Off the Record

Aviranya's POV

She's exhausted. 

A long-haul flight, a delayed layover, and the absolute struggle of hauling around a suitcase, a camera bag, and her laptop—all while running on two hours of sleep. 

Her head is buzzing, her feet ache, and at this point, she's functioning purely on autopilot but for how long? God knows. She spots a café inside the airport lounge and makes a beeline for it, shoving her sunglasses onto her head.

Coffee. Before I collapse.

The place is packed—business travellers typing aggressively, a group of aunties gossiping about their beti ki shaddi, and a bunch of guys in tracksuits, probably some sports team. 

She doesn't care. She finds an empty corner, dumps her stuff onto the table, and orders the strongest thing they have—double shot espresso, no sugar, no nonsense. Then, she pulls out her laptop. 

Time to edit her last travel vlog and upload before the algorithm decides she's irrelevant. The world around her blurs as she clicks through footage, trimming clips with practiced ease. 

She barely registers the movement around her, the voices, the occasional clang of a coffee cup being set down.

Until, of course, the universe decides to make a spectacle out of her. One second, she's reaching for her phone. The next—it slips right through her fingers, bounces off the table, does an Olympic-level spin midair, and skids under someone else's chair.

She stares. Did that actually just happen? Her first instinct is denial, but before she can process the disaster, the guy at the chair bends down and picks it up.

"Yeh lo," he says, holding it out.

Without thinking, she grabs it. "Thanks, yaar."

And then—

Oh.

Oh.

That's not some random guy.

That's Shubman freaking Gill.

Prince of Cricket. Social media's golden boy. One of the most recognizable faces in Indian sports right now.

And she just yaar'd him like he was some college classmate she borrowed notes from. A part of her brain scrambles for a reaction. Maybe a polite "Oh, thanks so much," or even the classic "Wait, aren't you—?" 

But another part of her—the sleep-deprived, jet-lagged, zero energy to care part—scoffs.

So what?

So instead, she just nods, gives a lazy half-smirk, and says, "Nice reflexes." Then, like nothing happened, she turns right back to her laptop and resumes editing.

Shubman's POV

Shubman blinks. Did she just...? He expected the usual. A double take. A hesitant "Wait, aren't you...?" Maybe a selfie request. Instead, she just... moved on?

His teammate , Ishan leans over, amused. "Bhai, ignore maar diya tujhe?"

Shubman doesn't answer. Instead, he casually glances at her screen. A travel vlog plays in the editing software, vibrant footage of beaches, streets, and cities flashing in fast cuts. She adjusts a clip, takes a sip of coffee, completely unbothered. Huh. Interesting.

Aviranya's POV

Her phone buzzes. She glances down. A text from her best friend:

"Landed safely?"

She smirks, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

"Yeah. Also, just met a cricketer. Didn't recognize him at first. He's famous tho."

She hits send and takes another sip of coffee, completely at ease. Meanwhile, across the café, Shubman is still watching her—brows slightly furrowed, intrigue flickering in his eyes. And he's not sure why.

But she doesn't notice. Or rather, she doesn't care. Instead, she stretches her arms, drains the last of her espresso, and shuts her laptop. Time to move.

By the time she steps out of the airport, Mumbai heat slaps her straight in the face. She exhales sharply, adjusting her sunglasses.

Why is it always like this? 

She's been here enough times to know what to expect, yet somehow, the combination of humidity, honking cars, and that distinct Mumbai chaos still manages to hit her full force.

Her pre-booked cab is waiting, a driver holding up a sign with her name (well, a butchered version of it, but she's too tired to care). She throws her bags in the back, slides into the seat, and shuts her eyes.

The city hums around her—fast, alive, unapologetic. She leans her head against the window and sighs. Welcome back.

The city blurs past. Billboards, street vendors, cricketers plastered on every other hoarding. She's here to work, but Mumbai always makes her nostalgic in a way she doesn't like to admit. By the time she reaches the hotel, all she wants is a shower, food, and about twelve hours of sleep. But—work first.

Inside, the lobby is buzzing. Tourists, business executives, a few people who probably belong to Bollywood. Mumbai is that kind of place. The receptionist hands over her key, and she heads to her room, already planning out her day.

Showered, refreshed, and in a fresh outfit, she sets up her camera on the balcony. She flips it on, adjusts the frame, and smirks.

"Alright, welcome to Mumbai. I'm running on two hours of sleep and caffeine, but we're going to pretend I'm full of energy. Today, we explore." She winks at the camera and hits record.

It's the same every time—no matter how many places she visits, Mumbai feels different. It's chaotic and relentless, sure, but also alive.

She spends the afternoon weaving through the city—shooting snippets of Marine Drive, the Gateway of India, and Bandra's artsy streets. Somewhere between dodging auto rickshaws and haggling for a street-side nimbu pani, she forgets the exhaustion of the morning.

Her camera captures it all. The golden haze over the sea. The chatter of locals. The contrast of old and new, heritage buildings standing tall beside glassy high-rises.

She films a quick segment, adjusting her camera.

"Honestly, no matter how much you travel, there are some cities that just pull you back. And Mumbai? Yeh city apni vibe se jeet jaati hai."

The day slips by in fast-forward—sun dipping lower, streets shifting into their neon-lit nighttime version. By the time she gets back to her hotel, the exhaustion creeps in again.

She sets up her camera for a quick recap vlog, but halfway through talking about the vada pav she had, a yawn takes over.

"Okay, main so rahi hoon. Kal milte hain."

She switches off the camera, tosses it onto the nightstand, and collapses onto the bed.

The city hums outside, but inside her room, it's just silence and the comforting weight of sleep pulling her under.

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