The fawn

“Fuck.”

I mutter it under my breath, but loud enough for the empty room to hear, as my eyes flick to the clock on the wall in front of me. Great. Just great. I'm late. Again. Or, well, about to be, unless I somehow develop teleportation skills in the next ten minutes.

Honestly, it would be a miracle if I even make it to the airport in one piece. Not after the trainwreck of a night I had, staying out way too late at some dumb party I didn’t even like. I didn’t want to go in the first place. But peer pressure is louder than common sense, isn’t it?

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the knots of regret tangled in it, and sigh. Deep, dramatic, cause who am I if not dramatic. My closet throws up half its contents onto the floor while I panic like a toddler trying to do house chores. My heels click against the wooden floor, sharp and unforgiving, like they’re judging me too.

And of course, of course, that’s when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I yank it out and answer without checking the name.

“Where the fuck are you, Sushrita?”

Mira. Of course it’s Mira. Her voice drills straight into my brain like a headache in human form.

“I’m almost done,” I lie, tossing the phone onto the bed and putting her on speaker. My hands are too busy panic-folding underwear. “I’ll be there before ten.”

My eyes flick back to the clock.

9:22 AM.

I have exactly thirty eight minutes to either become a miracle or a disaster. Odds are not in my favor.

“Be quick,” she says. Softer this time. Almost... caring?

I don’t really remember how we became friends. One of those weird friendships. Where we are not quite besties, not quite strangers. But she sticks around. She shows up. And in the end, that’s what counts.

I snap back to reality, zip up my suitcase and pull it off the bed with a thud before ending the call.

---

Later. On the flight.

I’m sitting by the window. Finally. After begging Mira like a lost puppy at the check-in counter. Not my finest moment, but hey it's ok to be desperate at times isn't it?

The plane’s taken off. Shimla-bound. Holiday for most people. For me? A getaway from this world, that might lead me into signing the first contract of my first book.

I lean my head against the window, stare at the clouds outside. They look... soft. Dreamy. Like pillows made of regrets, what ifs and maybes.

I think about how much I’ve left behind. How much I might find.

And then like a ghost from a dream I think about him.

That boy.

I don’t remember his name. Isn’t that strange? That someone can live in your memory rent free for years and you don’t even know what to call them?

---

Sixteen years ago.

I was six. Two messy braids. Uniform stained from lunch and misery. My eyes swollen from crying. My schoolbag felt heavier than my whole existence.

The girls in my class had been mean. Real mean. The kind of mean that seeps into your bones and convinces you you’re unlovable. I hated everything already. Six years old, and I was done.

I sniffled all the way home, wiping my nose on my sleeve, salty tears stinging my skin. Everything looked like a blur until suddenly it didn’t.

There he was.

A boy. Maybe my age. He had a dullish yellow tshirt with navy blue shorts. Standing on the street with a cycle parked beside him. Just... looking at me.

I stopped. Blinked. Looked behind me to see if he was staring at someone else. Nope. Definitely me.

I walked up, awkward and snotty.

“What?” I asked, sniffing, voice all wobbly and small. My handkerchief was already half soaked by then.

He just looked at me, shrugged a little, and asked, casual as anything

“Want a ride?”

I stared. Like...what?

And then, like the brilliant, no stranger danger awareness child I obviously nodded. (He was cute, so does that count?)

I watch him hop onto his cycle like he’s done it a hundred times before. Confident. Casual. Like the world just makes sense to him yet it was all a mess just for me.

I stand there for a second like an idiot, unsure what to do with my hands or my life. Then I just... climb on. I sat on the seat behind him and lightly grabbed the back of his shirt cause one, I didn't wanna fall mid ride and two i don't know what I was doing.

He starts pedaling. No explanation. No plan. Just... going.

And honestly? I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about where we were headed. All I knew was that this was more interesting than crying and looking like a soggy raccoon in the middle of the street.

At some point, I must’ve gotten tired, tired of being sad, tired of being sweet, or just tired in that weird, heavy way little kids could get. So I leaned my head on his back. Didn’t even think about it. I just did.

I closed my eyes.

Then, suddenly, we stopped.

In front of a house.

It had plain white walls and this deep green roof that looked kind of serious. All I could think was: damn, this house is big. Like the kind of house where grown-ups wear shoes inside and the water in the fridge comes in glass bottles.

“Who lives here?” I asked, watching him get off the cycle.

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “I do,” he said, and offered me his hand.

I took it, I don’t know why...I just did.

He helped me down from the cycle but he didn’t let go of my hand. He held it like it was normal, like we were friends for years and this was just something we did all the time.

He walked me right up to the house, still holding my hand, and told me to wait there.

So I waited.

I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even feel scared, weirdly. I just stood there, taking in the silence, the air, the weight of everything and nothing at the same time, all I knew was I was late and I had to be back at home.

And then

A tap on my shoulder.

I turned around.

There he was again, holding something in front of my face.

A flower.

It was pink, frilly, kinda weird-looking. Like a pencil shaving, soft and sharp all at once.

A dianthus.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed it to me.

And, i just looked at the flower and then at him.

And I smiled.

It wasn't the polite kind. Nor the fake kind that was usually for my teachers.

It was the kind that sneaks up on you when you forget you were sad.

That whole morning? The crying, the bullying, the heavy weight in my chest?

Already fading into something that didn’t matter anymore.

I took the flower from his hand, held it up to my nose out of instinct. It didn’t smell like anything. But it felt like something.

Something small and good.

Like I wasn’t invisible after all...like he noticed me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, kind of shy.

“I love these flowers,” he started, like he was about to tell me a whole story...

But I cut in. “I have to get home. My mom’ll worry.”

I looked around. And without saying anything, he just... took my hand again. Like that was his job now. Like I was his responsibility.

He walked me back to the cycle.

And this time—it was different.

This time, I wasn’t just a crying kid with snot on her sleeve.

This time, I was someone holding a flower. Someone smiling.

Someone with a friend maybe.

I got home a little late that day.

But I was lighter. Happier.

Changed, even if just a little.

---

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Hello?”

The memory shattered like glass dropped in water.

I blinked up at the flight attendant, who was clearly trying to not roll her eyes while holding on to her food trolley like a lifeline.

“Oh sorry,” I said quickly, pulling myself back to reality. No clue how many times she’d been trying to get my attention.

“What would you like to have?” she asked, all polite and that plastic smile.

“Farmhouse sandwich, please.”

She nodded, grabbed it, handed it to me like it was a sacred ritual. Her hands moved so precisely like she’d done this a hundred times before (of course she has)

“Any drink, ma’am?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

She passed me a tiny bottle of mineral water and moved on down the aisle, already halfway into the next conversation.

I leaned back again, sandwich in hand, staring at nothing.

The rest of the flight? A blur.

Or maybe I just... drifted off.

---

I stepped out of the airport and took a deep breath.

The cold Shimla air hit my face, sharp, fresh, almost too honest.

I’ve always loved Shimla.

Or maybe… maybe I just hoped to love it.

I hoped it would give me something back.

Something I lost. Or something better.

Before my brain could spiral down that path again, an arm landed on my shoulder.

“Vacation, finally!!” Mira grinned like a five year old who just spotted candy.

Her joy was loud and real, and it tugged a smile out of me without effort. That’s the kind of person she was a sunshine wrapped in lipstick and eyeliner.

We worked for the same airline.

I was on the ground, airline revenue management. Numbers. Routes. Spreadsheets.

Mira was in the sky, an air hostess, always glowing and travelling from one land to another as if she belonged in the clouds.

People always asked how we met. They expected some dramatic story.

But it’s the simplest thing ever, college, we met in college.

She found me. Claimed me. Declared me as her best friend without even asking.

I never agreed out loud, but… she stuck. She stayed when others didn’t. That’s gotta count for something.

While I stood by the luggage, Mira whistled for a cab like a pro.

“Sushrita! Come on!” she called out, already halfway through convincing a taxi driver to take us up the hill.

I grabbed the two suitcases, mine and hers, and followed her lead.

The driver tossed them into the dickey, and we slid into the back seat.

Mira was still buzzing, her face practically pressed against the window.

“I’ve always wanted to go on a vacation like this. With you,” she said, turning to me with that big, open smile.

I nodded, smiling back. “Me too. First time I’ve done a trip like this with anyone but family.”

She held my hand. No words, just warm skin and understanding in the silence.

She never asked much about my family. But she knew.

She knew that they were tight fisted with affection, big on control, and small on freedom.

She knew they made me feel like a bird with clipped wings.

Her hand on mine? It reminded me they weren’t here. She was.

And that this trip wasn’t just about escape, it was about trying.

Sure, on the surface it was a break from work. A breath away from flights, rosters, and impossible schedules.

But I hadn’t come here for the snow or sightseeing.

I came because Mr. Jha lived here.

One of the most respected publishers in India.

And even though I wasn’t sure if my poems were good enough, even though a big part of me was scared out of my mind, I wanted to try. I had to.

Aviation was what I did.

But poetry? Poetry was who I was.

I’d been writing for over seven years quietly, in notebooks, on napkins, in the notes app during night shifts.

And now, I wanted those words to matter. I wanted them to reach people.

I wanted someone to read them and think,

"Hey... I'm not the only one."

The car door shut with a loud clunk, jerking me back to the present. The driver settled into his seat and started the engine.

I looked at Mira again, she was still holding my hand, her eyes now fixed on the passing trees.

And I felt it.

A quiet kind of peace.

She didn’t need to say anything.

I didn’t need to explain.

I was here.

With her.

And maybe, just maybe… something good was about to begin.

The fawn

I stood in front of Mr. Jha’s mansion, frozen.

It had already been two days since I arrived in Shimla, and every single hour since then I have been spending avoiding this moment. I had come all the way here to hand over my heart on paper… and yet, for two whole days, I kept convincing myself I wasn’t ready.

That my words were too soft. With too many flaws. And were too small to matter.

There were moments when I nearly threw it all out. My poems, my drafts, and even my old journal, the one that had poems I may not ever be public yet, spoke a lot about me. I wanted to set them all on fire just so they wouldn’t mock me anymore.

But now, I was here. Standing on the porch of his grand mansion, my palms sweaty and my heart beating out of pure panic.

I couldn’t back out. Not now.

Not when I had already emailed his assistant. Not when she had actually replied. Not when she liked my poems enough to give me a meeting.

I pushed open the heavy front door and stepped inside, the soft click of my shoes echoing off the white marble floors. The place was drenched in elegance, every corner, every wallpapered wall whispering wealth and old money. I barely had a second to take it all in before someone took me out of that world.

A woman, young, stunning, polished like everything else in this house. She smiled, the kind of smile you practice in a mirror but still manage to make it look real.

“Your name?” she asked gently.

“Sushrita” I answered, trying to hide the way my voice almost trembled.

She tilted her head slightly, thinking. “The poet?”

I blinked. “Yes” I said, almost surprised she remembered. “We spoke yesterday. About...”

“Your poems,” she finished, and her smile grew a little warmer. “You sent some samples, right? I remember now. It’s good to finally meet you in person.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. “Well, same here” I murmured.

She studied me for a second, probably catching the way my hands were clutching my bag a little too tightly. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder it was a small gesture, but it held comfort in it.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Mr. Jha has an eye for talent. He’s not easily impressed… but when he is, he really is. I think you might just have what he’s looking for.”

Her words hit me in that small, hidden part of me that still believed I could be something more.

All my life, I’d been surrounded by people who either didn’t understand or didn’t care. But somehow, I always managed to find one person who gave me a drop of encouragement, right when I needed it the most.

“Thank you” I said softly, letting her kindness sit with me for a moment.

She gestured toward a plush sofa in the living room. “You can wait there. Mr. Jha will be with you shortly.”

I gave her a grateful nod, then walked over to the couch. Every step felt slow, heavy. Like my dreams were sitting in my chest, waiting to be judged.

As I sat down, I looked around the room, the bookshelves, the art, the faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the background.

I folded my hands in my lap, closed my eyes for a second, and told myself that from here it's all going to get better, just better.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps makes me open my eyes, I stand up from the sofa and look behind me.

Mr. Jha was walking down the stairs. And to my surprise Mr. Jha looked nothing like I expected, for a man in his mid 40s

He wore a plain off-white kurta, soft and a little wrinkled, with the sleeves casually rolled up. His linen pants were light brown, loose, and comfortable with simple leather sandals on his feet, a copper bracelet on his wrist. His salt and pepper hair was tied back, his eyes calm but sharp.

He looked more like a poet who achieved success, after chasing it since eternity.

His eyes finally met mine, steady and unreadable. He didn’t say anything right away but just walked over to the couch across from mine and sat down, nodding toward the seat opposite him, as if asking me to sit.

“Miss Sushrita, is it?” he asked, his voice calm but clipped. I nodded.

“Lucy, my assistant mentioned you yesterday,” he went on. “She sent me a few of your poems too. But you know... a few poems don’t really prove anything, do they?”

His words landed rough but not loud, yet enough to make my chest tighten. Still, I didn’t flinch. Instead, I reached into my bag and placed the full manuscript on the table between us.

He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and slipped them on smoothly, before flipping through the pages slowly.

“Some of these are very personal,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper, voice colder than I’d hoped. “Are you sure you want the world to read them?”

I took a deep breath. My hands were cold, but my voice didn’t shake.

“To me, life is personal, Mr. Jha” I said quietly. “And yes, I want to share them. Because out there, there are people who feel lonely, so lonely they need something raw and real to feel seen. I’ve written for seven years, mostly for myself. But now, I want to put these words into the world… not for applause, but so someone, somewhere, can feel a little less alone. So they can read what I wrote and think, ‘Hey… this is exactly how I feel. Even if I never knew how to say it.’”

I stopped. It felt like I spoke too much, but I didn't regret it since the words were meant to be spoken.

I finally looked up at him, scanning his face for some kind of sign of approval, rejection, or anything at all. But he gave me nothing. Just silence. And for a second, my hope faltered.

Two hours later

I had been walking aimlessly for the last half-hour. No clue where I was going. No idea what I was even feeling. The kind of numb confusion that fogs up every thought.

And then… I just stopped.

Right there on a narrow path I couldn’t name. My chest tightened, my eyes stung, and without warning, the tears came. Quiet at first. Then loud and aching. I didn’t care who saw me. I didn't even bother looking around. And I definitely couldn't stop.

I didn’t even realize how hard I was crying until someone tapped my shoulder.

My vision was a blur, smudging the world. But I could make out a figure, tall and still. He held out a plastic water bottle. Without thinking, I took it and drank like my throat had been holding fire.

As the shaking eased and the tears dried on my cheeks, I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater and looked up at him.

He looked… familiar. But I couldn’t place him.

“Thanks” I murmured, a bit embarrassed.

“Want to sit somewhere?” he asked, voice calm and soft, like he had time.

And somehow, I nodded.

He turned and started walking, steady and sure, like he knew exactly where he was going. I probably shouldn’t have followed, he was a stranger after all. But I did. I wasn’t exactly known for being sensible, and something about him felt like a memory I hadn’t remembered yet.

After a while, he stopped.

I blinked. There were no benches, no fences, no signs, just trees, fog, and quiet.

Shimla. It really was this beautiful. I’d forgotten.

No one else was around. And yeah, it hit me, maybe I should be worried. What if he was dangerous? What if I was being dumb?

But then he turned to me with an open palm.

“What?” I asked, staring at his hand.

He didn’t answer. Just smiled.

That smile...God, I hated how good it was.

I took his hand.

He led me further down a small slope covered in moss and wild grass, to a spot tucked between tall trees and wrapped in soft fog.

He sat down.

On the grass.

Not a chair but grass. I followed his footsteps, by sitting beside him.

“This place,” I whispered, more to myself than him. “It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked ahead.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling the calm start to settle into my bones.

“This is where I come when things feel... heavy,” he said, finally turning to look at me. “It helps.”

I blinked. Did he think I was sad?

“Oh wait, no. I mean, yeah I was crying, and I probably looked like a sad soul, but it wasn’t because I was sad,” I blurted.

He stayed silent. Letting me speak.

“It’s... it was because I was too happy. Overwhelmed even” I said, smiling softly. “I went to meet Mr. Jha today... for my poems. For a second, I really thought he was going to say no. But then... he didn’t. He said it had been decades since he read poetry like mine. And then he offered me a contract.”

I laughed, the disbelief still lingering in my chest. “So yeah, I guess my brain just short circuited and decided the best response was to cry like my entire world has fallen apart.”

When I looked back at him, his eyes were still on me. Warm. Attentive. Like he was studying my words, my face.

“I’m glad” he said, quietly. “You know years ago, I met a girl like you. Right in the middle of the road, tears on her cheeks, school uniform all dirty, snot running down her nose.”

I tilted my head, brows furrowing. That memory...it wasn’t just familiar. It was mine.

“What did you just say?” I whispered.

He smiled again it was soft, knowing this time

But it was impossible right? How could he be him? But he knew a memory I told no one about...so it had to be him and he...

He remembered me.

The wolf

The memory of the little girl with the tear-stained face stayed with me longer than I ever expected it to. But oddly, it wasn’t her crying that lingered, it was her smile. The way her whole face lit up when I handed her a flower from my mother’s garden, a flower I didn't quite know the name of.

That moment stayed within me.

I’ve never been the overly sentimental type. I wasn’t a shy kid either. But even now, all these years later, I still wonder what made me do it, take her hand, walk her to my house like I had known her forever. I was only a boy, but I remember the voice in my head so clearly saying

“You have to protect her.”

Sixteen years later, that same voice whispered again.

I’d been walking back from the bookstore, lost in my thoughts, when I saw her, this young woman standing in the middle of a path, her body trembling, her shoulders shaking. I couldn’t see her face right away, but something in me just moved.

Without thinking, I stepped forward.

And when she looked up, my heart skipped a beat.

It was her.

I didn’t have proof. No name, no confirmation. But I knew. Just like I did back then. The same eyes, cloudy with tears but somehow still shining. The same helplessness wrapped in quiet strength.

I handed her a bottle of water. She drank like she hadn’t had anything for days. Then she wiped her tears on her sleeve, and I almost smiled.

That girl...the one with the messy school uniform and snot running down her nose, she was still here. Maybe a little taller, maybe a little braver. But still her.

When I asked if she wanted to sit, she nodded. No hesitation. No questions. No fear. Who follows a stranger that easily? She hadn’t changed one bit.

It’s funny how after all these years, I still didn’t know her name. Not because I never saw her again. I did, a few times. In passing, from a distance. But she never noticed me. And maybe I never had the guts to speak up.

But today, for some reason, I took her to my place. My secret spot. The one even my closest friends don’t know about. A patch of grass tucked in the forest, wrapped in quiet and fog. The one place that brings me peace when the world gets too loud.

Maybe I just wanted to see her smile again. Like she did with that flower.

Now, we sat side by side in silence, her presence oddly comforting.

And then she started talking.

She told me about her meeting with Mr. Jha, and how she thought he’d reject her poems, how her heart nearly stopped when he praised her work, how she signed the contract. Her voice trembled with joy, and I realized she hadn’t been crying from pain… but from happiness.

She was a poet. Of course she was.

I listened, quietly. Letting her words fall over me like soft rain.

“I’m glad,” I said when she finally stopped.

And I meant it.

I debated whether I should say anything about the memory. What if I was wrong? What if this connection was only in my head?

But… screw it. Some truths are worth risking.

“You know,” I began slowly, “years ago, I met a girl like you. Right in the middle of the road. tears staining her cheeks, school uniform all dirty, and snot running down her nose.”

I glanced at her just as her face shifted.

Confusion. Recognition. A touch of disbelief.

Her brows knitted together, and for a second she just stared at me.

Then, softly, she said, “What did you just say?”

Her voice had that quiet tremble again, not from crying but from remembering.

She blinked, eyes locked on mine. “That’s my memory.”

I nodded. “Mine too.”

She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at me like she was still piecing things together, making sure it wasn’t all some surreal coincidence.

“How did you…?” she started.

“You didn’t change,” I said with a soft smirk. “Same face. Same eyes. Still bad at hiding your emotions.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, and I watched the red bloom like a secret she couldn’t hide.

I smiled wider. Yeah… it was definitely her.

She looked at me this time really looked at me. Her eyes scanned every inch of my face like she was trying to piece something together, searching for traces of someone she once knew.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid it might shatter the quiet around us.

“Devaansh,” I said, watching her closely, knowing that for sixteen years just like me even she was clueless about the names.

And in those same sixteen years, I had gone back to that one memory of ours the way her face had crumpled with sadness, and then bloomed into a smile with just a single flower. That memory had the power to pull me back from the edge of the worst days.

“And yours?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even, casual...but my curiosity betrayed me.

“You mean my name?” she teased, tilting her head. I nodded.

“Why should I tell you? you are a stranger to me” she said suddenly, standing up and brushing the grass from her jeans like she was brushing off the moment itself.

I stayed seated for a second, smirking as I looked up at her. Then I rose, slowly, stepping a little closer, close enough to hear her breath catch.

“You say I’m a stranger,” I said, “yet you followed me into the woods… holding my hand.”

She turned pink again. Like clockwork. It was ridiculously cute.

She barely reached my shoulders, for she was 5'2", maybe 5'3". And standing at 5'10", I could see the way she looked up at me, both flustered and maybe a little mad at herself for it.

“Well, that’s because—” She paused, biting her lip like the words were fighting their way out.

“Because?” I nudged gently.

“…You felt familiar,” she said at last, softer than before. “Like I knew you.”

Those words… they landed straight in my chest.

So it wasn’t just me.

It wasn’t just my memory playing tricks. She felt it too, that strange sense of belonging, that quiet déjà vu. That warmth.

I didn’t get to reply. She turned and started walking down the trail that led back to the main road, just like that.

I blinked, then broke into a small jog to catch up. “That’s rude,” I said, pretending to sound wounded.

She stopped and spun around. “Thank you,” she said suddenly, seriously this time. “For listening. For the water. For the… grass spot,” she added with a faint smile. “And… thank you for meeting me again.”

There it was. That smile again. Like sunlight on cold skin.

It was stupid how much it meant to me.

But of course, I couldn’t just leave it at that.

“Well, I don’t accept it,” I said, folding my arms dramatically.

“What?” Her brows pulled together, confused.

“Your ‘thank you.’ I don’t take it.”

“Why?” she asked, annoyed but curious.

“Because it didn’t feel genuine. You didn’t show the right amount of gratitude in your body language,” I said, faking seriousness as I studied her face, trying not to laugh.

She crossed her arms too. “Okay, smartass. Then what do you want?”

I leaned in slightly, just enough to feel the tension shift.

“For starters… you haven’t told me your name.”

I honestly didn’t expect her to reply. I thought she’d roll her eyes, say something sarcastic, and keep walking with that little stomp of hers.

But instead, she stopped.

“Sushrita,” she said quietly, like her name was something delicate.

I said it in my head a few times...slowly, like a mantra I didn’t want to forget.

Then I let it roll off my tongue. “Sushrita.”

She nodded, confirming I’d said it right.

It fit her perfectly, like poetry stitched into a name.

“Well,” she said, already turning on her heel, “now that I’ve shown my gratitude... bye.”

And just like that, she was off again.

But I wasn’t done yet. Not even close.

I jogged in front of her, blocking her path like a very determined puppy who didn’t get enough attention. “Hey! wait.”

She sighed, already looking annoyed. “What now?”

God, why was that adorable?

“Just a name?” I raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t count as full gratitude.”

She crossed her arms. “And what does count, oh mighty Gratitude Police?”

I grinned. “How about… I waste a bit more of your time,” I said with mock drama, “and show you around Shimla?”

Her face didn’t give away much right away, so I tried to read her. A flicker in her eyes. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Was that a smile trying to escape?

“I mean…” I added, lowering my voice a notch, “if you're going to be here for your poetry, might as well let a semi decent guy give you a scenic tour while rambling about weather and tea and all the ghost stories this town’s famous for.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. But in my chest? My heart was pacing like it was on a treadmill with something to prove.

And right then, in the quiet between us, it started to drizzle.

Tiny droplets falling through the trees, mist weaving around us like a secret.

Shimla was always dramatic like that.

Just like her.

“Sooo… you wanna be my tour guide?” she said, eyebrow arched, arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed, but the way her lips twitched upward told a different story. She was trying, really trying not to smile.

That smirk?

God, did I tell her yet that she was the most adorable creature I’ve ever laid eyes on?

I did my best to stay cool, calm, and unbothered, even though my chest was throwing a full blown butterfly rave.

“Absolutely” I replied, head tilted just enough to be charming without trying too hard. “Five star rated. Emotionally available. Comes with random facts you didn’t ask for and a lifetime supply of zero boring moments.”

She actually laughed. Like, a real, unfiltered laugh...and that sound?

Way better than I’d ever imagined.

“And how much does this five star guide charge?” she asked, smile now fully formed, as if the thick wall separating us was starting to melt.

I tapped my chin, pretending to think when I already knew the answer. “Hmm… your time, your trust, and maybe… just maybe, a cup of hot coffee at the end?”

She narrowed her eyes, one hand on her hip like she was about to drop the bomb. And then she did

“But, Mr. Devaansh…” she said, with mock seriousness, “I don’t like coffee.”

I blinked. Betrayal. Pain. Tragedy.

“What?” I gasped. “Okay, that’s it. This tour is cancelled. You’re officially banned from Shimla.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “I prefer chai. Masala. Extra ginger.”

I placed a hand over my heart, fake wounded. “You wounded me, Sushrita. But…would you reconsider it if I tell you i make the best coffee?”

She smiled up at me, that same warm, teasing glint in her eye.

“Hmm, I can reconsider it then I guess” she said after pretending to think it over, a small smile on her face.

"Then it's a date-" I realized what I said then quickly corrected myself. "I mean a deal...a deal"

---

After last night, something in the air felt different, and lighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt… better.

I kept thinking about it, replaying the moments over and over, and honestly? It felt like meeting her again wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt like fate had gently nudged me down this path. I’d only been back in Shimla for a week, drawn here by memories, nostalgia, the kind of pull only a place that owns a piece of your soul can have.

Shimla had always been more than a place. It was a feeling. A breeze. A whisper of childhood. Even now, just thinking about the fog tipped trees and the way the grass felt damp beneath your shoes in the early morning... it made my chest ache in the softest way.

Back in high school, the bus rides alone felt like adventures. The kind of simple things that made life quietly beautiful.

And then yesterday… I saw her again. After sixteen years.

Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ve never believed in randomness when something feels that right. And now that life handed me this strange, golden second chance and I wasn’t planning on wasting it.

It was already 10 a.m. Sushrita and I were supposed to meet at 10:30 sharp.

I stood in front of the mirror for one last check. Ivory white knit polo, light gray jeans, silver Titan watch. Clean. Casual. Hopefully not too effortful.

“I don’t look like I dolled myself up, right?” I muttered to my reflection, raking a hand through my hair before heading out and locking the door behind me.

The past 24 hours, I’d smiled more than I had in months. Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was both.

I was glad my parents weren’t in Shimla at the moment, this trip, this moment, this space, it was just mine. I’d come straight here after graduating, needing a break… and maybe needing to find myself again. I think I was finally on the right track.

---

10:25 a.m. I was early, standing just outside Café Simla Times on Mall Road, checking my watch like it mattered. Better early than late, right?

I glanced around, casually… until my gaze froze.

There she was.

“Sushrita” I breathed, too quiet for anyone but me to hear.

She wore a sundress, delicate and soft, with tiny painted pink flowers blooming across the fabric. It fit her like a glove. Her hair was open today, flowing down like ink across paper different from the bun she wore yesterday.

And yes, my heart? Absolutely sprinting.

She spotted me then, and smiled. God, that smile...and started walking over. We just stood there for a moment, face to face, saying nothing but somehow saying everything.

And then—

“Oh, so this is him,” a new voice chimed in from behind.

A tap on my shoulder made me turn, and I came face to face with another girl, around Sushrita’s age, short straight hair, dressed in cargo pants and an oversized shirt that screamed easy confidence.

“Hi! I’m Mira, Sushi’s best friend,” she grinned, extending her hand to shake mine like she already knew me.

I looked at Sushrita, a little confused, a little amused, and she just stood there with that signature smirk, like she was thoroughly enjoying this.

I was already impressed.

I glanced back at Mira, shook her hand with a polite smile, then turned my attention right back to Sushrita because honestly, how could I not?

She raised an eyebrow at me, silently daring me to say what was clearly dancing on the tip of my tongue.

“You look beautiful,” I said, casually...well, I tried to sound casual. “Did you dress up for me?”

A light blush bloomed across her cheeks, the kind you pretend isn’t there but can’t hide if your life depended on it.

“N-not at all,” she stammered, her voice a bit higher than usual. “Why would I?”

I just grinned, doing my best not to look too smug, and shrugged like it was no big deal. But inside? Yeah I was definitely enjoying that reaction a little too much.

Just as our little moment started to simmer, a very pointed throat clear sliced right through the air. It sounded too intentional to ignore.

“If you two are done eye fucking each other, can we please go?” Mira said, her arms crossed, and a dead serious expression.

Sushrita’s eyes flew open wide in pure horror as she turned to Mira.

“Oh my god, shut up!” she whisper yelled, slapping a hand over her friend’s mouth, her face now an even deeper shade of red.

I, meanwhile, tried so hard not to laugh out loud. But let’s just say…Mira was already my favorite third wheel.

It had been five minutes since we started walking down Mall Road, Shimla’s heartbeat dressed in fog and chatter. Mira was a few steps ahead, swaying to her own rhythm, while I matched my pace with Sushrita.

“So... Sushi, huh?” I asked, glancing at her with a crooked smile, referring to the nickname Mira had casually dropped earlier.

She turned to me with a soft, almost sheepish smile and gave a little nod. “Yeah... I know, it’s a bit weird. I actually nicknamed myself that back in high school.”

She rolled her eyes, clearly amused by her younger self. “I hated my name back then” she confessed, letting out a laugh at the memory.

“But it’s a beautiful name, and unique too” I said, sincere and without hesitation.

“I know,” she replied, her voice quieter now. “I realized that with time... but the 14 year old me wasn’t having it.” She glanced at me briefly before looking ahead again, her gaze a little distant now, thoughtful.

I gently reached out and held her arm, slowing her steps until she stopped and turned to face me.

“So... did you bring Mira just to annoy me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

She smirked, then put on her most innocent expression, the kind that didn’t fool anyone but still looked adorable.

“Oh my god? Why would it annoy you?” she said, almost looking shocked. “It’s not like this is a date, Mr. Devaansh.”

God, the way she said my name...it did something to me.

Without thinking much, I pulled her just a little closer, my hand still around her arm but not tight, just enough to keep her there for a second longer. A pause in time.

The air around us shifted, a little thicker now, heavy with something neither of us wanted to name yet.

And in that silence, her eyes locked onto mine, like she was trying to read something off my face... maybe the same thing I was trying to find in hers.

“Mira…” she said, barely above a whisper, like a gentle nudge to pull us both back from whatever moment we were caught in.

I loosened my grip and let go of her arm, watching as she turned her gaze to meet mine. For a second, she held it there and in that quiet look, everything was loud.

Yeah... I was drawn to her. Completely. And she?

She was too. I saw it. Felt it. In the softness of her eyes, in the way her breath hitched just a little when I pulled her close.

Then, like nothing happened, she gave me one last glance...half a smile, maybe more to herself than to me and then jogged over to Mira, slipping back beside her like that pause between us hadn’t just happened.

But it had.

And I had a feeling we’d both keep rewinding it in our minds.