Unscheduled Feelings

Chapter 4: Auto Saved Drafts

The draft sat in her inbox like a ticking bomb.

“Resignation – Rhea Kapoor”
Unsaved. Unsent. But alive. Waiting.

Every time she opened Outlook, it blinked at her from the bottom panel like a dare.

She hadn’t deleted it.
She hadn’t committed either.

Just… soon, she kept telling herself.
Maybe after the next project. Or tomorrow. Or when her coffee stopped tasting like rubber.

Friday mornings usually brought some relief. People wore jeans. Laughed louder. Someone even brought in homemade brownies this week – courtesy of Finance.

But the twelfth floor remained the same. Cold, pressed, quiet.

The air-conditioning buzzed, indifferent to human suffering. The panels overhead flickered just enough to give everyone a mild headache, and the rain outside had turned the windows to sheets of silver. Another wet day, another reason not to go anywhere but your desk.

Rhea entered wearing a light peach kurta tucked into cream trousers, her hair pulled back in a loose clip that was already losing the battle against the humidity. The soft purple of her natural roots was beginning to curl at the ends.

Aarav, in a black shirt, sleeves rolled perfectly, was already at his desk. A coffee was sitting beside him, untouched and probably cold.

Their eyes didn’t meet.

She didn’t want them to.

The meeting room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and burnt projector plastic. Half the team was late. Rhea sat in her usual corner, flipping through notes, trying to keep her fingers from trembling.

Aarav walked in exactly one minute past 10:00.

He didn’t greet anyone. Just connected his laptop, clicked through slides, and began.

“The Q3 pivot strategy needs rework. What was approved last month is now obsolete. Client’s new ask is this-”

A slide. Bullet points. Graphs.

Rhea blinked. It was hers.

Her slide. Rewritten.

Colors gone. Fonts changed. Words she’d carefully chosen now replaced with sterile, pointed phrases. No attribution. No context.

Just his voice, delivering her work like it had grown out of his keyboard. 

No one noticed. No one clapped. But everyone scribbled notes like his words were gospel.

And Rhea?

She sat very still, her hands flat on the table.

When the meeting ended, she didn’t speak. She packed her notebook, nodded at no one, and left.

Around 3 p.m., the skies cracked. Thunder. Loud. Sudden. Almost cinematic.

Lights flickered. Someone let out a tiny “oof” when the network hiccuped. Aarav stood up, tight-jawed, as the main server pinged a temporary shutdown.

“We’re offline,” someone said.

“Switch to offline drafts,” Aarav responded, already opening his bag, ever th manager who won’t lelt anyone breathe.

“I’ll check with IT,” Rhea offered automatically. She needed to get out of her even if for a short period.

He didn’t answer. He just handed her his access card.

It was warm. Probably from his shirt pocket.

She took it.
Walked out.
Didn’t look back.

The server room was freezing. And buzzing. The IT guy asked her to wait while they restarted something. She leaned against the metal shelf and let herself breathe.

In her pocket, her phone buzzed. A calendar reminder:
“1-on-1 Review with Aarav – Monday, 11:30 a.m.”

She shut her eyes.

She’d send the resignation before that. She would. She really would.

By 6:30, the rain had become white noise. Almost soft. The office was nearly empty. People had left early to avoid the mess.

Only two screens still glowed on the twelfth floor.

Rhea.
And him.

She glanced across – just briefly.

His tie was loosened. His jacket off. That one curl of hair had finally escaped, dangling onto his forehead as he scrolled through documents, eyes tight with focus.

He looked…
Not like a robot.
Not like a monster.
Just tired.

She looked away quickly. Shut her laptop. Slid the resignation draft back into a folder named “Misc.” as if hiding it made it matter less.

No goodbye.
She just walked out.

And behind her, Aarav finally raised his eyes. Watched the elevator doors close.
Frowned.

And reached for the now-cold coffee beside him.