CHAPTER 11
ADITI
I don’t know what cosmic force I’ve offended, but I’m starting to believe the office printer has a personal vendetta against me.
It’s not even pretending today.
I’ve cleared the tray, reloaded the paper, and whispered sweet threats under my breath—and still, the screen blinks back at me like I’m a toddler trying to fly a plane.
PAPER JAM: TRAY 2.
“Tray 2, again?” I mutter, crouching down to open the demon drawer for what feels like the tenth time this week. I tug at the crumpled sheet inside, part of it torn, ink smeared across the corner. A quiet sigh escapes me, one that quickly turns into a muttered curse.
I check the time. 11:45 AM.
The meeting starts in fifteen minutes.
And this—this exact moment—is why people think I’m dramatic. Because chaos, it seems, loves me with all its heart. I tug the paper out, smooth it against my palm, reload it, and press “print” again with all the hope of someone standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for a sign.
The machine groans. Whirs. Then, finally—finally—it starts printing.
The first clean sheet slides out like a reluctant olive branch. I yank it before the machine can change its mind and gather the rest into a folder, tapping the pages neatly against the desk with a sigh of both triumph and exhaustion.
The clock now reads 11:53.
Not ideal.
I grab the folder, shove a pen behind my ear, and speed-walk through the hallway, heels clicking, skirt swishing. A few heads turn. Someone tries to greet me—I offer a half-smile that looks more like a grimace. I’m not stopping. I can’t.
The conference room is already occupied. The glass doors offer a clear view inside: Abhimaan at the head of the table, a few clients in sleek suits and cold expressions, and department heads sitting straighter than usual.
I push the door open just enough to slip in without drawing more attention than necessary.
Abhimaan doesn’t look up, but I feel the shift, like he has noticed my presence. The air tightens just a little. Or maybe that’s just me, trying not to look like I just ran a 200-meter sprint for a stack of A4 paper.
I hand him the printed packets. He takes them without a word, flipping through the pages as one of the senior managers continues explaining some financial projection that sounds like a lullaby.
I take my seat—third from the end, beside a guy who’s already sweating through his shirt. The meeting rolls on. Graphs are discussed. Numbers are tossed around like confetti no one wants to catch.
Then, very suddenly, Abhimaan glances up from his file, his eyes scanning the room once before landing squarely on me.
“Aditi. Walk them through the market viability section.”
My heart skips. Not in the fun, romantic way. In the oh-god-I-might-die way.
I blink. Once. Twice. Did I mishear? Dude, I need time to catch my breath, come to my senses, and actually understand what's happening. I feel like I am back in school, where the teacher used to ask me to read a paragraph, and I wouldn't even know the paragraph because I was dozing off.
He doesn’t repeat himself. I look around. All eyes on me. A few are skeptical. One amused. Another… almost smug. The kind of look that says, “Let’s see how the intern flounders.” Mrs. Hetal gives me a reassuring smile. Okay, then.
I stand. My palms are clammy, and my mouth is dry, but my voice, when it comes out, is steady.
“We’re projecting a 17% uptake in metro regions this quarter—assuming our rollout plan remains tight.
The Tier-2 delay isn’t just for cost-saving; it aligns with last year’s data and market behavior.
” I take a breath. “If we lead with digital, we risk oversaturation. The second phase should include it, but let’s not open with a punch we can’t follow. ”
I pause. Let it settle. One of the clients nods slowly. Another scribbles something down. The silence afterward isn’t tense. It’s curious. A different kind of quiet—the kind that fills rooms when people are genuinely listening.
I sit again. Calm on the outside. On the inside? I do a tiny victory dance. The meeting continues. Obviously there's no applause. But there are no dismissals either. That’s enough.
Hours later, when the office starts thinning out and the air smells faintly of leftover coffee, I’m still at my desk. Tidying the notes. Sending the recap. Double-checking follow-ups.
I stretch, rub my eyes, and start gathering my things. And then my eyes land on a brand-new printer sitting next to my desk.
A brand-new printer. No plastic cover. No setup box. Just sitting there, like it’s always belonged.
But there’s a sticky note on it. Try not to break this one.
The handwriting is familiar. Slanted. Clean. Sharp.
I pick it up and stare. I don’t laugh right away. First, I just feel… warm.
Because it’s not just about the printer. It’s about the fact that he noticed. That he remembered. That he didn’t thank me or praise me or even say a damn word—but he did this.
And somehow, this says more. I tuck the sticky note into the back of my planner. A small smile playing on my lips.
Then I turn off my system, sling my bag over my shoulder, and leave the office with something lighter in my chest.
Maybe printers dislike me. But maybe—just maybe—my boss doesn’t.