Vihaan's POV:
She looked like a child—wide-eyed, leaning toward the glass as if the city might slip away if she blinked. The neon signs and dusty rose walls flashed across her face, and for a second she didn't notice me watching.
I slipped my phone from my jacket pocket and quietly angled it, the shutter sound barely a whisper. Click. The screen caught her profile bathed in the last gold of sunset: hair tousled from the travel, lips parted in a soft gasp at some street-side elephant mural.
I wanted to capture every moment with her—not the posed smiles but these tiny, unguarded sparks that felt like ours alone.
She finally turned, catching me mid-grin. "Did you just take a picture of me?"
"Maybe," I said, feigning innocence.
Ama narrowed her eyes, a playful suspicion dancing there. "Delete it."
"No chance," I replied, locking the screen and tucking the phone back safely. "This is evidence of you falling hopelessly in love with Jaipur."
Her laugh was half a scoff, half music. "Evidence of you being a secret photographer."
"Guilty," I admitted. "But you're kind of… impossible not to photograph."
A faint flush colored her cheeks, but she turned back to the window without another word. Outside, the pink city stretched ahead, glowing under strings of lanterns as evening settled—a perfect frame for the quiet picture now living in my phone and, if I was honest, already burned into memory.
The car slowed as we left Jaipur's bright streets and turned onto a quieter lane edged with bougainvillea. Warm yellow lights glowed from a sandstone house that looked as though it had been watching over the city for generations.
Ama straightened in her seat, eyes wide. "This is beautiful," she whispered, almost like she was afraid to break the stillness.
"This is Nani and Nana's place," I said, my own voice softening. "Home."
Before I could even open her door, the heavy wooden gate creaked and a pair of familiar figures appeared—my nani, wrapped in a deep maroon shawl, and my nana, still tall and sharp-eyed despite the years.
"Vihaan!" Nani's voice carried across the courtyard, warm and commanding all at once. She reached me first, pulling me into a hug that smelled of sandalwood and cardamom. "It's been too long, beta."
I smiled against her shoulder. "I missed you too, Nani."
Her eyes found Ama and brightened with instant curiosity. "And who is this lovely young lady?"
Ama offered a gentle smile, extending her hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Amara. It's so wonderful to finally meet you."
Nani clasped her hand with both of hers, a delighted laugh escaping. "Such a beautiful name—and such pretty manners," she said warmly, switching easily to English. "Come inside, both of you. We have chai and fresh pakoras waiting."
Nana stepped forward with a chuckle, giving Ama a polite nod. "Welcome to Jaipur," he said.
As we walked through the gate, Strings of marigolds swayed in the evening breeze, and Ama's eyes followed every detail with open wonder.
Home, I thought, sneaking a glance at her while she looked around. And for the first time, the word felt bigger—like it might have room for both of us.
Inside, the house smelled of cardamom, ghee, and something subtly floral—like time itself had been simmering on the stove. Nani led us to a wide veranda where low wicker chairs surrounded a carved wooden table. A kettle of chai steamed beside a plate piled high with golden pakoras.
Ama sat gingerly at first, but her eyes sparkled as she took everything in: the brass lamps, the strings of marigolds, the faint music drifting from a neighbor's courtyard.
"Amara, beta, you must taste these while they are hot," Nani said, gently sliding the plate toward her. "Vihaan always ate half the batch as a child before they reached the table."
"Nani!" I groaned, though I couldn't help laughing.
Ama grinned, reaching for one. "I think that's a tradition worth keeping." She bit into the crisp pakora, and her eyes widened. "Oh wow—this is amazing."
Nana chuckled, settling into the chair across from us. "Careful. Once you like her pakoras, you'll never stop asking for them."
Nani swatted his arm lightly, but her smile was radiant. "So, Amara," she said, her English lilting but clear, "tell us—what do you think of Jaipur so far?"
Ama brushed a crumb from her fingers. "It's… magical," she said after a beat. "Everything feels alive—like the city has a heartbeat."
"That's exactly how I describe it," I added, unable to hide my own grin.
Nani's eyes twinkled. "And how are you finding our Vihaan? He used to be such a shy boy. Is he still shy?"
Ama looked at me, mischief flickering in her gaze. "Sometimes," she said, pretending to think. "But only when he's trying to impress someone."
Heat crept up my neck. "Nani, don't encourage her," I muttered, which only made everyone laugh.
The evening drifted by with easy stories—Nani recalling how I once tried to climb the mango tree and got stuck halfway; Nana teasing me about my habit of quoting case law even as a teenager. Ama listened, laughing in all the right places, asking small, curious questions that made my grandparents beam.
Later, as the sky turned a deep indigo and lanterns flickered to life, Nani reached over and patted Ama's hand. "You are most welcome here, child. This house is happier tonight."
Ama's smile softened, and I felt a quiet warmth spread through me, like the first sip of hot chai on a cold morning.
Amara's POV:
Things were smoother than I thought. Vihaan's family was most loving. Nani treated me like she knew me for years. I didn't even get to know when the day ended. After having dinner together, Vihaan was on the terrace, sitting, waiting for me.
The breeze grew cooler, carrying the faint rustle of neem leaves from the courtyard below. I set my cup down and hugged my knees, letting the quiet soak in.
"My mother used to bring me up here," Vihaan said after a long pause. "She'd tell me the stars could keep secrets better than people."
I turned toward him, the starlight catching the softness in his eyes. "Do you believe that?"
He shrugged, a slow movement. "Maybe. I think… they just listen. No judgment, no advice. Just there."
I followed his gaze upward. The sky looked impossibly deep, every constellation sharper than I'd ever seen. "Then what do you tell them?" I asked gently.
He hesitated, the corners of his mouth tilting in a wry, almost-smile. "Mostly about things I'm afraid to say out loud. About cases that feel too heavy. About…" He exhaled, the word trailing off.
"About what?" I prompted softly.
"You," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "How meeting you makes everything feel… different. Like the noise in my head finally has somewhere to rest."
My breath caught. I shifted closer, until our shoulders brushed. "That isn't something you have to keep secret," I said.
He turned, eyes searching mine. "Still feels like the stars should hear it first."
We stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, the sky wide and endless above us. The house below had gone completely still, the city a gentle glow on the horizon. I reached for his hand and found it waiting, warm and steady.
"Maybe we'll both tell the stars," I whispered.
He squeezed my fingers, a quiet promise against the night.