Chapter one

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.

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