The world outside was loud.

Horns. Rushed footsteps. Conversations that never paused. But inside Pages & Brews, a quaint little bookstore café tucked between old alleys of Delhi, everything was quiet — the kind of quiet that smelled like coffee and comfort.

Meher Kapoor sat in her usual spot: second window seat, tucked between the poetry section and the faded blue wall with peeling paint that she secretly thought looked like an accidental masterpiece. A cup of masala chai sat untouched beside her journal, its steam curling like a whisper.

She scribbled quietly.

“He speaks like silence,

and I… I reply with pauses.”

– InkSoul

She paused, reading it back, then smiled softly to herself — not because it was perfect, but because it felt real. Meher never showed anyone her poems, not even Rishi, and he was her best friend. No one knew she posted them anonymously online as InkSoul. No name. No photo. Just raw words from a heart that didn’t always know how to speak.

"You're doing that thing again."

Meher blinked up to find Rishi Sharma — café owner, her best friend, and unofficial soul-worrier — leaning against the counter, drying a mug.

"What thing?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"That thing where you look like you're having a quiet breakdown in your head and calling it poetry."

She rolled her eyes. "That’s my creative process, Rishi."

He smirked. "Your creative process needs cake. On the house."

She grinned despite herself, and he slid a warm slice of walnut brownie onto her table without another word. That was Rishi — blunt, caring, and always one step ahead of what she wouldn’t say out loud.

Meanwhile, across the city, in a penthouse high above the noise, Aarav Malhotra stared at a glowing screen in absolute stillness. The kind of stillness that came not from peace, but from habit — practiced, emotionless stillness.

The words in front of him weren’t from a contract. They were from a poem.

"I don’t want your mansions,

or your moons made of metal.

Just a quiet seat beside your silence."

He didn’t know why he couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know why it felt like someone had written it for him — or about him.

"Who wrote this?" he asked, voice low and clipped.

His assistant, Kiara, leaned forward cautiously. "It’s from a blog, sir. Anonymous. Goes by the name InkSoul. No social links. No ID. The post’s going viral — already 1.2 million views in a day."

Aarav’s eyes darkened with curiosity. “Find her.”

Kiara hesitated. “But—”

He didn’t look away from the screen. “I want her words. I want her voice for the new campaign. Ghostwrite. Full rights. Find her.”

There was no warmth in his voice — only command.

But somewhere inside that sharp tone was something unfamiliar.

Longing.

Back in the cozy corner of Pages & Brews, Meher clicked “Publish” on her latest poem, unaware that her words had already reached the heart of a man who didn’t believe in love anymore…

And whose life was about to change because of the girl in the corner — quiet, ordinary, and unknowingly unforgettable.