Ram stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his jacket with practiced ease. His wallet slid into his back pocket, car keys jingling lightly in his hand. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for another day at the studio, and reached for the door handle.

The moment he opened the door, his eyes caught something unusual—a bag hanging from the door knob. His bag. For a moment, he simply stared at it, confused, until recognition dawned. He had completely forgotten about it, the events of that drunken night reduced to hazy flashes.

As he grabbed the bag, a small note stuck to the front caught his attention. The handwriting was neat and simple, but it was the smiley at the end that made him pause. A soft chuckle escaped his lips—a sound that felt unfamiliar even to him.

Ram read the note again, the words playing in his mind like a gentle reminder of something he didn't often encounter—kindness. His thoughts drifted back to that night, to her concerned voice and the way she had steadied him when he could barely stand. He remembered how rudely he had brushed her off, leaving her doorway without so much as a thank you.

A faint pang of regret settled in his chest. It wasn't often that he reflected on his actions, but this time, it lingered. She didn't owe him anything, yet she had gone out of her way to help. And now, this small gesture—a bag returned, a note left—seemed to carry an unspoken grace he couldn't ignore.

Carefully, almost reverently, Ram peeled the sticky note off the bag and folded it neatly. He hesitated for a moment, then slid it into the pocket of his jacket, as though tucking away a piece of warmth in a world he often found cold.

With the bag slung over his shoulder, he locked the door behind him and stepped out, the note resting close to his heart. The studio awaited, but for the first time in a long while, Ram felt the faintest shift within himself—a ripple of something he couldn't quite name but didn't want to dismiss.

The city lights flickered like scattered jewels in the distance as Priya stumbled her way to her apartment. The soft hum of the elevator had lulled her into a tipsy daze, her mind floating between laughter from the evening's dinner and the serenity of the night. As she stepped out onto her floor, the distant melody of jazz met her ears. It was spilling from her neighbor's apartment, vibrant and unapologetic.

She paused in the dimly lit balcony corridor, tilting her head as the music swayed through the air. "Does he always stay this happy?" she murmured under her breath, half-annoyed, half-curious. Huffing softly, she shook her head and moved forward.

Her steps halted once again when she noticed a small bag resting on her doorstep. Her brow furrowed in surprise as she bent down to pick it up. With the bag in hand, she unlocked her door and entered, letting the day's fatigue roll off her shoulders. Tossing her handbag onto the couch, she turned her attention to the mysterious package.

Inside, she found a neatly packed box of assorted macarons, each one delicately crafted, their pastel colors inviting. But what truly caught her attention was the note tucked inside. It was simple—two words, scrawled with almost frustrating ambiguity: Sorry. Thank you.

Priya's lips curved into a bemused smile as she stared at the note. "Is this from him?" she wondered aloud, her tone laced with both surprise and intrigue. The words felt oddly meaningful yet detached, leaving her guessing at their intent.

Though she had already eaten dinner, the sight of the macarons awakened a craving she couldn't resist. She plucked one from the box, its soft texture melting on her tongue. "Mmm... so good," she whispered, savoring the sweetness that seemed to instantly lift her spirits. One macaron turned into another, and soon she found herself smiling, her earlier fatigue forgotten.

The jazz music continued to pour through the walls, its rhythm intoxicating. As the unmistakable tune of Fly Me to the Moon began to play, Priya felt a sudden burst of energy. She set the macaron box aside and, with a playful grin, began to sway to the music.

Her movements were carefree and unguarded, her arms twirling as she let the melody guide her. Alone in her apartment, she felt an inexplicable joy, her laughter mingling with the music. It was a moment just for her—a slice of pure, unadulterated happiness.

Meanwhile, in the adjacent apartment, Ram sat hunched over his desk, his work spread before him. The jazz played softly in the background, filling the space with a calm rhythm. He paused, rubbing his temple as a thought flitted through his mind: Did she come back yet?

He wrestled with the idea for a moment, hesitant but curious. Eventually, he rose from his chair and stepped out into the hallway. His eyes fell on her door, and he noticed the bag was gone. A subtle wave of relief washed over him, mingled with a twinge of satisfaction.

As he lingered near her door, faint traces of a voice reached his ears—singing. He tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. She was singing along to the same song he had been playing. Her voice wasn't perfect, but it was filled with such genuine warmth and energy that it brought a rare smile to his lips.

He stood there for a while, leaning against the wall, listening to her unguarded joy. The stars outside blinked against the velvet sky, the night wrapping the city in its quiet embrace. And as the music and her voice danced together, Ram found himself rooted to the spot, his thoughts surprisingly light.

For the first time in a long while, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by the simple charm of a stranger's happiness.

The morning sun filtered through Priya's curtains, bathing her room in a warm glow as she sipped her coffee. She lazily scrolled through her phone, her still-sleepy mind catching up to the new day. Just as she took another sip, she noticed three unread messages from Hina. Curiosity piqued, she tapped on them, finding a link in the last one.

Opening it, her eyes widened. The headline screamed in bold letters: "Government Announces Lockdown Starting Day After Tomorrow: A Month-Long Restriction Imposed."

Priya gasped, her coffee nearly spilling over the edge of her mug. She immediately called Hina, her voice tinged with urgency.
"Is this for real, Hina? A month-long lockdown?"

Hina's voice on the other end confirmed it. "Yes, Priya. It's happening. Everyone's already talking about it. You better prepare yourself."

Still processing the news, Priya ended the call, set her mug down, and hurriedly began getting ready for work. The streets outside her apartment were abuzz with movement, a sense of pre-lockdown frenzy palpable in the air.

She rushed to the elevator, clutching her bag tightly. The familiar ding of the elevator arriving echoed through the hallway. As she approached, the doors were already sliding shut. But just before they could close completely, a hand darted out, stopping them in their tracks.

It was Ram.

He stood there, his tall frame leaning slightly as he held the doors open. Priya stepped in, slightly breathless.
"Thank you," she said, her voice soft but sincere.

Ram gave a slight nod, his expression neutral as always, his eyes hidden behind his ever-present sunglasses. The elevator hummed softly as it descended, the two standing side by side in silence. Priya's thoughts raced. She wanted to thank him for the macarons, to at least acknowledge the small gesture from the night before, but the words caught in her throat.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a muted chime. The doors slid open, and Ram stepped out, his pace brisk and deliberate.

"Wait—" Priya's voice faltered. But he was already too far, disappearing into the bustling crowd outside.

She let out a soft sigh, clutching her bag as she stepped out of the building, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air. The city was alive with noise and motion, but for Priya, there was a strange quietness to the morning—a quietness that Ram's fleeting presence had somehow amplified.

As Ram strode across the lobby, his polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor. As he reached his car parked just outside, he paused, fishing his keys from his pocket. The chilly morning air nipped at his face, but it wasn't the cold that gave him pause—it was the fleeting memory of Priya's soft voice saying, "Thank you."

Sliding into the driver's seat, he shut the door, cutting off the sounds of the busy street. He gripped the steering wheel but didn't start the car immediately. His thoughts lingered on her, standing beside him in the elevator. She had looked as if she wanted to say something more.

His brow furrowed. Should he have said something? Maybe a simple acknowledgment—"You're welcome," or even a "thank you" for returning his camera. But the words had stayed locked behind his lips, as they so often did.

He huffed, leaning back against the seat, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. "Why does it even matter?" he muttered under his breath. "She probably thinks I'm ungrateful by now."

But then, a pang of guilt rippled through him. It wasn't the first time people had seen him this way—cold, distant, and ungrateful. It was an image the world seemed to have of him, no matter what he did. And after years of living with that perception, Ram had taught himself not to care.

"Who cares?" he said aloud, his voice laced with resignation. "No matter what I do, people always think the same."

Shaking his head, he pushed the thoughts aside, started the car, and pulled out onto the street. The engine's low rumble filled the space, but it didn't drown out the lingering feeling in his chest—an odd mix of regret and defiance.