The Notebook on Bench No. 3 Short love story
It all started with a notebook. A very pink, very sparkly notebook.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in Park. The pigeons were gossiping, the chaiwala was in full swing with his cutting chai, and kids were doing their usual sugar-rush zoomies across the park lanes.
And on Bench No. 3, between an empty chips packet and a slightly overfed squirrel, sat a forgotten notebook.
Enter: Rohan Malhotra, 32, graphic designer by profession, procrastinator by passion.
He had come to the park for his usual sketching session (read: people-watching while pretending to work), when he spotted it.
The Notebook.
Pink. Shiny. With a small sticker on the corner that said, “If found, return to ME. Or else.”
Ah, dramatic. He liked that already.
He looked around. Left… right… behind the bush? Umm, nope. No one No one looked like they had misplaced a part of their soul—which, let’s be honest, is what a notebook is.
His hand reached for it.
“Dude… no. That’s not yours,” said his Inner Conscience™, sounding suspiciously like his kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Fernandes.
But curiosity? Yeah, that old villain—temptation—was stronger.
Rohan bit his lip.
“Just one peek,” he muttered.himself
Like, what if it’s just a grocery list? Or Sudoku puzzles? Or… secrets?
He opened it.
Page 1: “Dear Notebook, today I saw that idiot again at the coffee shop. Why does he always look like he owns the place? Also, why did I SMILE at him?! Ugh. Kill me.”
Rohan blinked.
“Wow… okay… this just got interesting.”
Name on the inner cover: Anjali.
Just “Anjali.” No surname. No number. No clues except messy handwriting and a doodle of a coffee cup with angry eyes.
He smirked.
“Hmm. Anjali. Nice name.”
Also, possibly the name of a chaos goblin. He liked that.
Cut to: Three days later. Same park. Same bench.
But this time, the bench had a sign on it—made of cardboard and excessive hope.
“To the owner of the sparkly pink notebook:
I may have read a few lines.
Okay, more than a few.
Your secret is safe.
If you want it back, meet me here at 5 PM.
PS: I brought coffee. Not the idiot from the café.”
– The Guilty Finder.
She showed up.
Of course, she did. Curiosity is a two-way street.
Anjali, 28, curly-haired, book-hoarder, and—according to her notebook—a serial overthinker.
She stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and said,
“You read it?”
Rohan, holding out the notebook like a repentant squirrel offering a peanut, smiled nervously.
Yeah “Like… a little. But mostly the coffee guy part. Also, hi. I’m not him.”
She snatched the notebook, flipped to a random page, then rolled her eyes.
“Great. So now you know I called him a walking haircut and said he looks like a misplaced shampoo ad.”
Rohan laughed. “In your defense, he kinda does.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
The kind of pause where the universe quietly nudges you with a whisper, “So… you two gonna fall in love or what?”
And that’s how it began.
Not with a swipe or a follow.
Not with perfect timing or moonlit poetry.
But with a lost notebook, a guilty peek, and a badly drawn coffee cup.
Three weeks later.
They sat on Bench No. 3 again.
This time together.
Anjali sipping coffee, Rohan sketching her nose for the fourth time (because she kept scrunching it when he teased her).
“Did you read the part where I called myself the Queen of Overreacting?”
“Mmm,” he nodded, “right before the page where you threatened to fight the coffee machine if it overcharged again.”
She laughed. Loud. Unfiltered.
“I can’t believe you read my personal thoughts and I still talk to you.”
He leaned closer.
“I can’t believe your personal thoughts made me want to know all of them.”
And somewhere, far off, Mrs. Fernandes—the voice of his conscience—probably rolled her eyes.
“Tch. Told you not to open it.”
But hey, if he hadn’t…
He wouldn’t have found Anjali.
And she wouldn’t have found someone who read her worst rants and stayed.
Even after finding out she names her plants after ex-boyfriends.
Moral of the story?
If you ever lose your notebook, pray it lands in the hands of someone curious, stupid, and kind enough to open it.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t knock.
It falls right into your lap. On a park bench. With sparkles.
🩷
Hey Reader,
Did you like the story?
As for what happens next with Rohan and Anjali…
Well, that part is yours to imagine. 💫
— Signing off,