By Tuesday morning, Codelink’s open office floor buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy usually reserved for production outages or surprise CEO visits. Only this time, the crisis wasn’t technical; it was the “Radha–Sameer Saga,” now officially the company’s favorite ongoing soap opera.

Every corner of the office had become a commentary booth.

In the pantry:

“Did you see how he looked at her during stand-up? That wasn’t eye contact, that was a full PowerPoint presentation of emotions.”

Near the QA bay:

“She laughed at his bug joke. A bug joke. That’s basically a marriage proposal in developer language.”

By the dev pit:

“I heard they’re working late again tonight. Together. Must be a special… integration.”
Cue exaggerated winks and dramatic sighs.

Meanwhile, poor, unsuspecting Sameer, scrolled through his Slack messages during his coffee break and groaned.
His entire notifications bar looked like a fan forum that had spiraled out of control:

#TeamSameer,
#TeamRadha,
#TeamRohitForMatchmaker,
and one mysterious “#TeamSara” he didn’t even understand.

He rubbed his temples. “It’s like watching a romantic series,” he muttered. “But the plot keeps updating in real time.”

To make matters worse, even Rohit their eternally grumpy, caffeine-addicted project manager, had updated his Slack status to:

#TeamSara

No one knew what “Sara” represented. A ship name? A typo? An inside joke?

But one thing was clear: the office wasn’t just watching anymore.

They were invested.
Deeply, dramatically, enthusiastically invested.

In the QA corner, Radha was doing absolutely nothing to hide her stress, even though she tried to look composed behind two monitors and a half-finished bug report.

Priya hovered beside her desk like an overly enthusiastic guardian angel, clutching her chai as if it were blessed by every deity known to corporate India.

“Okay, major update,” Priya announced, lowering her voice dramatically. “Someone from HR asked Rohit if there’s a conflict of interest situation happening.”

Radha’s head snapped up. “What?!”

“Relax,” Priya said, waving her chai protectively. “He laughed it off. But still… they’re watching now.”

Radha exhaled sharply, shoulders pulling tight. “Fantastic. We’ve officially moved from office gossip to an HR case study.”

Priya softened. “Hey… you okay?”

Radha forced a smile that fooled absolutely no one. “Yeah. Just...” She paused, the kind of pause full of thoughts she didn’t want to admit out loud. “It’s weird. What started as harmless teasing is now… like everyone’s waiting for us to mess up.”

Priya raised an eyebrow, leaning against the desk. “Radha. Be honest. Do you even like him?”

Radha hesitated.

A beat too long.

Priya’s eyes went wide, a grin exploding across her face. “Oh. My. God.”

“Priya, stop.”

“No, no, no. You paused. That was a ‘thinking about him’ pause. A ‘should I confess to HR or elope’ pause.”

Radha groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Why is my life suddenly a workplace soap opera?”

Priya patted her shoulder like a dramatic mentor. “Because, sweetheart, you accidentally caught feelings for the lead developer with tragic hair and suspicious emotional depth.”

Radha peeked through her fingers. “He’s not tragic.”

Priya snorted. “His Spotify playlists include three songs titled ‘Rain Version.’ That’s peak tragic.”

Radha cracked a smile. “Okay… maybe slightly tragic.”

Priya sipped her chai triumphantly. “Mhmm. And you’ve fallen for him. Congratulations. You’re the protagonist now.”

On the developer floor, Sameer wasn’t getting a moment of peace either.

Dev and Rohit flanked him near the coffee machine like two managers conducting a very dramatic performance review.

“Bro,” Dev started, crossing his arms, “you can’t just go around emotionally refactoring your QA. Management is watching.”

Sameer groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Rohit raised an eyebrow, unusually serious. “Then what is it like?”

Sameer hesitated, staring into his rapidly cooling coffee as if it held the answer. Finally, he said quietly, “She… gets it. The work. The weird hours. The jokes only tired engineers understand. She calls me out when I’m being difficult, and she doesn’t treat me like I’m some dev lead on a pedestal. Being around her feels… easy.”

Dev’s slow grin spread like a bug in production. “Easy, he says. Classic emotional coupling.”

Rohit nodded sagely. “You’ve just described the first three stages of psychological dependency.”

Sameer threw his hands up. “You’re both insufferable.”

Dev raised his espresso in triumph. “And yet, somehow, always correct.”

By mid-afternoon, the rumor mill had gone fully off the rails now insisting Radha and Sameer were secretly co-leading a hush-hush internal pilot called “Project Cupid.”

Rohit nearly choked on his tea when someone said it out loud in the cafeteria.

Sameer, for once, didn’t even crack a smile.

That evening, long after most of the office lights had dimmed, he found Radha still in the QA bay. The floor was quiet except for the hum of AC and the distant rumble of monsoon wind through the stairwell.

She sat curled over her screen, headphones on, hair tied up in a loose, messy bun. A few strands fell around her face, catching the glow of the monitor. Her glasses reflected lines of logs and timestamps as she scrubbed through a test suite.

He stood there for a moment, unsure if interrupting was the right thing. Then he cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

She looked up, sliding her headphones off. “I could say the same about you.”

He stepped closer. “Can we talk?”

Her brows lifted. “About work?”

He swallowed. “About… everything else.”

There it was the shift. Not hostile, not angry, but heavy, like something fragile hanging between them.

“Sameer,” she said quietly, “you know how this looks, right? HR whispering, teams joking, leadership watching. It stopped being funny two days ago.”

“I know,” he said. “But we didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know that too,” she said, voice softer. “But perception matters here. You’re Dev Lead. I’m QA Lead. If people think there’s favoritism...”

“There isn’t,” he cut in, almost desperate. “You critique my code more brutally than anyone.”

She huffed a small laugh. “That’s not the point.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Then what is the point, Radha?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers circled the rim of her mug, tracing tiny arcs in the ceramic.

“Maybe…” Her voice faltered. “Maybe some distance. Just until things die down.”

The words hit harder than he expected, a physical ache right beneath the ribs.

“Distance,” he repeated, forcing his tone neutral. “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense.”

“Sameer...” she started, but he was already taking a step back.

“No, it’s fine,” he said with a practiced grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right. It’s the smart move.”

He turned to leave.

“Hey,” she said suddenly.

He paused.

“Don’t let this make it weird.”

He gave her a small, crooked smile. “You mean weirder than it already is?”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded once, then walked away, the sound of the first raindrops beginning to drum against the tall office windows behind him, quiet, persistent, and strangely hollow.

Later that night, Radha remained at her desk long after the cleaning staff had passed through, long after the last lift had dinged shut. The QA bay was empty now, rows of dark monitors staring back at her like unblinking eyes. Only her screen glowed, casting a faint halo against her tired face.

She stared at a half-written test case, but the words wouldn’t come.
The cursor blinked.
And blinked.
And blinked.
Waiting for her to make sense of something that no longer felt simple.

A soft ping broke the silence.

Sameer K: You were right. Distance is probably smart.

She closed her eyes as if the message were a physical blow. After a long breath, she typed back.

Radha N: It’s just temporary.

Another ping.

Sameer K: Yeah. Temporary.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. She didn’t want to end the conversation, but she didn’t know how to continue it either. Finally, she sent the safest thing she could think of.

Radha N: Goodnight, Kapoor.

A moment passed.

Sameer K: Goodnight, Naidu.

She placed her phone on the desk, but her eyes lingered on the screen and on his name, on the last message, on the sudden weight between them.

The office around her was silent again.
Silent in the way only empty corporate floors could be where secrets echoed louder and emotions felt magnified under fluorescent lights.

Radha leaned back in her chair, listening to the distant hum of rain against the glass.

Somewhere across the city, Sameer was undoubtedly staring at his own screen, wondering the same question she whispered into the stillness:

“How long can something temporary last…
before it becomes something neither of us can undo?”