And hours went by: the clock striking noon and not a notice on his part; in the stuffy apartment replete with sheaves of papers, coffee-stained cups that never seem to be empty, and the din of the type writer constantly ticking away, all semblance to chronology was thrown out of his window. Reality became indistinguishable and his world became made up only if he could live it through and breathe into life.
Arvind was 29 years old when he became an ace story writer. However, irony prevailed over him: nobody had ever seen his face in his lifetime. Fame had worn a cloak of anonymity over his face. Only the pen name "The Silent Scribbler" identified him. That too was strange since he hardly talked to anyone else but for his stories. He wore black marks around his eyes and dark glasses even indoors. Hiding his face from the rest of the world, he liked it that way. His fans loved his work but never really got to know the man. Arvind liked it this way. The world wasn't ready for him.
His days were monotonous yet fulfilling. The sunlight rarely touched the inside of his apartment, for Arvind lived in the shadows, weaving stories that painted emotions. The moment he woke up, his fingers would immediately brush the keyboard, tapping away at an ongoing novel. As his typewriter clicked and clacked, Arvind lost track of the world outside his four walls. For hours, the world was just him and his stories, and he was content.
The soft rays of morning barely peeked through his half-closed blinds, casting a faint glow on the room. He had just finished a chapter of his latest novel—a poignant love story filled with heartbreak and hope. It was his specialty: creating beautiful tragedies. His writing was poetic and raw, much like his soul, which was often tangled in emotions he didn't know how to express in real life.
But life, even for someone like Arvind, had its moments. His best friend, Aman, often dragged him out of his shell. Aman was everything Arvind wasn't: loud, outgoing, and always the life of the party. He had known Arvind since college, and over the years, he had tried, and failed, to introduce Arvind to the world beyond his writing desk.
"You know, you really should try talking to someone other than me for once," Aman teased over the phone one morning. "Your fans are starting to think you're a ghost! Maybe you need an assistant or something."
Arvind chuckled softly, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. "Assistant? What would they do? Fetch me more coffee?"
You're a celebrity writer, Arvind," Aman said lightly, exasperated. "Maybe you ought to get out of your cave, you know. You might use someone to take care of your—whatever it is that constitutes your celebrity life."
"I'm fine," Arvind muttered behind his dark glasses, rubbing at his eyes. "The stories are enough for me.
Aman sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright. But I'm still going to find you someone, whether you like it or not. You can't live like a hermit forever. It's not healthy."
The call ended with Arvind shaking his head, a little smile tugging at his lips. Aman had this effect on him; even when he tried his best to avoid it, he made Arvind laugh. But deep down, Arvind knew that his friend was right. Perhaps it was time to bring some change into life.
The day wore out, and he kept writing to his novel, but the noise of the outer world was reduced to a silent blur behind walls. He stopped at the line for the end of the day: "And in the quiet of the tempest, the hearts beat as one against the distance."
He slumped back in his chair, working a tousled hand through unarranged hair, the weariness spreading through him. For an instant, he let himself stop, allow himself to think. About life. About love. The emptiness that slipped in when the words stopped coming.
He reached over to grab his phone and scan through messages from fans, chuckling quietly at some. They didn't even know who he was, but they loved him regardless. One message in particular popped out at him: "Silent Scribbler, will you ever tell us about yourself? Will we ever see you?"
Arvind let out a deep breath and tapped his fingers on the desk. No one would ever see him. He couldn't let them.
As the night fell, he knew that another lonely night lay ahead of him—words, coffee, and the quiet humming of his typewriter. Before he could even begin his next chapter, though, his phone buzzed again. It was Aman, of course.
"By the way, I might have found someone for you. She's sharp, efficient, and adorable—exactly what you need. Meet her tomorrow at 3. Trust me."
Arvind blinked in incredulity. "Wait, what?"
But before he could text back, the phone went quiet.
"Meet her tomorrow at 3," the message echoed in his mind.
Arvind set the phone down, leaning back in his chair. Maybe it was time to let someone in—if only for a moment.
And so, with a mix of reluctance and curiosity, he stared at the clock as it ticked toward 3. He didn't know who this person was, but he had a very strange feeling that this was going to be the first significant change in his life.