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"Take that, you stubborn code!" I slam the table with a happy grin as I finally crack the recursive algorithm for Quantum Leap.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, executing the final piece of the puzzle that's been haunting me for days. The optimization matrix is finally aligned, and the last bug that kept crashing my simulations is fixed. The data streams are flowing seamlessly now, the error logs clear, and the performance benchmark is off the charts.
I lean back, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my eyes glued to the screen as the real-time analytics dashboard confirms what I've been aiming for: flawless execution.
This is it. Quantum Leap is officially one step closer to revolutionizing everything.
It's been 17 days since that night with Atharv sir. Seventeen days since I let my guard down, let everything I'd carefully built slip through my fingers. And in all that time, I haven't gone to the office even once.
I've found every excuse to avoid it, to avoid him. I tell myself I'm just as productive working from home, that I'm deep in the final push for Quantum Leap.
But that's a lie, isn't it?
The truth is, I'm hiding.
I've never felt this kind of regret before.
It's like a stain I can't wash off, a crime I committed that no one knows about, but I'm sure they can all see it. How could I have been so reckless? That night, I told myself it was just a moment, a lapse, something I could put behind me.
But now, I can't even look at my own reflection without feeling like I've betrayed... something. Someone. Him.
His wedding news wrecked my world. It felt as if the walls of room are colliding, crashing me along with it.
I took days to recover from it. I've been pouring myself into my work, trying to drown out all those emotions.
Quantum Leap is my lifeline, the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Today, when I finally cracked the recursive algorithm, I should felt victorious. I should felt that rush, that high of knowing I did it.
But instead, there's just this emptiness. Because I know it doesn't matter, not if I'm too much of a coward to even show up and present it.
My phone rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. The shrill tone cuts through the silence of my room, making my heart jump. I glance at the screen. It's an unknown number, but the area code is from the office.
My stomach knots. I could let it go unanswered, pretend I didn't see it. But deep down, I know I can't avoid them forever. I take a deep breath and swipe to answer.
"Ms. Kapoor?" I suddenly recognise the voice. It's Raman Sir, the official coordinator for interns. His voice is steady, but there's a hint of something there—concern, maybe, or disappointment.
