The days that followed moved in a blur of activity and snowfall.

Every corner of the Snowcrest Estate buzzed with energy - florists clipping roses with chilled fingers, decorators stringing fairy lights on snow-laden trees, the bride-to-be fluttering with nerves. Rhea, ever the orchestrator, moved through it all with practiced grace. Her clipboard was never out of sight, her earpiece never silent. She handled crises like a symphony conductor - composed, swift, precise.

But beneath that polished surface, something stirred. Something that had nothing to do with table placements or cake designs.

Aarav.

Their paths kept crossing, as if fate had woven their schedules together. One morning, she'd be approving the stage backdrop, and he'd stroll in with coffee for the groom, pausing to throw her a grin. Another evening, she'd be finalizing the seating chart only to hear his laughter from across the courtyard. It was effortless, maddening, and strangely comforting.

They hadn't really talked - not in the way that counted. There were polite smiles, a few teasing jabs, and one brief conversation over chai where they'd both pretended the past didn't exist. But it did. It hung between them like smoke: soft, visible, impossible to ignore.

On the third evening, after a long rehearsal and an even longer meeting with the band, Rhea found herself at the edge of the estate gardens. The snow had stopped, leaving a blanket of stillness over the hills. Tiny lanterns glowed along the paths, and wind chimes tinkled faintly in the breeze.

She didn't expect Aarav to be there.

He was leaning against the wooden railing, sketchbook in hand, completely absorbed. His brow furrowed slightly, his pencil moving with a rhythm she remembered from their childhood - he always bit his lip when he was deep in thought.

Rhea hesitated, then walked closer. "Still sketching in the cold, huh?"

Aarav looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Old habits die hard."

"What are you drawing?"

He flipped the book toward her. It was a rough sketch of the estate, with snow-covered trees and lanterns casting halos of light. But there was something else - on the edge of the drawing, almost hidden, was a lone figure standing by the railing.

It was her.

Rhea's breath caught. "You sketched me?"

He shrugged, sheepish. "Couldn't help it. You were... there."

She leaned on the railing beside him, unsure what to say. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It felt... shared.

"You've changed," she finally said, watching the lights flicker across the valley.

"So have you," Aarav replied softly.

There was a pause. And then, quietly, he added, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Rhea looked at him, her heart a knot. "I thought the same."

They stood there, the past tiptoeing closer.

"You just disappeared after that summer," Aarav said, voice low.

"You stopped writing," she replied.

"You blocked me first."

They both laughed - a short, startled laugh that softened the ache of old wounds.

"We were stupid kids," Rhea murmured.

"We were scared," Aarav corrected.

Another silence, heavier this time.

"I missed you," he said, not looking at her. "Not just for a while. For years."

She swallowed hard. "I told myself I didn't. But every time it snowed... I thought of Shimla. Of you."

Their eyes met again. The unspoken things between them felt like a river under thin ice - one step, and everything could break.

"I'm with someone," he said quietly, finally.

Rhea nodded. "I know."

"But we're... it's complicated."

A soft breeze lifted her hair, and she shivered.

"Then maybe," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "we don't need to untangle it tonight."

Aarav looked at her, eyes filled with something she couldn't name.

"Maybe," he said.

They didn't touch. They didn't say anything more. But in the hush of snow and starlight, they stood side by side, their shadows long and overlapping, as the hills listened in silence.