36
They reached London just past noon, the train rolling into the bustle of the station with its metallic screech and the low murmur of travelers rushing past each other.
Vaani adjusted her bag on her shoulder while Dhruv wheeled their suitcase behind her.
The air was heavier here—denser with movement, chatter, footsteps, the rumble of taxis and buses outside the station.
London wasn't like Oxford. Oxford was nostalgia wrapped in quiet lanes; London was sharp and immediate, a place that demanded attention.
Their hotel was only a short cab ride away.
When they checked in, both noticed the same thing at once: it was small.
Not unpleasant, not dingy, just... small.
The room had barely enough space for the bed, a compact desk tucked into a corner, and a narrow window that overlooked the street.
The bathroom door brushed against the side of the bed when it opened.
Vaani glanced around, lips curving into a tiny smile, while Dhruv shrugged faintly.
"Well, clearly space is an even bigger luxury than I thought," he said, dropping the suitcase near the desk, "it's only for three nights."
She nodded, pulling her coat a little tighter. "Yeah. It'll do."
There was a brief pause where neither of them moved. Dhruv checked his watch. "It's only two," he said. "Too early to just sit around here."
Her eyes flicked up toward him, questioning.
"I guess..." he started, then cleared his throat, softer this time, "we could go for a walk?"
The offer lingered between them, almost uncertain. But she nodded. "Okay."
By the time they stepped out, the London air met them in full force.
It was cool, brisk, tinged with that faint metallic smell that only big cities seemed to carry.
A restless wind tugged at Vaani's hair and caught at her trench coat, the kind of wind that seemed to weave itself through the soundscape of the streets—the shuffle of shoes, the laughter of groups passing by, the honk of a distant cab.
They walked. Not in a hurry, not slowly either, just letting their feet find the rhythm of the pavement.
Westminster opened up around them, its grand facades towering against the grayish afternoon sky.
Big Ben loomed in the distance, half-shadowed but commanding as ever.
The Thames flowed steady nearby, wide and unhurried, its surface rippling with the breeze, carrying along reflections of bridges and buildings.
Buses rumbled past, red against the muted tones of the city.
Street performers played faint tunes that tangled with the wind, their sounds snatched away before they could fully settle.
The air had a bite, but not the unpleasant kind—rather the sort that sharpened one's senses.
Vaani tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, eyes flicking from one detail to the next.
She was quiet, but her gaze was alive, taking in the intricacies: the statues that stood proud against the skyline, the intricate carvings on old stone buildings, the little patches of green that broke through the stone.
Dhruv walked a step beside her, his own hands slipped into the pockets of his trousers.
He wasn't looking at her, but he noticed the way she paused slightly at certain sights, the way her expression softened whenever her eyes lingered too long on a detail.
She wasn't saying much, but she was absorbing everything, storing it like a secret treasure.
The wind carried loose scraps of conversation from strangers as they passed.
A couple behind them laughed about dinner reservations; a group of tourists pointed at the Eye in the distance, their cameras clicking in rhythm.
There was life everywhere—fast, urgent, messy—and yet the two of them seemed to walk in a bubble, side by side but silent.
Vaani pulled her coat tighter again when the wind rushed sharper across Westminster Bridge.
She leaned a fraction against the railing, pausing to glance down at the water.
The Thames was the color of slate, restless, reflecting streaks of afternoon light that broke through the clouds. She let herself breathe for a moment.
Dhruv stopped too, turning his gaze outward. He wasn't thinking about the river so much as the sheer scale of the city, its noise and density, and how strangely it contrasted with the quiet between them.
A tour boat floated beneath the bridge, its guide's voice faint and muffled against the hum of traffic overhead.
People waved at the crowd on the bridge.
Vaani lifted her hand, half-smiling as she returned a small wave.
Dhruv noticed, not saying anything, but something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch.
They resumed walking. Past the bridge, toward the long stretch lined with trees, branches bending and trembling in the wind. Leaves rattled faintly, some already scattered along the path. The air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts from a vendor's cart nearby.
They passed Parliament, its towers sharp and angular against the soft gray sky. Vaani looked up at them briefly, the expression on her face unreadable—something between awe and nostalgia, as though she'd seen it a hundred times before but never quite like this.
Dhruv stole a glance at her. She didn't notice. Her focus was elsewhere, on the city, on the moment.
And so they walked.
Their steps fell in sync on the pavement, echoing faintly against the stone.
The world moved around them—tourists pausing to take photographs, commuters weaving through with practiced efficiency, the city pulsing alive.
But between them, the silence remained. It wasn't hostile, wasn't even uncomfortable.
It was just... there. Like a third presence trailing them, as constant as their shadows.
Every so often, their arms brushed lightly when the crowd pushed closer, but neither said anything.
The wind pulled at them again, rushing through the open spaces, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek.
She tucked them behind her ear, eyes narrowing slightly at the gust. He tilted his chin against the breeze, gaze fixed ahead.
Westminster stretched wide, the afternoon leaning slowly toward evening. Lights began to glow in shop windows, a faint golden contrast to the dimming gray above. The city didn't pause—it never did—but it shifted into a different rhythm, one they quietly stepped into as they continued on.
Side by side. Silent. The city carrying its endless noise, while they carried their own.
Trafalgar Square opened up before them, wide and commanding, the kind of place where sound carried and footsteps scattered against the stone.
The fountains sparkled faintly under the soft gray light of the afternoon, water shooting up in arcs before falling back into the basin with a steady splash.
Pigeons darted around people's feet; tourists crowded the steps, cameras flashing, voices overlapping in different languages.
For Vaani, the sight seemed to breathe new life into her. Her steps quickened without her realizing it, her shoulders loosening as her eyes widened with recognition. She stopped near the center, turning slowly in a circle to take it all in.
Dhruv noticed immediately. The shift was subtle, but it was there: her quiet had cracked open into something lighter, brighter. He tilted his head at her, curious.
"What happened?" he asked, voice even, though his gaze lingered on her expression.
She hesitated, her lips parting as if to hold back the answer, and then her eyes flicked toward him. "Nothing..." she said at first, but then the smile slipped back in.
He raised an eyebrow. "All good?"
Vaani bit her lip, almost embarrassed, but then she couldn't help it. "In Jab Tak Hai Jaan... SRK sang here." Her voice dropped into a softer, almost reverent tone. "On those steps."
Dhruv blinked. He hadn't expected that. For a moment, he just looked at her, the surprise slipping unguarded across his features. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved. "That's what you remember?"
She met his look, a spark of amusement in her eyes. "How can I forget that?"
He exhaled a light chuckle, the sound low but genuine, shaking his head faintly. Of course, he thought. Of course she would remember SRK before anything else. Fanatic.
His gaze softened as he looked at her again. "Would you like a picture?"
Her face lit up instantly, like a child offered candy. "Yes, of course!" she said without hesitation.
He reached for his phone, already unlocking it. But before he could frame the shot, she caught his wrist gently. "Not here," she said quickly, eyes glinting with mischief. She turned toward the wide stone staircase leading up to the National Gallery. "There. On those stairs. That's where he was."
And just like that, she began walking toward it, her steps brisk, almost playful, as though retracing something important.
Dhruv followed. Quietly, without protest. The most composed, strict, straight-laced man was now trailing behind his wife as she led him with absolute certainty to a spot chosen not for its history, not for its architecture, but because Shah Rukh Khan had once stood there in a film.
It struck him as both absurd and oddly endearing. He found himself watching her back as she moved quickly ahead of him, the hem of her trench coat swaying lightly with each step. Her hair danced in the wind as she turned once, making sure he was following, before climbing the stairs.
When they reached the top, she positioned herself almost instinctively, as though she had already pictured this moment in her mind countless times. "Here," she said softly, then grinned at him. "Take it from this angle."
He looked at her for a moment, phone in hand, and then at the stairs themselves.
He knew nothing about the scene she was talking about, hadn't cared much for Bollywood the way she clearly did, but there was something striking about how alive she looked right now—completely immersed in a memory that wasn't even hers, but one she'd claimed as her own.
Adjusting his stance, he raised the phone. "Ready?"
"Yes!" She posed lightly, but not stiff—just natural, her smile open and genuine, as though being here in this exact spot connected her to something larger than herself.
He snapped a few shots, lowering the phone briefly to check. Then, without her asking, he shifted a little to one side and took a few more, making sure the steps framed her properly, the fountain in the background, the Square sprawling around her.
She was utterly clueless to the weight of his thoughts, too wrapped up in her own happiness.
To her, this was just fun—another moment to tuck away.
But for him, each click of the camera seemed to echo louder than it should have, each photo marking not just her joy but also the realization of how little he really knew her.
Her laugh carried as she adjusted her pose slightly. "One more," she said, waving for him to take another.
He did.
The strict businessman who rarely indulged in anything outside necessity now found himself crouching slightly, tilting the phone just so, following unspoken directions given by his wife—directions she didn't even know she was giving, but he followed all the same.
And she smiled through it all. Smiled without hesitation, without reserve.
When he finally lowered the phone, she hurried over, her eyes bright. "Show me."
He handed it to her. She scrolled through the shots, her face glowing with delight at each one. "These are perfect," she said, more to herself than to him.
Dhruv just looked at her, silent again, but his chest felt strange—warm, unsettled, almost as though something soft was pressing against the walls he usually kept so firmly in place.
She didn't notice. She was too busy smiling at her pictures, too busy being happy in her own way.
And he... he was busy memorizing the way she looked when she was.
~·~
They left Trafalgar Square slowly, her smile still lingering as though she had carried a piece of it with her.
Dhruv walked beside her in silence, his hands in his coat pockets, his steps steady.
The London air pressed against them—cool, edged with the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and the tang of rain that seemed never far away.
It was late afternoon, the sun already lowering, light slanting across the tall buildings.
Her stomach grumbled faintly, and she pressed a hand to it with a sheepish laugh. "I think I'm hungry," she admitted.
Dhruv only gave a small nod. "Café?"
She nodded too, relieved.
They slipped into a small café, fogged windows glowing with warmth inside. It smelled of strong coffee and buttered bread. The waitress led them to a table near the window, and Vaani sat down, smoothing her coat over her lap. Dhruv slid into the seat opposite, wordless.
When the waitress came, he ordered in his usual clipped tone: "Black coffee."
"Cappuccino for me," Vaani said, softer, her voice filling the spaces he left empty. She looked at him quickly, then added, "Maybe some sandwiches too?"
He gave the smallest nod.
The waitress left. Silence folded in between them. Vaani fidgeted with her napkin, glancing once out the window at the people bustling by, then back at him.
Finally, she offered a smile. "You know, Trafalgar Square... it was kind of a dream moment for me."
Dhruv looked at her, waiting.
"SRK sang there in Jab Tak Hai Jaan," she said, almost shyly. "I still remember watching that scene and thinking—wow, imagine being there. And now I was."
His expression didn't shift much, but his brows lifted slightly. He exhaled quietly, almost a laugh, almost not.
She chuckled at herself, shaking her head. "I know, I know... filmy."
He took a sip of the water on the table, his eyes steady on her but saying nothing.
Her smile faltered for just a second, then she pressed on. "You must think I'm ridiculous."
"No," he said finally, low.
It startled her, that one-word answer. She blinked, then laughed lightly, relieved. "Well... good. Because I am ridiculous sometimes."
Their coffees came, the steam curling upward. Vaani wrapped her hands around her cup, closing her eyes for a brief moment. "Mmm... perfect," she murmured.
Dhruv stirred his black coffee once, then drank in silence.
She tried again, after a few minutes. "London feels so alive, doesn't it? Everywhere you look, something is happening."
"It does." He gave a small nod, his gaze still on the street.
"I used to think about living here," she said, tracing her finger against her cup. "Walking these roads every day, working somewhere nearby. It felt like the dream."
This time, he did glance at her, his eyes lingering. But he didn't speak.
She shrugged softly, filling in the quiet herself. "But you know... life doesn't always go the way we think."
He only lowered his gaze back to his coffee.
When they finished, he stood first, waiting by the door until she joined him. Outside, the evening had cooled. The lamps had lit up the streets, and people hurried past, their coats pulled tight.
They walked back in silence. Occasionally, she pointed things out—a red bus rushing past, a shop window of books.
"Look at that," she said once, pausing by the books. "I could spend hours in there."
He looked briefly, then at her. "Want to go in?"
She shook her head, smiling to herself. "No... not today. Early night, right?"
He gave the smallest nod.
They kept walking. She filled the space with small stories—about running late for class once in Oxford and nearly missing her bus, about how she'd once tried fries on the street and found it too greasy. He listened, occasionally glancing at her, but said almost nothing.
When they reached the hotel, she slipped off her coat, stretching her arms. "That was nice," she said softly, almost to herself.
He loosened his shirt, set his phone on the nightstand. "Early night?" he asked, his voice low.
She smiled faintly. "Yeah. Tomorrow will be long."
He didn't say more.
The city hummed outside, muted through the glass, while inside, the quiet folded neatly between them—his silence steady, her light chatter already fading as sleep tugged at her.
The hotel room had settled into a still hush, the kind of quiet that only late nights in a city allowed. London's sounds—the faint hum of traffic, the occasional wail of a siren, muffled laughter from the streets below—reached them only dimly through the heavy curtains.
Vaani was fast asleep on the other side of the bed, her breathing slow, steady. One arm was curled beneath her cheek, her hair spilling across the pillow in messy strands. She hadn't stirred once since she lay down.
Dhruv sat at the small desk by the window, his laptop open, its pale blue light casting his features into sharp lines.
His phone buzzed intermittently—emails from colleagues back in the States, a project update from his team, a couple of calendar reminders.
He answered them in silence, his fingers moving efficiently, almost mechanically, over the keyboard.
When the last of the emails was sent, he closed his laptop partway and leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly.
For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the faint outline of the London skyline through the crack in the curtains.
Big Ben stood somewhere beyond, though he couldn't quite see it from this angle.
His gaze drifted back to the bed. To her.
Vaani.
He remembered the way she had smiled earlier in Trafalgar Square, almost childlike, lighting up in a way he hadn't seen from her before. And then again, at dinner, when she had spoken about how she once thought of living in London.
And yet... the Vaani he saw now was not the Vaani Aria had described.
"Always talking, always laughing," Aria had said.
"No mute button," she had teased.
But this Vaani? She was quieter than him. Cautious, careful, as if holding something back.
He thought of Oxford, how people had recognized her—professors, librarians, even students. They had greeted her warmly, with affection. She had carried herself naturally in those hallways, belonging there, radiating something almost effortless. That version of her had startled him.
So why was she so muted now?
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands pressed together loosely.
Was it him?
The thought slipped in uninvited.
Maybe she didn't talk because she didn't feel like she could. Maybe his silences weighed heavier than he realized. He had always been reserved, measured—his words chosen carefully, his presence steady, contained. People said he was hard to read, but he never minded. Until now.
Because with her, the silence felt different. It wasn't his silence anymore. It was hers too. And that unsettled him.
His eyes lingered on her sleeping face. She looked peaceful now, none of the hesitation she carried during the day. None of the guarded pauses, the way she checked herself before speaking.
He thought of what Aria had said again—maybe she's just been carrying too much for her family.
That line had stayed with him.
Carrying too much.
He wondered what that meant. What had been placed on her shoulders that had quieted the girl Aria described? Did her parents even know? Did they see her, the way she folded into herself when the world wasn't watching?
His jaw tightened slightly.
She had said little about her own work, her own life, other than fragments here and there. He had noticed it early, but only now was it beginning to sink in. She didn't talk about herself unless prompted. She never complained. Never asked.
And yet, she noticed things—small things, fleeting things, like Shah Rukh Khan singing in Trafalgar Square a decade ago. Those details stayed with her, tucked away, surfacing when she least expected.
It wasn't indifference. It wasn't detachment.
It was something else.
He closed his laptop fully, the click loud in the quiet room.
The clock read past midnight. His body was tired, but his mind hummed with the fragments of the day.
He thought of how she had smiled in the photo he'd taken for her, how natural it had been.
He thought of how she had glanced at him across the café table earlier, waiting for him to say something, and how he hadn't.
Three more days, he remembered her saying, though she hadn't said it aloud. He could see it in her eyes—that expectation that soon, he'd return to his world, she to hers.
And maybe she was right.
But for the first time, he wondered if he wanted to know what lived between those two worlds of hers—the one everyone remembered her for, and the one she lived in now.
He stood quietly, walked back to the bed, and lay down beside her without making a sound.
She stirred faintly but didn't wake, her hand shifting slightly closer to his side of the bed.
He stayed still, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, his thoughts circling until eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.
??