The morning mist of Shimla danced over the hills like a dream half-awake. Streets were still damp from last night’s drizzle, and the air smelled of pine, rain, and freshly brewed tea.

In the middle of this quiet charm, chaos was running — literally.

Krita, a 20-year-old journalism student, was sprinting up the college road, holding her bag in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. Her loose ponytail swung wildly as she mumbled between breaths,

> “Bas ab sirne attendance kat di na, toh gaya mera internal marks!”

She turned the corner — and fate decided to have some fun.

THUD!

Her sandwich flew one way, her bag the other, and right in front of her stood a guy — tall, messy-haired, holding what used to be a cup of hot coffee.

Now it was all over his white hoodie.

He blinked, stunned. Then frowned.

> “What the—! Can’t you see?”

Krita froze, cheeks burning. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, I didn’t— I wasn’t looking—”

He sighed, staring at the dripping mess.

> “Great. First day of internship and I smell like a cappuccino.”

That’s when she noticed the camera slung around his neck. A shiny DSLR.

She tilted her head, half curious, half guilty.

> “You’re a photographer?”

> “No,” he said dryly, “I just like carrying expensive gadgets while spilling coffee.”

Krita’s lips twitched. Okay, sarcastic much.

But then, his faint smirk gave him away — he wasn’t really angry.

> “I’ll pay for the laundry,” she blurted out, trying to help.

> “Relax, Miss Hurricane. Just try not to bump into any more people today, okay?”

Before she could reply, he walked away, camera clicking casually as he went.

And for some reason, the sound of that shutter stayed in her ears longer than the apology she didn’t get to finish.

---

Later that day in the newsroom lab, her professor called her name.

> “Krita! You’ll be working with Aarav Malhotra, our new intern, for the documentary project.”

Her jaw almost dropped.

> “Sir… Aarav Malhotra?”

And there he was — leaning on the desk, coffee-stained hoodie freshly washed, that same teasing smile on his face.

> “Hey, partner. Try not to attack me this time.”

Everyone laughed. Krita rolled her eyes, hiding a smile.

She didn’t know it yet, but that clumsy bump wasn’t just an accident.

It was the first chapter

Everyone laughed. Krita rolled her eyes, hiding a smile.

But inside, something stirred. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe irritation — or maybe that tiny spark that starts quietly before it sets your whole heart on fire.

As the day ended, Krita looked out of the classroom window. The rain had started again, softly tapping against the glass. She could still hear that click of Aarav’s camera in her mind — the sound that had captured the first moment of something neither of them yet understood.

She smiled to herself and whispered,

> “Maybe… this is how stories begin.”

The street was still buzzing with life. The aroma of roasted beans from the café nearby mixed with the sharp chill of the Seoul evening. Krita stood frozen, staring at her ruined red dress.

Her first words weren’t exactly polite.

“Yah! Can’t you see where you’re going?”

The boy blinked, startled. His messy brown hair fell into his eyes as he tried to wipe the spilled coffee from his hoodie. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to? My dress looks like an art project gone wrong!” she snapped, her heels clicking as she shifted her weight.

He looked genuinely embarrassed, almost childlike. “I can pay for the cleaning,” he offered, fumbling for his wallet.

Krita sighed. Something about his tone—soft and uncertain—made her anger melt just a little. She noticed the small scar near his eyebrow and how his eyes, though apologetic, held a strange depth… like he had a thousand untold stories.

She rolled her eyes. “Keep your money. Just… watch where you’re walking next time.”

He gave a small, shy smile. “I’ll try. But Seoul streets are dangerous… especially when beautiful girls appear out of nowhere.”

Krita’s heart skipped a beat before she caught herself. Smooth talker, she thought, hiding a small smile. “That line might work on others. Not me.”

“Maybe I’ll earn another chance to try,” he replied, half teasing.

Before Krita could respond, a gust of wind blew the pages of a diary lying near the café bench. The boy noticed it and quickly picked it up. “Hey, is this yours?”

She frowned. “No. I don’t carry old diaries around.”

The cover was worn, the leather faded. On the first page, written in neat handwriting, were the words:

‘To whoever finds this, please finish what I couldn’t.’

Both of them stared at it, curious.

“Creepy,” Krita muttered. “Probably some drama script someone dropped.”

But the boy’s expression changed—serious, almost haunted. “No… I’ve seen handwriting like this before.”

She tilted her head. “Wait, you know this person?”

He didn’t answer. His fingers traced the words on the page gently, like touching a memory that hurt.

“I think,” he said quietly, “this diary belonged to someone I lost.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The laughter of strangers faded, replaced by the sound of soft rain beginning to fall.

Krita opened her umbrella, hesitated, and then extended it toward him. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere dry… and maybe figure out whose story this is.”

He looked up, surprised but grateful. “I’m Aarav,” he said softly.

She smiled faintly. “Krita.”

And just like that, beneath a shared umbrella in the rainy streets of Seoul, a story that began with spilled coffee slowly turned into something deeper—something neither of them saw coming.

As they walked side by side, the diary resting between them like a fragile secret, Krita glanced at him from the corner of her eye. For the first time, she felt something shift — as if destiny had brushed past them, whispering, this is only the beginning. 🌧️💞