Constellations In Passing

They took the corner table no one wanted, boxed in by two walls. He liked corners. Corners let you look without being seen. His friend, lost in his phone, didn’t care where they sat.
From that quiet edge, he saw her.
She sat diagonally, one table to the left. Her table’s live grill glowed; a square of coals beneath skewers of tikka and prawns, a brush dipped in masala resting. Her husband faced her, summoning waiters with a raised hand, scrolling between bites. On her side, the children sat in a row, small heads forming a moving screen that opened and closed, giving him brief, perfect glimpses of her face. Even the smoke obeyed, veiling and revealing her by turns.
Barbeque Nation pulsed with its cheerful rhythm; skewers arrived in parade, the buffet steamed with gravies and biryani, the kulfi counter clinked with metal trays. Birthday choruses rose and fell every few minutes.
She looked dressed for more than dinner, a soft shimmer in her outfit. It was not loud, not showy; just someone carrying an occasion with quiet poise.
The waiter leaned toward her table.
“Is there a special occasion, ma’am?”
She smiled. “It’s my birthday.”
Something shifted in him. He wished her silently, Happy birthday.
The complimentary cake arrived with applause. She blew out the candle in one calm breath, no performance, no fuss. When the waiter passed his table, he asked lightly, “My birthday was last week. Do I get one too?”
“Only for today’s guests of honour,” the waiter said.
She looked up, catching the remark. Their eyes met with a faint curve of her lips; the smallest shake of his head. No words, just that invisible thread. I see you seeing me. He repeated the wish. She acknowledged.
Dessert brought coincidence. Their waiters arrived almost together with the same cake menu. They glanced again; no smile now, only that soft charge of two people sharing a moment they had no right to share.
The restaurant roared on; butter hissed on skewers, children wove between tables. His friend kept scrolling and watching their acknowledgments. But for him, the room had narrowed to her composure; the way her fingers rested on the table, how she listened more than she spoke, how the shimmer in her dress didn’t match the stillness in her eyes.
When her cheque arrived, she stood after her husband, smoothing her dress and adjusting her bag strap. For an instant, she hesitated, as though deciding whether to look back. Then she crossed near his table.
“Good night,” she said, the first and only words between them.
Then she was gone, three steps behind her husband into the night.
His friend finally looked up from his phone. “Do you know her?”
He shook his head. “No.”
But it didn’t feel like the truth.
Years later, he would still remember her eyes; not because they belonged to someone familiar, but because they didn’t. Some strangers pass through your life like constellations; distant, unreachable, yet leave you wondering if the universe sent you a signal you’ll never decode.