The lecture ended, but Shant barely noticed. He packed his bag on autopilot, nodded at Rishi's "see you tomorrow," and started to stand.
"Wait, where you going?" Rishi asked, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
"Home," Shant said.
"Yeah, but which way? I'm heading toward the main gate."
Shant hesitated. "I need to stop somewhere first."
Rishi raised an eyebrow. "Stop where?"
"Just... a shop. Won't take long."
"What shop?"
Shant shrugged, noncommittal. "I'll catch up with you later."
But Rishi fell into step beside him anyway. "Nah, I got time. Let's go."
They walked out into the fading afternoon light. The campus was emptying, students scattering toward bus stops and chai stalls. Shant turned down a side street, away from the usual route home.
"Where the hell are we going?" Rishi asked.
"It's nearby."
"You're being weird, man."
Shant didn't respond. His mind was still circling the dream from last night. The happy one. Her voice, warm and bright. The flowers.
"Look at these ones. They're perfect. I could look at them forever."
He couldn't remember which flowers she'd been talking about. Yellow? White? Something else? The details were already slipping away, like they always did by morning.
But he remembered the feeling. The warmth of that moment. The way she'd smiled.
And he wanted to hold onto it. Even if it was just a dream.
Even if it made no sense.
They turned a corner, and the flower shop came into view.
Shant stopped.
Buckets of roses and marigolds sat out front, their colors bright against the gray of the street. The owner, an older man in a faded shirt, was arranging stems in a vase.
Rishi stared at the shop, then at Shant. "A flower shop?"
Shant walked toward it without answering.
"Dude, seriously?" Rishi followed, grinning now. "What are you, a little girl? You buying flowers?"
"Shut up."
"For who? You got a girlfriend you're not telling me about?"
Shant ignored him and stopped in front of the buckets. White roses. Yellow marigolds. Red carnations. The colors blurred together, and he couldn't remember. Couldn't pin down which ones she'd loved.
He stood there, staring, his hand hovering over the stems.
Which ones?
Rishi's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and groaned. "It's Ananya. Hang on."
He stepped aside, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hey, baby. Yeah, I'm still on campus. What? Now? I thought we were meeting at seven..."
Shant tuned him out. He kept staring at the flowers, trying to remember.
Yellow or white?
And then it hit him.
A flash.
He was standing here. Right here. In front of this exact flower shop.
But he wasn't alone.
She was beside him, leaning over the buckets, her face bright with curiosity.
"White ones or yellow ones?" she asked, turning to him.
He couldn't see her face clearly. The dream was hazy, like looking through fogged glass. But he could hear her voice. Feel her presence.
"I don't know," he said. "You pick."
She smiled. He couldn't see it, but he felt it.
"Both," she said, reaching for the white roses and the yellow marigolds. "Why choose when you can have both?"
They paid. The old man wrapped the flowers in brown paper. And they started walking.
And then she stopped.
Her head turned, and Shant followed her gaze.
The fortune teller.
Sitting beside the flower shop, half-hidden in the shadows. Candles flickering. Incense curling upward.
"Let's go," she said, and there was excitement in her voice. Pure, unfiltered curiosity.
"You believe in this stuff?" he asked, teasing.
"I believe in trying everything once. Come on."
And she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stall.
The memory dissolved.
Shant blinked, and he was back on the street, staring at the flowers.
His heart was pounding.
White and yellow.
Both.
He turned to the shopkeeper. "I'll take white roses and yellow marigolds. A few of each."
The man nodded and started wrapping them.
Rishi came back, phone still pressed to his ear. "Yeah, okay, I'll be there in ten. Love you too." He hung up and looked at Shant. "I gotta go. Ananya's having some crisis about her assignment or something. You good here?"
"Yeah," Shant said quietly. "I'm good."
Rishi gave him a weird look. "You sure you're okay, man? You've been acting strange all day."
"I'm fine."
"Alright. See you tomorrow."
Rishi clapped him on the shoulder and jogged off down the street, disappearing into the evening crowd.
Shant paid for the flowers and took the wrapped bundle in his hands.
And then his eyes drifted to the right.
The fortune teller's stall.
The woman was still there, sitting cross-legged behind her cloth, arranging candles.
And suddenly, Shant's chest tightened.
He'd been here before.
With her.
The memory was already there, waiting. They'd walked past the flower shop, flowers in hand, and she'd seen the fortune teller and pulled him inside.
He didn't remember what the woman had said. But he remembered sitting beside her, her presence warm and steady.
Shant's feet moved before he thought about it.
He walked toward the stall.
The woman looked up as he approached. She was in her late forties, maybe older. Her face was lined but sharp, her eyes dark and knowing. She wore a deep red shawl over her shoulders, and her presence felt heavy. Magnetic.
She didn't say anything. Just gestured to the space in front of her.
Shant hesitated.
Then he sat down, the flowers resting in his lap.
The incense smoke made his eyes water.
"Give me your palm," the woman said, her voice low and steady.
He did.
She traced the lines of his hand with one finger, her touch cool and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she looked up at him.
"The wheel of destiny is turning," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "What you call the past is yet to come. What you fear as future has already passed. At the crossroads, every choice is an echo. Choose carefully, or the echo will choose for you."
Shant stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
The woman let go of his hand and leaned back.
"It means," she said slowly, "that time is not a line. It is a circle. And you are standing at the place where it bends."
"I don't understand."
"You will," she said. "When the wheel turns again."
Shant wanted to ask more. Wanted to demand clarity. But the woman waved her hand, dismissing him.
"Go," she said. "Your answers are not here."
Shant stood, his legs unsteady, and stepped back onto the street.
His mind was spinning.
The past is yet to come. The future has already passed.
What the hell did that mean?
Were the dreams memories of something that already happened? Or were they showing him what was going to happen? Or both? Or neither?
He walked slowly, the flowers clutched in his hand, the fortune teller's words echoing in his head.
Time is not a line. It is a circle.
Was time really a circle? Were the dreams showing him something that already happened, or something that was going to happen? Or both?
He thought about the flower shop memory. Her voice. "Both. Why choose when you can have both?"
Had that already happened? Or was it going to happen?
His head hurt.
He stopped at the edge of the street, watching the evening crowd flow past him. Rickshaws honking. Vendors shouting. The city moving forward, oblivious.
He stared at the flowers in his hand. White roses. Yellow marigolds.
"Why choose when you can have both?"
And then something collided with his shoulder.
Bump.
Not hard, but enough to jolt him out of his head.
"Sorry!"
The voice was quick, breathless, already moving away.
But Shant froze.
That voice.
He knew that voice.
Goosebumps rippled down his arms, his scalp prickling. It was her. The voice from the dreams. The same cadence, the same warmth, the same...
He spun around.
A figure in the crowd. A girl, moving fast, weaving between people. He caught a glimpse. Long dark hair, a blue dupatta, a bag slung over her shoulder.
And then she was gone.
Swallowed by the sea of bodies.
"Wait!" Shant shouted, pushing forward.
But the street was packed. Evening rush. People everywhere, moving in every direction.
He shoved past someone, muttered an apology, kept moving. The flowers crumpled in his grip.
Where did she go?
He turned left, scanning the crowd. Nothing.
Turned right. Still nothing.
His heart was pounding now, panic rising in his chest.
It was her. I know it was her.
He ran.
He pushed past a group of students, nearly knocking someone's bag to the ground. "Sorry!" he shouted over his shoulder, not stopping.
He turned down a side street, scanning every face. Not her. Not her. Not her.
He stopped a girl with long dark hair. "Excuse me, did you see..." But she was already walking away, confused.
He checked another street. A tea stall. A bus stop.
Nothing.
His lungs burned. His legs ached. The flowers were crumpled in his grip, petals falling to the pavement.
And then, there.
A girl, walking away, her back to him.
The same height. The same hair.
Shant lunged forward and grabbed her hand.
"Aradhya!"
The name came out of his mouth before he even thought it.
The girl turned, startled, and Shant's stomach dropped.
It wasn't her.
The face was wrong. The eyes were wrong. Everything was wrong.
The girl yanked her hand away, stumbling backward, her eyes wide with alarm. "What the hell?" She clutched her bag like he might grab it next.
"I... I'm sorry," Shant stammered, stepping back. "I thought you were someone else."
The girl gave him a wary look, then turned and hurried away, glancing back once to make sure he wasn't following.
Shant stood frozen, staring at his empty hand.
Aradhya.
The name sat heavy in his chest, like it had always been there. Like he'd been carrying it for years without knowing.
Where had it come from?
He'd never heard that name before. Not in real life. Not in the dreams, at least not that he could remember.
But it had felt RIGHT. Like his mouth had known before his brain did.
Who was Aradhya?
And why did saying her name feel like coming home?
He looked around one more time, desperately scanning the crowd.
But she was gone.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, breathing hard, people flowing around him like he was a stone in a river.
She was gone.
He'd lost her.
Shant walked the rest of the way home in a daze, the flowers wilting slightly in his grip.
His mind kept replaying it. The collision. The voice. The way his body had reacted before his brain caught up.
And the name.
Aradhya.
By the time he reached his apartment, the sun was setting. The city was bathed in orange light, long shadows stretching across the streets.
Shant climbed the stairs slowly, his legs heavy.
Inside, the apartment was quiet. His mother was in the kitchen, washing dishes. His father's door was still closed.
Shant walked over to her and held out the flowers.
She turned, her hands still wet, and stared at the bundle. Her eyes widened.
"Shant..."
He didn't say anything. Just placed them gently on the counter.
For a moment, she just looked at them. Then she reached out, her fingers brushing the petals. White roses. Yellow marigolds.
She looked up at him, her eyes glassy, and for a moment she looked younger. Like the version of herself from before the fights, before the exhaustion.
"I haven't gotten flowers in years," she whispered.
She pulled him into a hug, tight and fierce, and Shant felt something crack in his chest. He hugged her back, his chin resting on her shoulder, and for just a moment, the world felt smaller. Quieter.
When she pulled away, she was smiling, but her eyes were wet.
"Thank you," she said, her voice thick.
Shant nodded, unable to speak.
She turned back to the flowers, arranging them carefully in a glass, and Shant watched her for a moment before heading to his room.
Shant went straight to his room, dropped his bag, and sat at his desk.
He stared at his diary.
Then he picked up a pen and wrote.
August 29th.
I met her today.
I don't know how I know. But I know.
Her voice. It was the same. Exactly the same.
And I called her Aradhya.
I've never heard that name before. But when I said it, it felt like the only name that made sense.
Who is she?
I bought flowers today. White and yellow. The ones she loved. I gave them to Ma.
But I can't stop thinking about her.
Aradhya.
He stared at the words.
Then he closed the diary and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, the city hummed.
Inside, Shant sat in silence, whispering a name he didn't understand.
"Aradhya."