—and my soul leaves my body.
Why are fictional men always emotionally available and caring? I hope I find one in real life.
Trisha finally walks in and slides into the seat beside me.
“Trish, what happened?” I ask.
“AK, it’s our one-year anniversary next Sunday. Can you believe it?”
“So?”
“Hello? It’s been one whole year. I want to do something special for him—and I need your help. Tell me, watch or wallet?”
“Do better, Trish. Make something with your own hands. Like an illustrated book—your love story, the small moments, all of it.”
She smiles. “I knew it. Your ideas are always the best.”
“But you’ll have to help me,” she adds. “I’ll draw, you write.”
“Fine,” I say. “Only if I get full credit.”
She laughs. “Okay, Love Advisor—Aakriti Lakhani.”
The next day, Mr. Sharma informs me about a website development training program starting today. Students from outside will join, and it’ll run for two months.
“You’re supposed to attend it too, Aakriti,” he says.
“Okay, sir,” I smile.
Ugh. Not enough work already, and now a training program too.
I walk into the training hall, and it’s already full of interns and students, all waiting for the instructor to arrive. I spot an empty seat in the corner and sit down.
“This seat is mine,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around.
He’s standing there—black shirt, blue jeans, black mask—with a bag beside the chair.
“What?” I ask.
He points at the bag, a little annoyed. “Can’t you see it? I just stepped out for two minutes, and you took my seat.”
I glance at the bag and quickly stand up. “Sorry, I didn’t see it.”
I move to the seat next to his, and he sits down without another word.
The instructor walks in, and the class begins.
But something about him feels… off.
I keep thinking about how rude he was. I mean, if I had taken his seat by mistake, couldn’t he have just sat in the one next to it? Was it really necessary to react like that over a single chair?
While these thoughts keep running in my head, my attention stays fixed on him instead of the class. I find myself glancing his way more often than I should.
Every time he turns toward me, I quickly look at the instructor, pretending I’ve been paying attention all along.
Class ends before I realize it. People start leaving, and so do I.
And that’s when I hear him say, “Hey… I’m Aarav.”
I turn to him, slightly confused. Why is he talking to me?
He looks at me and asks, “Are you an intern here?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“So, I guess you have some experience in website design?” he asks.
I shrug slightly. “A little bit.”
“That’s why you weren’t paying attention in class?”
“What? No—it’s not like that,” I say awkwardly, stumbling over my words.
Before I can explain further, he chuckles. “Relax, I’m just kidding.”
I look at him, confused. An hour ago, he was ready to fight over a seat, and now he’s joking like nothing happened.
He notices my expression and looks at me properly this time. “Actually,” he says, a little more serious, “I’m not very good at this stuff. I have some difficulty with it. Would you help me?”
I hesitate. Is he really this strange, or am I just overthinking everything? It’s not like the seat was such a big deal that I should still be annoyed. But should I really help him?
“What happened?” he asks.
“Oh—nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll help you.”
The words leave my mouth before I can even think about them.
“Cool. Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says with a small smile as he turns to leave.
I just stand there, watching him walk toward the door.
But then, right before stepping out, he stops, turns back, and says, “By the way… you didn’t tell me your name.”
“Oh—right. I’m Aakriti.”
He nods. “Nice to meet you, Aakriti.”
And then he’s gone.
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