I never thought a place like Infopark could hold so much of my heart.
It was supposed to be just another job. Another cubicle. Another login. But then she walked in—anonymous, like a whisper in a crowded room. She wasn’t loud, she wasn’t flashy. She was just… there. Like the monsoon mist that clings to the glass walls of our office, soft and persistent.
We met over a broken printer. I was the guy who fixed things. She was the girl who broke them with grace.
Our love didn’t explode—it unfolded. Slowly. Over shared chai breaks at the food court. Over missed deadlines and midnight debugging. Over glances across the glass partitions, and the way she’d smile when she caught me staring.
She made Infopark feel like poetry.
But love, like code, has bugs. And ours was timing.
She got an offer in Bangalore. Bigger pay. Bigger dreams. I told her to go. I told her I was proud. I told her I’d wait.
She didn’t ask me to.
The last time I saw her, she was standing near the lake behind the Phase I building. The wind was playing with her hair, and she looked like she belonged to the future. I wanted to say everything—how she changed me, how she made me believe in softness, in vulnerability, in the kind of love that doesn’t need grand gestures.
But I just said, “Take care.”
She smiled. And left.
I stayed.
I still walk past that lake sometimes. I still sit at our favorite bench near the cafeteria. I still fix printers. But I also write now. I write code with more heart. I mentor interns with more patience. I live with more purpose.
Because she taught me that love isn’t always about staying together. Sometimes, it’s about becoming better because of someone—even if they’re no longer around.
So if you’re reading this, wherever you are—thank you.
Infopark still remembers you. And so do I.
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