Veer sat on the edge of his desk, twirling a pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on the message Aakarsh had just sent.
Without looking up, he asked casually, "So... what's the update on her? Aaradhya. She's coming or not?"
Aakarsh, lying comfortably on the couch across the room with a bag of chips in one hand and his phone in another, shrugged.
Aakarsh: "She's taken admission. But she didn't report to the hostel today. Classes start tomorrow though. She'll have to show up... unless she gets a last-minute call from some other college."
Veer's jaw tightened just a little.
Veer: "That shouldn't happen, right? I mean, we've asked almost all the colleges to not take her in."
Aakarsh threw a chip in his mouth and said nonchalantly, "Hnn. We have asked. But that's all we did—ask. Can't guarantee anything. And we can't push more than that. If we apply too much pressure... they'll go straight to your father."
Both boys paused, looked at each other for half a second, and muttered in unison, "And we can't afford that."
Veer leaned back against the desk, silent for a beat. Then, quietly, "My father should not know about Aaradhya until I take care of the family business. Or else... I know what he's capable of."
Aakarsh sat up, more serious now. "Don't worry. No one will know. But you... you need to control yourself around her. Or else... it's a given."
(He smirked.) "Your eyes already give away half the secrets you're trying to hide."
Veer didn't respond. His gaze had drifted out the window, as if trying to find something—or someone—in the distance.
The room is dark, the ceiling fan spins slow, useless. Aakarsh left an hour ago. The silence now? Loud as hell.
Veer lays on the bed, one arm under his head, the other resting over his chest—like he's trying to calm his heartbeat. But that shit's not slowing down. Not tonight.
Veer (thinking):
Great. Another night, and I'm lying here like a goddamn idiot. Thinking. About her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She's just a girl, right? Right?
Yeah, no. Not even close.
Because if she were just a girl, I wouldn't be losing sleep like this. Wouldn't be feeling like someone jammed a wire straight into my chest and shocked the hell outta me.
It's insane. All of it.
But if needing her is madness...
Then hell, I'll stay crazy. I'll wear it like a badge.
If wanting her is some fucked-up sin? Then yeah, sign me up. I'll burn for it. Burn happily.
And if having her is a dream I'm not meant to have...
Then I swear, I'll fight every damn morning just to stay asleep.
She ruins me.
One look—and I forget how to breathe.
One touch—and my sanity just cracks, falls apart like it was made of glass.
And when she smiles?
Game over.
World disappears.
Nothing else exists.
Does she even know?
No. Of course not.
She walks around like she's not doing anything, while I'm here falling to pieces just hearing her laugh. She's soft edges and fierce eyes. The kind of storm you don't survive. The kind you don't want to survive.
It's not just attraction anymore. It's not even just obsession.
It's... ownership.
Yeah, I fucking said it.
I belong to her.
Mind. Body. Soul.
Every ruined, broken, chaotic piece of me—it's already hers.
I used to love silence. Craved it.
Now? It pisses me off. Unless it's filled with her voice.
Her breathing.
Her goddamn presence.
Is this love?
This insane, aching, all-consuming mess inside me?
Shit, maybe.
But if this is love—this storm in my chest, this need that never dies—then I don't ever want to be sane again.
She's the calm and the chaos.
And I'm already hers.
Even if she never chooses me...
I already have.
The morning light filters through the cream curtains like liquid gold, lazy and slow. It crawls up the bed, warms the sheets, rests on his chest like a quiet promise. Veer stirs beneath the covers, not quite awake, not quite asleep—caught in that fragile place where dreams haven't yet learned they're not real.
There's warmth—tangible, almost too perfect to be natural. The scent of fresh coffee weaves its way into the room, rich and familiar. A soft hum of a melody he can't place drifts through the hallway. And then—
Laughter.
Her laughter.
That soft, musical ripple that makes the air feel softer. Like the world was made only to carry that sound to his ears. He follows it instinctively, like a man pulled by gravity.
His bare feet press against the wooden floor, warm underfoot. Every step toward the kitchen feels like coming home.
She's there. Aaradhya. Standing in front of the stove, back to him, wearing his black hoodie that falls to her thighs. The sleeves swallow her hands. Her hair is pulled into a lazy bun, a few strands curling near her neck. She's humming, stirring something in a pan, and mumbling curses about "culinary disasters waiting to happen."
Aaradhya (without turning): "If this is your idea of breakfast in bed, I'm filing a complaint."
Veer (leaning against the doorway, smirking): "You won't. You love poison when it's served with my charm."
She throws a piece of burnt toast over her shoulder without looking. He catches it, grinning like a fool.
The kitchen is filled with the soft buzz of domestic chaos—burnt bread, laughter echoing off the walls, mismatched mugs on the counter. It's not perfect. It's theirs.
He watches her, just watches. The way she talks to the pan like it insulted her ancestors. The way she scrunches her nose when the oil pops. The way his hoodie slides off one shoulder. He doesn't say anything for a long time. He just lets the moment exist.
The light shifts.
Suddenly, they're on the living room floor. The morning has slipped away, and evening has taken its place. A movie plays on the television, but neither of them is watching. Her head is in his lap, his fingers tangled in her hair. She's tracing small circles on his arm with her thumb.
Aaradhya (softly): "Do you ever think about us before? Before our marriage?"
Veer: "All the time, especially about losing you."
She sits up, turns toward him, and cups his face in her palms like he's the only thing in the world that matters.
Aaradhya: "You won't. I am always by your side."
He believes her.
He has to.
Because believing her feels like breathing.
And just like that—night falls.
The rain taps gently against the window, like a lullaby. A candle flickers near the bed, casting shadows on the wall. She's asleep beside him now, curled into him, her cheek resting over his heartbeat. One hand clutches his shirt like it anchors her.
He's not moving. He just lies there, memorizing the weight of her. The quiet. The peace. He closes his eyes, inhaling her scent—lavender and something that feels like home.
And then—
His eyes blink open.
The ceiling above him is too plain. Too real. Too cold.
The candlelight is gone. So is the rain.
He sits up, heart still racing, breath uneven. The silence in the room isn't comforting. It's stark. His shirt isn't on her. His kitchen isn't filled with her laughter. His lap isn't her pillow.
She's not here.
The dream shatters slowly, leaving behind nothing but a hollow ache where she used to be.
He rubs a hand across his face, dragging it through his hair, trying to hold on to the pieces that are already slipping.
And then he says it—quietly, almost to himself, almost like if he says it too loud, it might become too real.
Veer (barely a whisper): "She's not even mine... and I've already built a life around her."
The silence answers him. But it isn't warm. It isn't hers.
He stares at the empty room.
At the bed that's too big.
At the hoodie draped over the chair she's never worn.
He doesn't cry. Veer doesn't cry.
But damn, it hurts like hell.
And still, underneath it all, the remnants of her laughter cling to the air like a memory refusing to fade.
He lies back down, turns toward the side she would've taken, and closes his eyes.
Maybe, just maybe... if he's lucky enough, she'll be waiting in the dream again.