4. The Almost
Mumbai was painted in gold that morning — the kind of sunshine that looked like melted memory. The streets around Kala Ghoda throbbed with art lovers, college kids with sketchbooks, chai stalls, and the unmistakable sound of tabla practice echoing from somewhere nearby.
Sameeksha Rathore stood under a white canopy, adjusting her easel for the hundredth time. Her booth at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival wasn’t the fanciest, but it was hers. Tucked between an origami installation and a digital photography stall, her corner held three of her deepest pieces.
The first painting: a faceless silhouette in a black suit, almost regal… but bleeding gold from the inside out.
The second: stairs leading up into a night sky, dissolving into stars.
The third: just two hands — one open, the other slowly letting go. No background. Just emotion.
People passed by. Some paused. Some took photos. A few stared too long. Sameeksha didn’t mind. These were her unspoken pages torn from dreams she couldn’t explain.
She wiped her palms against her kurti. Her anxiety always returned in crowds. But today, it wasn’t fear… it was restlessness.
Something was offbeat.
Like the universe was inhaling and forgetting how to exhale.
Stranger / Person.
Bro, your stuff feels like heartbreak before the love even starts
Sameeksha Rathore
That’s exactly how it feels. *She smiled softly.*
She didn’t say the rest — that she didn’t know who the heartbreak belonged to. Only that she felt it wasn’t hers. And yet… it was.
Her best friend, Anaya, had been calling all morning, but she’d silenced her phone. She needed stillness.
She stepped out of the booth for a minute to grab water. On her way back, her eyes caught something across the plaza , a massive black-and-gold banner above the tech pavilion:
“RAGHUVANSHI GROUP – Building Futures. Responsibly.”
The name tugged something loose inside her, like deja vu soaked in static.
She blinked.
No reason for it to feel familiar.
And yet it sent a chill that crawled down her spine.
She returned to her booth, heart a little louder than before.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BOOTH
Surya Raghuvanshi, crisp in a tailored grey suit, stood with his company’s PR head, nodding politely while reporters snapped shots for the sponsor highlights.
He hated events like this , people clapping over buzzwords, pretending to care about sustainability while sipping drinks in plastic cups.
He would’ve skipped it entirely, but his father had asked him to show up.
Vikram Raghuvanshi (ML’s Dad)
You’ve built this name, beta. *He said gently that morning* At least let the city know who’s behind the legacy now.
Avni Raghuvanshi (ML’s Mom)
And wear that charcoal shirt. You look like someone straight out of a Netflix show in that. *Fixed his collar , smiling.*
Surya had rolled his eyes, but he’d worn the shirt.
Now, standing in the middle of the art crowd, he felt strangely… quiet. As if something beneath the surface had cracked open.
He drifted away from his team.
Not by any logic but a pull.
Not flashy. Not even at the center.
Just there..like it had always been waiting for him.
Ink-streaked. Fragile. Infinite.
He stepped closer. The strokes were delicate yet fierce like someone had bled emotion with every flick of the brush.
It was the same feeling from his dreams. The ache that had been haunting him for weeks. That invisible girl, the one with eyes he never fully saw but always remembered. This was her energy. This was her soul.
He looked at the small nameplate.
The name hit him like thunder wrapped in silk.
Surya Raghuvanshi
Sameeksha.
Something inside him whispered the name again and again. Like a memory he hadn’t made yet.
His fingers twitched , he almost reached out to touch the frame. But stopped.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because it felt… sacred.
And then he heard his assistant calling him.
Stranger / Person.
Sir? They’re ready for your press segment.
Surya blinked out of it. One last glance. One breath.
He turned and walked away.
Sameeksha returned to her stall..
Only that her heart suddenly started racing for no reason at all.
That night, back in her room, she sat curled up on her bed, staring at the festival photos on her phone.
A new message from a random profile said..
That third painting , the hands ,
felt like something I used to dream about.
Thank you for making it real.
She stared at the screen.
No one had ever said something like that before.
It had no name. No posts.
Just a display picture of a grainy photo of clouds and a lightning strike.
Something inside her whispered-
You’ve met him.
You just don’t know it yet.
Author ✍️❤️
Bye bye , Mwaah cuties.
Author ✍️❤️
Also I do know the starting is kind of boring but I really hope you read it.
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