Distance did not arrive loudly.
It settled in quietly—through unread messages, missed calls, and conversations that never happened.
For a month, Mahi tried.
At first, it was professional. A short message. A case update. A question that didn't need emotion.
No reply.
Then it became personal. A call after work. A text sent late at night, unsent, then sent again.
Still nothing.
Nikhil stopped passing her cabin. Stopped waiting by the elevator. Stopped existing in her orbit entirely, even though they worked under the same roof.
He spoke to Roohi. He spoke in meetings. He spoke in court.
He just didn't speak to her.
And that—more than anger, more than misunderstanding—broke something in Mahi.
Because she could handle distance that was explained. She could not handle silence that felt like punishment.
One evening, after yet another long day of depositions and strategic arguments, Mahi saw him in the parking lot.
He was unlocking his car.
She didn't think. She didn't plan.
"Nikhil," she called out.
He froze for half a second—just enough for her to notice—then continued as if he hadn't heard.
That hurt more than she expected.
She walked faster. "Nikhil. Please."
He opened the car door.
That was it.
"Are you really going to pretend I don't exist now?" she demanded.
He finally looked at her.
His expression wasn't angry.
It was tired.
"I don't think this is a good idea," he said quietly.
"When has that ever stopped us?" she shot back.
He got into his car and shut the door.
Mahi stood there, chest tight, hands shaking.
Then his engine started.
And something inside her snapped.
She got into her own car.
The city lights blurred as both cars pulled out onto the road—first steadily, then faster.
Nikhil didn't intend to race.
Mahi did.
She overtook him sharply, her car cutting ahead, forcing him to slow down. He cursed under his breath and accelerated again, trying to pass her.
Traffic thinned. The road opened.
And suddenly, it wasn't about anger anymore.
It was instinct.
Mahi drove like she used to—precise, fearless, controlled. Every turn calculated. Every acceleration intentional. The kind of driving that came from muscle memory she thought she had buried years ago.
College days flashed in fragments. Night races. Wind in her hair. The thrill of being unstoppable.
She had stopped racing the day heartbreak taught her that speed didn't always save you.
Tonight, she didn't care.
She slowed suddenly, forcing Nikhil to brake and stop beside her near an empty stretch under a flyover.
Both engines idled.
Both hearts raced.
She stepped out first.
"So this is how you decided to end things?" she demanded. "By disappearing?"
He slammed his car door shut and faced her. "I didn't disappear. I stepped back."
"For a month?" she laughed bitterly. "That's not stepping back, Nikhil. That's running."
"You made it clear you didn't need me," he said, voice tight. "That I was a risk. A liability."
"That's not true!"
"You didn't even ask me," he shot back. "You decided for me. Just like everyone else always does."
She took a step closer. "I was protecting you."
"I didn't ask for protection," he said. "I asked for trust."
Silence crashed between them, heavy and hot.
"I was scared," she admitted finally, her voice cracking. "Scared that if this case went wrong, it would destroy everything—my career, the firm, you. And yes, I pushed you away."
"Then why does it look like you regret it?" he asked quietly.
Because I love you, she thought.
The words rose before she could stop them.
"Because I love you," she said aloud.
The world seemed to pause.
Traffic noise faded. Wind stilled. Even her breath felt too loud.
His eyes widened—not in shock, but recognition.
"You don't get to say that after a month of silence," he said hoarsely.
"I know," she whispered. "But I'm saying it anyway."
He looked away, jaw tight. Then, just as quietly—
"I loved you even when you shut me out."
That broke her.
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't look away this time.
"I don't want to do this alone," she said. "Not the case. Not anything."
He stepped closer. Not touching. Not yet.
"Then don't," he said. "Let me stand with you. Not behind you. Not away from you."
She nodded, wiping her tears. "I should've said that earlier."
"Yes," he agreed. "But you said it now."
That was enough.
The next morning, the firm felt different again.
Not calm. Not tense.
Focused.
Mahi and Nikhil walked into the strategy room together.
Roohi looked up, surprised.
"Let's reset," Mahi said evenly. "We handle this case together."
Nikhil nodded. "No silences. No assumptions."
They didn't need to explain more.
The case moved forward—stronger, sharper, unified.
And this time, when things went wrong—as they always did—they faced it side by side.
Not racing away.
But choosing to stop.