A razor edged wind howled through the concrete canyons of Mumbai, slicing past flickering neon signs that bled garish light onto slicked streets.
it smelled of exhaust, metallic tang of decay.Inside the cramped, grimy changing room of 'Cafe Mirage', two waiters having a chat inside the lockers.
"Hey, you see that new girl who started yesterday? Damn, man, she is fire." Ravi spoke while he struggled out of his uniform.
His companion, Rishabh, snorted, pulling on faded denim. "Forget it, bro. She's orbiting planets you can't even see with that salary. she is out of your league, out of your world."
"I know, but..." Ravi trailed off, puffing his chest out uselessly.
'League. World. Meaningless words in a meaningless life.'
The thought slithered, cold and familiar, through the mind of the Aarav.
He peeled off his own stiff collared shirt, the cheap polyster clinging with sweat. He moved with the weary efficiency of someone long accustomed to being unseen.
Aarav Singh, twenty eight, average build, forgettable face.
Eyes holding the dull sheen of the roadside polished stone.
For him, it doesn't matter whether he is optimistic or pessimistic; both were luxurious for those lives held in consequences.
His life was a script written in mediocrity. He was born into a obscence weath-- Singh Family, their name whispered with reverence in corporate boardrooms.
Yet, his childhood was nothing of that sort. What an irony.
He was bullied relentlessly. His crime? Being the quiet boy seated beside a girl, the undisputed queen bee of Silver Oak International.
Each bruise, each tearful plea met with dismissive waves from his parents. "Boys will be boys, Aarav. Don't be so sensitive. Focus on your studies."
Perfection.
That was the Singh mandate. His younger brother, an academic and a sports prodigy, was effortlessly accepted into Oxford.
Applause was his birthright.
His elder sister, the nation's top Idol, her voice a siren song that filled stadiums.
Adored.
Cherished.
The golden child.
For Aarav? Achievement was merely expected, a baseline not worthy of praise.
"First in class? Good. That's your minimum, Aarav. Your brother won the national competition again."
A genius, they'd called him once, before the constant jealousy at school and the glacial indifference at home eroded his spirit like acid rain.
The depression and the ignorance from his parents, made his grades go down into the mud. The fall was spectacular, a public disgrace. In the following year' s he didn't achieve anything worthy in their eyes
The disownment wasn't shouted; it was delivered over cold poached eggs in the sun-drenched breakfast room.
"You are 20 years old now. You are an independent man. For the family's sake, Aarav. You understand. Take this… and go." A cheque, insultingly small, a final severance.
He fled the suffocating prison that night that he used to call his home, carrying only a bag and the crushing weight of failure.
Years bled into one another from one to another dead-end job: data entry clerk, warehouse packer, courier boy.
Each ended the same way: layoffs, closures, or the quiet realization he was simply… replaceable. Now, he served overpriced coffee and limp sandwiches at Cafe Mirage, the smell of burnt espresso beans permanently etched in his nostrils.
Four years. Not a single call. Not a text.
He pulled on a sweater, the coarse wool scratching his neck
Home.
The word was a bitter joke. A single room, one bulb hanging from a cracked ceiling, overlooking a perpetually damp alley where rats held dominion. But it was his. His only sanctuary.
"Tomorrow's Sunday," Rishabh said, slamming his locker shut. "Finally get some sleep, eh?"
"Hmm," Aarav grunted, the minimal response expected.
'Sleep? Maybe. Finish the volume of that online novel, … finally.'
Hope was a treacherous thing. He shouldered his worn backpack, the zipper perpetually half-broken, and pushed out into the city's indifferent roar.
.....
One Year Later
The park bench felt like hot stove beneath him.
Four o'clock.
The meticulously planned hour.
Golden sunlight dappled through the Ashoka trees.
He clutched the small velvet box in his pocket like a talisman, its edges digging into his palm.
'Where is she?'
'At least… at least this one piece of happiness. A sliver of light. Gratitude, fragile and desperate, rose in his throat. Thank you… whoever's listening. For Laura'.
The absurdity of it still stunned him.
Laura Mehta.
Vibrant. Sharp. Eyes like dark amber, holding a warmth that had melted something frozen inside him. How? Why?
Rewind. Six months ago.
The cafe was closing, the air thick with the scent of cleaning chemicals.
Aarav was wiping down the espresso machine, lost in the monotony.
"Hey… Aarav?" Her voice, hesitant, cut through the clatter.
He turned. Laura stood there, apron already off, her dark hair escaping its ponytail.
She looked… nervous. Unexpectedly so.
"Can we… talk? In private? After?" Her gaze flickered away, then back, holding his.
"Me?" The word came out hoarse, stupid.
"Yes, you." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "It's… important."
"Oh. Sure."
"Don't you dare forget!" The playful edge returned, but tension hummed beneath it.
He nodded, mute. The walk to the grimy alley behind the cafe felt like crossing a chasm.
His mind raced. 'Confession? Hers? Mine? Don't be an idiot. Why would she…? you are just a nobody.
Under the flickering, dying tube light by the service door, she'd turned. The city sounds faded to a distant hum.
"Aarav… I like you." Simple. Direct. Like a hammer blow.
"Eh?" His brain short-circuited.
"Please. Go out with me." Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes held his, unwavering.
"Eh…?" Utter disbelief choked him.
"Ehhhh." The sound escaped, pathetic.
"Don't joke with me," he managed, his voice scraping raw.
"I'm serious." She stepped closer. He could smell the faint fragrance of her shampoo.
"Why? Why me? I'm… nobody." The question was ripped from him, born of ingrained worthlessness.
She tilted her head. "I don't know… not entirely. You… you have this quiet strength. You listen. Really listen. You're honest. Even when it's hard. You feel… safe. Solid. Like coming home." She swallowed. "I just… knew I had to say it. Now."
That night, walking home alone, the stars had seemed brighter. For the first time in a decade, a fragile warmth bloomed in his chest.
Not the gilded cage of the Singh mansion, but something real. Something his.
....
Present Day
4:30 PM.
The golden light had turned harsh, glaring.
Sweat trickled down his temple despite the cooling breeze. Anxiety, a cold serpent, coiled tighter in his gut.
'Maybe she's waiting at the entrance? Got delayed?'
"Screw this heat," he muttered, his throat parched. He went to the nesrby park vendor machine and bought a lemonade, the tartness barely cutting through his nerves. He took a gulp.
'Right. Back. She'll be there.' He turned, the can slick in his hand.
VROOOOOOOM!
The roar wasn't just loud; it was like a roar, a predator's snarl tearing through the peaceful afternoon.
A sleek, obsidian sports car rocketed past him, tires screeching on the road mere inches from where Aarav stood.
He jerked back, reflexively. The flimsy can was spilled on the ground. Sticky, fluorescent yellow liquid exploded outwards, drenching his worn shirt and trousers in a sickly-sweet cascade.
"Fucker" The curse came from him, hot and furious. "Can't you see? Blind?" He glared after the retreating, ill mannered driver, the humiliation burning as fiercely as the stain spreading across his cheap cotton shirt.
'Perfect. Just perfect. Propose looking like a street joke'r.
The car didn't vanish. It braked hard, tires smoking, pulling up smoothly in front of a gleaming white bungalow opposite the park, a world away from Aarav's alley.
The door hissed horizontally with an expensive sigh.
First, the man. Tall. Impossibly handsome in a way sculpted by money and genetics. Sharp, tailored suit that probably cost more than Aarav made in a year. Hair artfully tousled. An aura of effortless superiority radiated from him as he stepped onto the pavement.
Then, the woman. Sliding out gracefully. Slim legs. Expensive heels clicking. A dress that clung like liquid silk. Auburn hair catching the sun. Laughter died on perfectly glossed lips as her eyes, wide with shock, locked onto Aarav.
Laura.
Aarav froze.