The moment Maholi stepped past the rusted gate of her narrow lane, her phone buzzed again.The screen glowed.
Unknown Number.She already knew the type.
"Are you Abir's secret wife?""You gold-digger!""Why did he choose you?"
She shut the phone off.Not just the sound.The world.
The narrow alley smelled like damp cement and rotting guava. Familiar, grounding scents.But tonight, even home felt like it had been touched — tainted — by the artificial glitter she never asked for.
The door creaked as she pushed it open. Her sanctuary.Or it used to be.
Inside, her twin brothers — Arko and Arin, wide-eyed and barely twelve — were plastered in front of the TV, clutching the remote like it was a live wire.Onscreen: Abir, arm wrapped around her waist, smirking at the press, saying marriage.
"Didi!" they shrieked, leaping up. "Are you really marrying a film hero!?"
Maholi opened her mouth, but no words came.
From the kitchen, her mother stepped out, wiping her hands on an old cotton towel. Her face carried more worry than lines.
"Maholi," she asked, her voice measured, almost too gentle, "what exactly is going on? Everyone's calling us — neighbors, aunties, even your tuition kids' parents."
Maholi dropped her bag like it weighed more than her. She sank to the floor, knees pulled up.
"No. Yes. I mean—it's fake," she stammered. "I went to a show. That's all. And now it's everywhere!"
Before anyone could react, the door opened again. Her father walked in, quiet and slow, his shirt sleeves rolled and eyes sharp as ever.
He didn't raise his voice.Didn't scold.
He just sat beside her and placed a weathered palm on her back.
"We raised you with dreams," he said softly. "Not for selling them."
Tears rose, sudden and hot.
"I didn't sell anything, Baba. I just picked up a necklace..."
And so, she told them everything. The locket. The lie. The press. The performance.Her mother sat slowly beside her. By the end of it, her frown had unraveled into worry. Her father's silence had grown longer. But it wasn't cold.
"You need to stay quiet for now," her mother finally said. "The storm will pass. But don't let that man treat you like a rag someone uses and throws."
Her father added, "And if you still want to be a writer… then be one. But write your own name. Not as someone's fake girlfriend."
Maholi nodded, her throat tight.
Maybe the locket had burned more than just her neck that night.
Across the city, in a glass-walled penthouse wrapped in clouds and privilege, Abir stood at his window like a statue carved in moonlight.
The city below pulsed with light, noise, and opinion.His world.
And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
His fingers brushed the locket now hanging around his neck again — heavier than it had ever felt.
From the living room, his manager's voice echoed, harsh and exasperated.
"You created a mess, Abir. Why would you lie about a girlfriend in front of the press like that? Do you know what's happening online? The hashtags won't stop. Sponsors are confused. Your father is furious."
Abir didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed somewhere far below the skyline. Or maybe deeper, inside himself.
He was stuck.On her eyes.
Brown. Almond-shaped. Rimmed with lashes clumped from stress and rain.
Not extraordinary.But unforgettable.
Because he had seen them before.Long ago.Not in films.Not in dreams.
Maybe… in blood.
A flash of memory.A scream.His mother's eyes — wide, terrified, familiar — as her body fell across his.
He inhaled sharply.
No.It couldn't be.
And yet—Why did she make him feel like he'd lived this moment before?
She wasn't glamorous. Not loud. Didn't wear diamonds or beg for selfies.She wore frayed jeans. Carried ink-stained notebooks.
And she looked at him — not like a fan, not like a lover, not like someone hoping for fame.
She looked at him like he was just a man.
Broken. Confusing. Misunderstood.
That irritated him.And yet… it also restlessed him.
He shrugged off his jacket, poured himself a drink.The locket bumped the rim of the glass with a soft clink.
He paused.
His mother's voice came to him, blurred by time, warm and whispering:
"You'll remember me through this, my moonlight boy... no matter what happens."
His chest tightened.
He set the glass down, untouched.
Outside, the city buzzed with opinions, but Abir didn't care.He wasn't thinking of fans.He wasn't thinking of fame.
He was thinking of her.And the eyes he couldn't — shouldn't — remember.