Pavitr had a knack for slipping through Mumbai’s crowded streets like water through fingers. He wove between people with effortless grace, the city's pulse matching his own. But today, he wasn’t moving with his usual carefree energy—he was searching.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from you: “Where are you? You’re late.”

He grinned, despite himself. Late, yes, but for a good reason.

Minutes later, he finally found it—a small, hole-in-the-wall bookstore tucked between a chai shop and a fabric store. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and masala tea, a scent that somehow made the moment feel even more important. He scanned the shelves quickly until he found what he was looking for: a first edition of your favorite book.

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t wrapped in ribbons. But it was something that had been touched by time, something with a history—just like the two of you.

As he stepped outside, book in hand, he spotted you across the street, leaning against a railing, arms crossed. You looked annoyed, but the second your eyes met his, the frustration melted into something softer.

He jogged up, slightly out of breath, holding the book up like a prized trophy.

—“Okay, okay, I know—I kept you waiting. But! In my defense…” He handed it over with a sheepish smile. “I think this might be worth it.”

The way your fingers curled around the worn cover, the way your eyes widened just slightly—it was enough to make his heart stutter.

Pavitr wasn’t one for grand gestures. But he was good at remembering the little things. And sometimes, the little things were the ones that mattered the most.