Part 1 of 4 – The Station & The Pickup

The Guna Junction platform gleamed under the bright LED lights, cleaner than Krishna remembered. Digital boards flickered with arrival times, and a chai stall now served cold brew in mason jars.

From the sleek AC coach, krishna stepped out, his matte black duffel swinging at his side. He wore a loose ivory shirt over tailored joggers, white sneakers clean enough to blind someone under the station lights. He had the relaxed confidence of someone who’d just left Mumbai’s chaos — and wasn’t in a hurry to dive into Guna’s slower pace.

A sharp whistle cut through the crowd.

“Krish!”

There they were — Ravi in an oversized beige hoodie and designer cargo pants, holding an iced coffee in one hand and waving with the other. Beside him, Adi leaned casually against a gleaming Kia Seltos, flicking his bandana like it was part of a music video. And bouncing in her white platform sneakers, Mimi waved both arms, her pastel pink hoodie almost glowing under the lights.

Lagging a few steps behind was Ishi — crisp white oversized shirt tucked into black paperbag trousers, chunky silver rings catching the glow. Her auburn-dyed bun looked effortless, but Krishna knew she’d spent time making it “messy” in exactly the right way.

The moment Krishna reached them, Mimi closed the distance with a running hug that nearly sent his duffel sliding to the ground.

“You’re finally here,” she said into his chest. “I was starting to think you’d ditched us for Mumbai forever.”

He laughed, steadying her. “And miss this reception? Never.”

“You also didn’t bring me a gift,” she added, her pout arriving on cue.

Ravi smirked. “Your gift is him showing up. Don’t be greedy.”

Mimi ignored him and looped her arm through Krishna’s like it belonged there. Over her head, Ishi’s eyes flicked to that arm — just for a second — before she looked away, unreadable.

Adi slapped Krishna’s shoulder. “Welcome back, Brofessor. Got your playlist ready?”

Krishna raised an eyebrow. “You made me a playlist?”

“No, for me. You overthink the drive, I’ll handle the vibes.” Adi flashed a grin, the car’s key fob dangling between his fingers.

Ishi stepped forward then, giving Krishna a long look like she was scanning him for updates. “Still dramatic,” she said.

“And you’re still pretending you’re not happy to see me,” he replied.

“Maybe,” she said, walking toward the car without breaking stride.

The Seltos purred to life as they loaded up. Adi tossed his duffel into the trunk like it weighed nothing, then slid into the driver’s seat.

“Shotgun!” Mimi called — sprinting forward in platform sneakers like it was a championship race.

“Too slow,” Adi said, grinning as he claimed the seat.

Mimi whirled around. “Krish, tell him—”

“Sit next to me,” Krishna said, opening the back door.

Her pout instantly vanished, replaced by a smug smile. “Better than shotgun anyway.”

Ishi slid into the seat on Krishna’s other side, the subtle brush of her arm against his sleeve lasting just a heartbeat longer than necessary. She didn’t look at him, but the silver ring on her index finger tapped against her thigh — a quiet rhythm only he seemed to notice.

Adi pulled out of the station, bass from the upgraded sound system vibrating through the leather seats. Mimi hummed along — deliberately off-key — leaning into Krishna’s arm. Ravi handed back a second iced coffee for Krishna, still wrapped in its sleek paper sleeve.

Krishna looked around the car — at Adi’s easy grin, Ravi’s calm focus, Mimi’s bright clinginess, and Ishi’s composed stillness — and thought:

2027. New year\, same chaos. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The Galaxy Heritage Cinema had been given a facelift since Krishna’s last visit. The same historic single-screen building stood in the heart of Guna, but now its façade shimmered under strings of warm fairy lights, and the old ticket booth had been replaced by sleek touchscreen kiosks. Inside, plush recliners replaced the creaky folding seats, and the air smelled like fresh truffle popcorn instead of stale butter.

“This is… not the dump I remember,” Krishna said, scanning the chandelier-lit lobby.

“Yeah,” Ravi replied, sipping from a tall cup of cold brew. “It’s gentrified nostalgia. Twice the price, half the samosa portion.”

Adi was already at the concessions counter, grinning like he owned the place. “Alright, people — caramel popcorn, salted popcorn, and the fancy mushroom truffle one for our Brofessor.”

“You’re spoiling me,” Krishna said.

“Nope,” Adi replied. “I’m making sure you’re too busy chewing to overthink.”

They slid into their VIP recliners — two neat rows, all leather and cupholders with glowing blue edges.

Mimi, in her oversized pastel hoodie and pleated mini skirt, made her move instantly. She dropped into the seat beside Krishna and pulled the armrest up between them.

“I’m upgrading this to a loveseat,” she announced.

“You know these recliners cost per seat, right?” Ishi said, taking the other side of Krishna. She didn’t bother lifting her armrest.

“Which means Krishna’s getting his money’s worth,” Mimi replied, leaning sideways into him.

The movie hadn’t even started when Mimi reached for the truffle popcorn. She pinched a piece, held it up dramatically, and said, “Open up.”

Krishna gave her a look. “You can just pass me the bucket.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, and popped it into his mouth before he could protest.

Ishi, without looking away from the screen, took a piece of caramel popcorn from her own tub. Then, in one smooth flick of her fingers, she launched it across Krishna and hit Mimi right on the cheek.

Mimi’s eyes went wide. “You did not just—”

“I missed,” Ishi said calmly, taking another slow sip of her Coke.

From there, the war escalated.

Adi, who had zero stake in the love triangle but lived for chaos, took advantage of the plush recliner gap and started lobbing popcorn at Ravi in the row behind. Ravi, ever the strategist, used the bucket lid as a shield and returned fire with deadly accuracy.

Mimi tried to use Krishna as a human barricade, pressing herself closer against him. “Protect me, Krish! She’s aiming for my face!”

“Then stop feeding me like I’m five,” he muttered, laughing.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, and quickly shoved another truffle-coated kernel between his lips.

Ishi smirked — just a small curl of her mouth — and this time flicked a piece directly into Mimi’s lap. “Oops.”

A middle-aged man in the row ahead finally turned around, clearly fed up. “Will you all please behave? This is not a playground.”

“Technically,” Ravi said, voice low and smooth, “it’s a cinematic playground.”

The man blinked, baffled, and turned back without another word.

By the time the credits rolled, the recliner aisle looked like a battlefield — popcorn on the floor, salt on the cupholders, caramel smears on Adi’s hoodie.

“That was the best part of the movie,” Adi declared.

“We didn’t even watch half of it,” Krishna said.

“Exactly,” Adi replied.

Mimi hooked her arm through Krishna’s again as they filed out. “You’re sitting next to me again next time, right?”

Before Krishna could answer, Ishi stepped in front of them, her smirk faint but sharp. “We’ll see.”

Mimi stuck her tongue out at Ishi behind Krishna’s back. Ishi didn’t even need to turn to know.

They ditched the cinema for The Lantern Room, Guna’s trendiest rooftop restaurant — the kind of place with Edison bulbs strung overhead, soft jazz remixes of Bollywood classics, and QR-code menus projected onto your phone. The air was warm but breezy, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the balcony planters.

A hostess in a sleek black saree led them to a semi-private corner table with low leather chairs. The skyline glittered faintly in the distance, and fairy lights danced in the reflection of the wine glasses.

“This is fancy,” Krishna said, sliding into a chair.

“Mid-rich perks, baby,” Adi replied, snapping his fingers at the waiter. “And I’m starving.”

They ordered paneer tikka sliders, truffle fries, and cold coffee served in martini glasses — plus a round of mango mocktails for the table.

The moment the food arrived, Mimi shifted her chair closer to Krishna’s without even pretending to be subtle. She picked up one of the sliders, took a bite, and then held the rest out toward him.

“Try it,” she said, her voice all soft insistence.

“I literally ordered my own,” Krishna replied, but he still leaned forward and took a bite.

Mimi grinned, satisfied. “See? Tastes better when I share.”

Across the table, Ishi arched a brow. “Or maybe it just tastes like his own food, but delayed.”

“That’s the jealousy talking,” Mimi teased, wiping a crumb from the corner of Krishna’s mouth with her thumb.

Ishi’s silver rings tapped against her glass — one, two, three beats — before she smirked. “Jealous? Please. I just prefer my food without… fingerprints.”

Adi burst out laughing, nearly choking on a fry. Ravi just shook his head, smiling quietly like he was watching a tennis match neither side realized they were playing.

The conversation shifted to Krishna’s idea — the seed that would soon become Threaded Hearts.

Krishna pulled out his tablet, flipping it around so they could see a few rough sketches: embroidered jackets blending traditional motifs with streetwear silhouettes, sarees with hidden stitched messages inside the lining.

“I want it to be more than clothes,” he said. “Every piece should feel like a story you can wear.”

Ravi leaned forward. “So, couture with emotional weight.”

“Exactly,” Krishna said.

Mimi, still half-focused on him, added, “And we can model some of them ourselves. I call first dibs on anything pastel.”

“Figures,” Ishi said, already pulling out her phone to scroll through fabric suppliers. “We’ll need to lock down a design process before we even think about modeling.”

As the brainstorming continued, Mimi kept finding little excuses to make contact — leaning her head against Krishna’s shoulder when she laughed at one of Adi’s jokes, brushing her hand across his arm when reaching for the fries.

At one point, she leaned in so close to show him something on her phone that her hair fell across his cheek. “Look — bunny-print scarf. You’d wear this, right?”

“I’d consider it,” he said, smiling.

Ishi’s eyes flicked to the scarf photo for all of two seconds before she returned her gaze to her screen, her jaw just a shade tighter.

By the time dessert — molten chocolate cake with vanilla gelato — arrived, they’d decided to spend the next two nights at Hotel Aarya, one of the nicest boutique hotels in the city, to plan the brand launch without distractions.

Mimi clapped her hands. “Slumber party vibes! I call the room next to Krish.”

Ishi didn’t even look up from the hotel’s booking page on her phone. “Or we just get adjoining rooms and save everyone’s voices from shouting across hallways.”

“I wasn’t planning on shouting,” Mimi said with a sweet smile.

“No,” Ishi replied, “you were planning on hovering.”

Ravi coughed into his glass to hide a laugh. Adi muttered, “This is gonna be fun,” like he’d just gotten front-row tickets to the best reality show of the year.