2.

Ariya's POV

Mornings in Mumbai didn’t taste like home. They smelt like humidity and ambition, carried on the wings of impatient honks and the lull of distant waves. I stirred awake with the first golden kiss of sunlight through the gauzy curtains, eyes fluttering open in a room that wasn’t mine yet.

The unfamiliar ceiling, white and uncracked, stared down at me. It didn’t know me the way my Lucknow ceiling did—didn’t know how I whispered poetry to the cracks when insomnia came to visit. But it would, eventually. I would mark it with my dreams, paint my laughter in its corners, tattoo my heartbreak in shadows only I’d notice.

Myra was already up. She moved like a dance, a blur of coffee breath and Taylor Swift playing low on her phone, singing under her breath as she padded across the wooden floors.

“You’re awake, sleeping witch,” she teased, flipping her messy bun.

“I am reborn,” I replied dramatically, stretching like a cat.

We fell into rhythm easily, as if time had never passed. We made coffee, mine with more sugar than caffeine, hers black as her soul. Myra always drank her pain straight. I sugarcoated mine.

Over toast and chocolate spread, I finally asked, “Wait, so it’s just you and Vidhaan bhaiya living here?”

She paused mid-bite, a gleam in her eyes. “Well, not exactly.”

My eyebrow arched. “Spill.”

She leaned in like she was telling me state secrets. “Ruvan also lives here.”

I blinked.

“What?”

Myra grinned. “Yeah. He moved in like three months ago. Vidhaan offered him the guest room when he came back from Spain.”

Spain. Right. He had vanished two years ago, leaving behind nothing but a long shadow and my unanswered texts. My childhood crush, the boy who taught me how to play chess and then used me as a pawn in his silence.

And now, he lived here? In the same apartment? Breathing the same air?

My stomach flipped.

“Is he here now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Nope. He’s staying over at Arjun’s for the night. But he’ll be back today.”

I nodded, feigning nonchalance, but inside, chaos bloomed like ink in water.

I dressed with more attention than usual. A soft lavender top, wide-leg jeans, silver hoops, and just enough eyeliner to weaponize my gaze. Myra caught me adjusting my hair for the fifth time.

“You good?” she asked.

“Just... making a first impression,” I mumbled.

She smirked. “More like a re-impression.”

We decided to walk to her school so I could submit my admission form. It was a prestigious institute in South Bombay, known for its artsy vibe and brutal academics. But for me, it meant one more step toward freedom. Toward proving I was more than numbers and marks.

On the way, I couldn’t stop imagining what seeing him again would feel like. Would he smile? Would he pretend not to remember the way I used to stare at him like he was made of stars?

What if he didn’t?

By the time we returned home, the air in the apartment had changed. It felt heavier, scented faintly with his cologne—smoky, deep, like bonfires and secrets.

His shoes were by the door.

I froze.

Myra nudged me with her elbow, whispering, “Brace yourself.”

I stepped inside, heart hammering, but the living room was empty. Myra disappeared into the kitchen.

And then I heard it.

His voice.

Low, smooth, edged with sleep and distance. “Myra, do we have any coffee left?”

I turned.

There he was.

Ruvan.

Leaning against the doorframe, black t-shirt clinging to his torso, hair damp from a shower, a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone.

He looked like a memory dipped in dusk—unreachable and unfair.

His eyes flickered over me.

No recognition. No surprise. No hello.

He turned back toward the kitchen.

“Guess not,” he muttered.

My breath caught.

He didn’t even acknowledge me.

Was this some sort of punishment? For growing up? For daring to remember what he had clearly forgotten?

Myra returned, holding two mugs. She gave me one and shot a look toward Ruvan. “Hey, be civil. Ariya’s living here now.”

He glanced at me again. “Noted.”

And then he walked into his room. Door closed. Conversation ended.

---

I stood there for a long moment, coffee trembling in my hand.

The boy I used to write poems about just walked past me like I was the hallway wall.

And somehow, that hurt more than a clean rejection.

That night, I lay on my mattress, staring at the ceiling that still didn’t know me, the ghost of his silence pressing against my skin.

Something about being ignored by the person you once gave all your attention to—it reawakens something primal. Something defiant.

Fine, Ruvan.

You want to play invisible?

Then let’s play a game.

Let’s see how long you can ignore me when I start breaking every rule you’ve built around yourself.

Because I’m not that eleven-year-old girl anymore.

And you?

You don’t get to erase me this time.

To be continued....