Rain fell in delicate whispers over Kolkata, turning the city into a poem no one had finished writing.
Rickshaws glided like ghosts through the puddled streets. Fairy lights flickered outside cafés where half-drunk cups of cha cooled slowly on chipp...
Lip gloss that screamed "Yes, I moved on" but whispered "But did I really?"
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Bag? Packed. Phone? Charged. Attitude? Prepped.
Now all that's left? Survive a car ride with Aryan and Ishani at 4 a.m. without throwing one (or both) of them out the window.
Let the drama begin.
~
I stepped out of the main gate, yawning into the early morning air that smelled like dew, tulsi leaves, and suppressed trauma. The city wasn’t fully awake yet. But he was.
Aryan. Leaning against his car like the freaking climax of a K-drama. His Porsche glinted under the streetlamp like it was on some car magazine cover and not parked outside my emotionally unstable family home.
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And him? Taupe jacket. Cream t-shirt. Black trousers tailored by what I’m sure is the devil himself. White sneakers that somehow looked too clean for this city’s dust, too smug for this time of day.
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It was illegal. Like, actually. Is there a fashion police hotline? Because I’d like to report a man who’s clearly guilty of slaying me emotionally at 4 a.m.
