𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1: 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐧 & 𝐂𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧

Comfort, I’ve learned, is not loud.

It doesn’t arrive in grand declarations.

It creeps in with the scent of cardamom,

With the rustle of pages,

With silence that feels like home.

September had just arrived in Bandra, and with it, came a hush in the wind.

The skies were still heavy with monsoon’s memory, but the breeze had shifted—gentler now, laced with the scent of old rain and the first whisper of autumn.

The streets carried a kind of golden fatigue, washed clean from August’s downpours, now breathing again under soft sunlight and rustling leaves.

Nestled in one of those quiet lanes, with a pale-yellow bougainvillea spilling like poetry from its terrace, stood the Deshpande home.

A three-storey house, worn in all the right corners, with blue windowpanes and windchimes that sang secrets every time the breeze passed through.

It was the kind of house that felt lived in—warm from the inside, welcoming from the outside.

And on its second floor, tucked in the corner where morning light spilled the best, was her room.

Mira’s room.

The walls were painted a soft vanilla, but nearly every inch of it was adorned with something that whispered of her soul. A crooked wooden shelf held ceramic jars filled with cinnamon sticks, cloves, dried orange peels, and chocolate nibs.

Framed Polaroids hung above her desk—a latte with foam art shaped like a cat, a tray of burnt croissants that Sneha once ruined, a handwritten quote on a sticky note that simply said,

“You were poetry long before you were a person.”

Books were everywhere.

Stacked beside the window.

Balanced on the chair.

Resting over her bedside table like they, too, had fallen asleep next to her.

And among those books, one name appeared again and again, worn out at the edges from too many reads.

A. Reyaan Vale.

The elusive author whose words Mira held closer than some people.

He had never shown his face. Never posted a picture. Never attended an event. He existed only through his prose—tender, aching, raw. And his readers? They adored him like a secret they didn’t want to share.

Mira most of all.

He was a mystery wrapped in metaphors, and somehow, he’d always written exactly what she needed to hear. Every book ended with a letter to his readers—a quiet, heartfelt thank you that made her tear up more than once. To Mira, his words weren’t just beautiful—they were healing. They were sukoon.

And isn’t it strange?

To fall for someone you’ve never seen.

But know entirely through what they write.

Her alarm had gone off twenty minutes ago, but Mira hadn’t moved. She lay curled on her side, a copy of The Things I Never Wrote pressed against her chest, the pages still open from last night.

It was 9:00 a.m.

With a reluctant sigh, she sat up, stretching like a sleepy cat, her fingers brushing her bookshelf affectionately before she rose.

Her cotton curtains danced as the window let in the city’s hum—the distant honk of autos, the rhythm of footsteps on old footpaths, the sea breeze somewhere in the background, gentle and sweet.

She walked over to the bathroom, tying her hair into a messy bun as she passed the mirror.

Ten minutes later, Mira Deshpande was dressed in her usual morning uniform—an indigo short kurti, high-waisted jeans, and tiny silver jhumkas that glinted every time she turned her head.

There was flour in her soul and cardamom in her dreams.

She grabbed her tan tote bag and made her way downstairs.

Today was a weekday.

Which meant her real home waited just down the street.

A five-minute walk to a warm corner of the world that smelled like almond biscotti and handwritten menus.

La Poesía.

Her bakery-café. Her dream carved into bricks and butter.

The smell of masala chai floated through the Deshpande home, curling around the corners like a familiar lullaby.

In the kitchen, the clinking of steel tumblers, the sizzle of ghee on the tawa, and the rustle of a newspaper formed the orchestra of a usual Deshpande morning.

Mira had just slipped her jhumka through the last loop when her mother’s voice floated up the staircase.

“Miraaa! Neeche aaja beta, nashta tayyar hai!”

Before Mira could respond, a hurricane arrived in the form of her younger sister, Ritu.

“GOOD MORNING, GHAR WAALON!” she announced at full volume, sliding into the dining room in her mismatched pyjamas, her hair tied in a pineapple bun like she was a heroine in her own Bollywood musical.

Mira blinked. “Itna energy subah subah… kis line mein ho tum?”

“Main?” Ritu grinned. “Main toh full-time drama queen hoon. Part-time future journalist.”

As Mira chuckled and settled down beside her father, the third Deshpande sister appeared—soft as the morning itself. Ira.

Clad in a faded lilac kurta and book in hand, she quietly sat between her father and Mira, offering the gentlest “Good morning” before focusing on her plate like it held the key to world peace.

“Arre Ira beta,” their mother said fondly, placing an extra paratha on her plate, “aur dheere bolo warna paratha bhi darr ke sikna bandh kar dega.”

Ira gave a sheepish smile. Mira smiled too—one of those quiet smiles that reach the heart without touching the lips.

The table soon filled with the aroma of ghee-soaked parathas, fresh coconut chutney, and cardamom tea.

The clatter of plates, Ritu’s unfiltered chatter, and the occasional turn of the newspaper pages gave the morning a rhythm only families know.

But Mira noticed something else.

Her mother, usually the loudest at breakfast, was oddly quiet.

She kept stealing glances at Mira, opening her mouth as if to speak—then choosing not to.

Mira set her chai down gently, her honey-soft voice laced with concern.

“Mumma… kahiye. Kya baat hai?”

Her mother looked up, surprised for a moment—then smiled, the kind of smile that mothers wear when their children see right through them.

“Tu kitni samajhdaar ho gayi hai, Mira,” she said softly, brushing a hair from her daughter’s face. “Bas... ek baat thi jo tumse kehni thi.”

“Hmm?” Mira’s voice was calm.

“Beta… main aur tere papa jaante hain ki tu shaadi nahi karna chahti,” she began carefully. “Chaar saal pehle jo hua… usse hum mein se koi nahi bhool paya. Par… zindagi ek baar ruk jaaye, toh iska matlab yeh toh nahi na ki hum usse dobara jeene ki koshish bhi na karein?”

Mira didn’t speak. She just wrapped her fingers around her cup and took another slow sip.

Chai always soothed the burn of memory.

But not this one.

That chapter—the one nobody dared mention aloud—still lived in the creases of her silence. The betrayal. The heartbreak.

The way it had gnawed away at her joy, her dreams, her grades. How she’d curled up for days, tears soaked into pillowcases that had no answers.

Love? She didn’t believe in it anymore. She hated love.

Marriage? The very word felt like a thorn.

But Mira wasn’t made of rebellion. She was made of quiet sacrifice. And nothing hurt her more than watching her parents worry about her every day.

And Ritu, ever the impulsive middle child, snapped before anyone else could.

“Maa! Didi ki life ek baar already barbaad ho chuki hai. Kya zarurat hai usse wapas uss trauma se guzarna ka?”

Her father set down his paper slowly. His voice was firm. But his eyes… they held weight.

“Apni bacchi ki zindagi barbaad karke kaunse maa baap khush ho sakte hain, Ritu?”

Ritu’s expression shifted, regret flashing across her face like a monsoon lightning.

“Sorry, Papa…”

Their mother reached out, her eyes on Mira. “Hum yeh nahi keh rahe tumse ki shaadi karlo kisi se zabardasti. Sirf yeh keh rahe hain… ki apni zindagi ko ek aur mauka toh do. Shayad… iss baar nafrat ke bajaye… pyar ho jaaye?”

Mira looked at her mother. Really looked.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t just see the concern. She saw hope. The kind that wobbles on the edge of a prayer.

“Ladka kaun hai?” Mira asked gently, surprising even herself.

Her mother lit up, like someone had turned on the diya inside her.

“Beta, main jaanti hoon usse. Meri sabse purani dost ka beta hai. Bada hi ache sanskaar wala, acha ladka hai. Bas… ek baar mil lo. Agar pasand nahi aaye, unhi ke samne keh dena. Main tumhe kabhi majboor nahi karungi.”

Silence. A moment. Then Mira sighed. Her voice, though soft, was clear.

“Thik hai. Main milne ko tayyar hoon.”

Ritu nearly choked on her chai.

“WHAT? No, Didi, this is nonsense! Tu kyun—”

But Mira held up a hand, her calm silencing Ritu's storm.

“Ritu,” she said quietly, “main tum sabki pareshaani har roz dekhti hoon. Bas ek mulaqat hai. Mujhe lagta hai… main yeh toh kar hi sakti hoon.”

Across the table, Ira paused mid-bite. She didn’t say a word. She just reached out under the table

and squeezed Mira’s hand once.

No words.

Just quiet support. As always.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A city always caught between chaos and charm, Bandra was stirring awake in delicate waves. Bougainvillaea spilled from old Portuguese balconies.

The scent of sea salt and masala chai danced in the air. Scooters hummed past sleepy lanes.

Rickshaws yawned into motion. Church bells rang in rhythm with azaans from far-off mosques, and somewhere nearby, a street cat leapt onto a sunlit wall like it owned the universe.

Mira walked past it all, a quiet poetry in her steps.

Her short cotton kurti fluttered in the soft breeze, the deep maroon jhumkas brushing against her cheeks.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and balanced the keyring of La Poesía between her fingers like it was the key to her own heartbeat.

Because it was.

La Poesía wasn't just a bakery-café. It was her home stitched from flour, steam, and a thousand dreams. A soft yellow-and-cream storefront tucked into a charming bylane near Chapel Road, wrapped in warm vines and wind chimes.

The bell chimed softly as she pushed open the glass door.

And there it was. The aroma. The hush. The warmth.

Flour dust still clung to the air from yesterday’s closing batch. The old wooden countertop stood polished and waiting.

Pastel ceramic cups were stacked neatly beside the espresso machine. Above the entrance hung a hand-painted sign that read:

“La Poesía – where words rise like dough.”

And already waiting behind the counter—rolling out puff pastry with clinical precision—was Sneha Kulkarni.

“About time, Madame Deshpande,” Sneha called, not looking up. “You’re twenty-two minutes late. The croissants are judging you.”

Mira laughed. “The croissants can wait. I had to survive emotional warfare over breakfast.”

Sneha looked up then, brushing a smear of flour from her caramel brown cheek with the back of her hand. Her apron was already messy, her hair up in a no-nonsense braid, and her eyes—sharp, caramel, and always two steps ahead—glinted with amusement.

“Parental guilt-tripping or matchmaking?” she asked knowingly.

“Both,” Mira groaned, setting her jhola bag down and tying her apron. “But I said yes to a meeting. Don’t ask me why.”

Sneha whistled low. “That’s not just emotional warfare. That’s a full-blown diplomatic surrender. Should I be worried?”

Mira rolled her eyes as she washed her hands at the basin. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just one meeting.”

“Famous last words,” Sneha muttered, sliding the baking tray into the oven.

The bell above the door jingled.

“First customers of the day!” Mira said, tying her hair into a quick ponytail.

A young couple walked in—holding hands, giggling about some inside joke, pausing to admire the cookie display by the counter. Mira’s face softened.

“Good morning,” she said, all warm professional ease. “What can I get for you?”

“Two cappuccinos and one of those almond croissants, please,” the girl said. “Also… is this the place that does the ‘quote-on-your-cup’ thing?”

Mira smiled. “Only every day.”

She scribbled quickly on two paper cups and passed them across.

The boy read his:

“Joy sometimes comes quietly—like cinnamon in coffee.”

“Wow,” he said, showing it to his girlfriend. “That’s really beautiful.”

Mira simply smiled again.

The café began to fill slowly. A college student hunched over her laptop in the corner. A businessman on a call ordered a double shot espresso.

An old Parsi woman sat by the window seat—the one she claimed every Wednesday—and asked for a blueberry scone like clockwork.

Sneha handled the oven, Mira manned the machine, and together they moved in a rhythm that only years of partnership could create.

“Batch two of the croissants ready in seven,” Sneha called out.

“Lemon tarts ke next batch bhi re-stock ho gaye” Mira replied, ducking into the display fridge.

“Is it just me,” Sneha said, “or is this place starting to feel like a full-time emotion processing center?”

“Well,” Mira grinned, glancing at the handwritten menu board, “we do serve therapy in ceramic cups.”

Sneha smirked. “And bread that hugs your soul.”

Their laughter filled the air—light, genuine, soft as butter on hot toast.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Next to La Poesía, wrapped in a veil of soft petals and softer dreams, stood a floral boutique that looked like it belonged inside a fairytale.

The board outside read in handwritten calligraphy:

Petals & Prose – Flowers that feel like poetry.

The shopfront was a delicate spectacle of pastel-painted wooden panels, hanging lanterns, and wild roses trailing up a wrought-iron gate.

Windchimes danced gently above the entrance, and inside—oh, inside—it smelled like a garden in spring even in September.

The boutique was everything Naina Shetty was.

Bright. Gentle. Impossibly romantic.

She stood near her workbench, her fingers expertly wrapping a bouquet of white peonies, freesia, and eucalyptus. A notebook beside her bore the scribbled order:

“Bouquet for a widow’s anniversary. Soft whites, silent strength.”

Naina never made bouquets. She made emotions.

Each arrangement of hers came with a quote—a line of poetry, a whisper of hope, a sentence that knew exactly what to say when words couldn’t.

A small bell rang at the door.

She looked up, adjusting her peach dupatta over her shoulder. A tall young man stepped in, his hoodie slightly creased, his hair charmingly messed like he’d just run a hand through it.

“Uh…” he looked around. “Is this where I can… get a flower?”

Naina blinked at him. “That’s a unique opening line.”

He smiled sheepishly. “I meant—buy one.”

“Well, you’re in luck. We do sell them,” she said with a grin, walking toward him. “What kind are you looking for?”

The young man looked around. His eyes scanned the display—

Velvety red roses bundled like first love,

Sunflowers standing tall like optimism,

Daisies giggling beside baby’s breath,

Orchids looking regal in purple pride,

Carnations resting in soft pinks and creams.

Tulips blushed in shades of confession.

And lilies—graceful, white, timeless.

“Girlfriend ke liye yaa family member ke liye?” Naina asked teasingly, watching him hesitate.

He chuckled. “Khud ke liye.”

That made her pause.

A soft warmth lit her face. “Khud ke liye? Achi habit hai, young man!”

“Actually, tareef karni hai toh meri bhabhi ki kariye,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Unhone hi bola—‘Shaurya, khud ko aaj ek flower do.’ And I don’t really disobey her.”

“Aww,” Naina cooed instantly, already melting. “So sweet! That’s rare, you know? Men coming in to give themselves flowers. I like this bhabhi of yours.”

“She’s awesome,” he said with pride. “She thinks I don’t take enough care of myself.”

Naina was already selecting blooms with careful hands. A single yellow tulip for warmth. A white lily for peace. A stem of blue forget-me-nots for quiet self-love. A sprig of lavender for clarity.

“Naam batao apna?” she asked while writing a tag.

He gave her a boyish half-smile. “Shaurya Shekhawat.”

Naina nodded and scribbled his name on a cream card. On it, she added in delicate cursive:

“Be as kind to yourself as you are to the world.”

She tied the note around the bouquet with jute twine and handed it to him gently.

“Yeh lo,” she said. “Take this. And don’t forget to smell it.”

Shaurya took it, cradling it with more reverence than he expected from himself. He leaned in to smell the bouquet.

Lavender, light and calm.

Tulip, warm like a gentle hand.

Lily, clean like early morning air.

Forget-me-nots, small and sincere.

It felt like a slow exhale he didn’t know he was holding.

“Wow,” he murmured.

“Wow, indeed,” Naina said, watching his expression soften. “Flowers do that to people.”

He looked around the boutique again—charmed. The hanging vines, the dried flower garlands, the poetry cards clipped to ribbons along the walls.

The old wooden shelves with glass jars filled with pressed petals and bookmarks. It felt less like a shop, more like a handwritten letter come to life.

“By the way… Petals & Prose ka matlab kya hua?” Shaurya asked curiously.

Naina smiled, her fingers brushing the corner of her desk where a framed quote stood.

“Because flowers speak,” she said softly. “And so does poetry. One wilts, one stays. But both make people feel. I wanted a place where petals could say what words sometimes couldn’t. Where prose could bloom.”

Shaurya stood still for a moment, just soaking that in.

“I’m stealing that line one day,” he said.

“You better credit me,” Naina teased, laughing.

Just then, a loud grrrrhhk broke the soft stillness.

Shaurya blinked. His eyes widened slightly in embarrassment. “That was… my stomach.”

Naina burst into laughter. “Your stomach’s protesting your poetry.”

“I skipped breakfast.”

“Well, there's a cure for that,” she said, walking towards the back room. “Pass mein ek bakery-café hai—La Poesía. Cute place, cute pastries, and even better croissants. Kuch kha lo, warna padhai mein dhyan nahi lagega!”

He grinned. “Noted.”

And with that, bouquet in hand and cheeks tinged with blush, Shaurya Shekhawat stepped out into the Bandra morning again—this time with the scent of lavender, and maybe, just maybe, the first note of something new.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The little bell above La Poesía’s door let out a soft chime as Shaurya stepped in, clutching the bouquet from Petals & Prose in one hand and quiet curiosity in the other.

The world outside dimmed the moment he entered. Like he'd walked into a breath of warm vanilla and honey.

The café-bakery smelled like stories.

Cinnamon, fresh dough, slow-brewed coffee, and chocolate that had just begun to melt — all woven into the air like a lullaby.

Fairy lights draped above hand-painted shelves. Wooden tables had pressed flowers under glass tops. Each wall had frames — filled with poems, doodles, and quotes from writers that felt like friends.

And there, behind the wooden counter — stood her.

Mira Deshpande looked exactly like the café itself.

Warm. Calm. Gracefully sweet.

She was scribbling something in a journal when she noticed him walk in. Her face instantly lifted into the kind of smile that made one forget the world outside.

“Welcome to La Poesía!” she chimed, setting the journal down. “First time here?”

Shaurya nodded, still quietly taking it all in. “Yeah. Just came from next door.”

Mira’s eyes crinkled knowingly. “Then I trust Naina didn’t let you leave empty-handed.”

Shaurya held up the bouquet.

“Beautiful,” Mira smiled. “So… what can I get you?”

He looked at the counter filled with croissants, danishes, pastries dressed like couture gowns, and slices of cakes that looked like they could cure sadness.

“Recommend your most delicious croissant,” he asked, “and the best pastry you’ve ever made.”

Mira leaned slightly over the glass, her tone playful. “Dangerous request. My team takes baking very personally.”

She turned and called out, “Sneha! Customer alert! Most delicious pastry level!”

A muffled voice from behind the kitchen door groaned, “Why do they always say most delicious?! That’s so much pressure, Mira!”

Just then, the door swung open.

And Sneha Kulkarni walked out.

Shaurya blinked. His breath caught in that blink.

She was a mess in the most beautiful form. Messy bun held together with a pencil, streak of flour in her hair like a misplaced highlight.

There was cream on one cheek, chocolate smudged on her apron, and her fingers were dusted in cocoa powder. She looked like the embodiment of midnight cravings and mad ideas.

Shaurya stared.

And kept staring.

Until Mira waved a hand in front of his face.

“Hello?” she snapped her fingers. “Earth to customer?”

He blinked, startled. “Sorry, I—uh…”

Sneha raised one brow and gave a slow eye-roll before scoffing. She didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked back into the baking room, muttering something under her breath.

Shaurya’s eyes followed her retreating figure. The back of her apron had a tear. Her sock had a hole.

He couldn’t look away.

Mira grinned knowingly. “Do you want to order or should I get a poetry book and leave you to recover?”

He cleared his throat, trying to get his voice back. “Right. Yes. The croissant… and, uh, the pastry. And maybe… a bubble tea?”

“What flavour?” Mira asked, her pen poised.

“Whatever’s… delicious,” he repeated sheepishly.

Mira chuckled. “Dangerous choice again. But I’ll surprise you.”

She rang him up, and after he paid, she gestured to the corner table near the bookshelf — quiet, with a little window view and a candle flickering in the daylight.

Shaurya sat down.

And felt.

Something about the place. The faint piano playing. The quiet hum of the coffee machine. The laughter of two friends at the table across. The wall behind him had handwritten quotes for different kinds of people.

"For the tired hearts: Breathe. There’s nothing poetry cannot soften."

"For dreamers: Order the cinnamon roll. It has stars."

"For loners: You’re not alone here."

He didn’t know why, but he felt like this café understood him.

He leaned back in his chair.

And then she came.

Sneha, with a tray in hand and an unreadable expression.

Her fingers, still cocoa-dusted, placed the plate and the bubble tea before him.

“Hazelnut-chocolate croissant with sea-salt glaze,” she said, “and raspberry almond pastry. Classic bubble tea with vanilla pearls.”

He nodded, their eyes meeting.

Up close, she had freckles across her nose and chocolate near her chin.

“Bon Appétit,” she said crisply.

Shaurya smiled, soft and sincere. “Thank you.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long before she turned again, disappearing into the back room as if nothing had happened.

But something had.

Something had definitely happened.

Shaurya took a bite of the croissant — warm, flaky, filled with melted dark chocolate that sighed in his mouth.

And just like that, he knew.

He was going to come here again.

Not just for the pastries.

But for whatever this feeling was.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

There are places in the world where time forgets to move.

Where the clock ticks, but no one listens.

Where the air smells of old paper and cinnamon coffee, and the sun filters in like a shy guest through glass.

In Bandra, wrapped in the golden hush of mid-afternoon, stood one such place.

A bookstore. Not grand. Not famous. But quietly unforgettable.

Its name? Quill & Reverie.

A love letter to forgotten things.

The wooden sign swung softly in the breeze, its carved lettering weathered but poetic. Ivy kissed the corners of the windows, and the door creaked open like it knew stories waited behind it.

Inside, the world slowed to a murmur.

Wooden shelves leaned lovingly against each other, stacked with novels that once saved people—novels that still did. A brass lamp glowed in the reading corner where strangers became silent companions.

Little notes were pinned to the walls—quotes, doodles, confessions—left behind by visitors who couldn’t take their hearts home.

Behind the counter stood Veer, twenty and wide-eyed, helping an elderly woman choose between Jane Eyre and A Man Called Ove.

There was a mug of tea beside him, half-forgotten, and a stack of bookmarks resting near the register.

But the heart of the store didn’t beat here.

It beat behind a quiet door, unmarked, except for a feather carved in oak. A room that didn’t exist on paper. A space where the world couldn’t follow.

Where he was.

Ashvik Suri.

The owner of Quill & Reverie.

The man who loved rain more than people.

And the man the world unknowingly worshipped as A. Reyaan Vale.

✰ ✰ ✰

The soul of the store was hidden in a small room at the back, where a wooden door bore no sign—just the carving of a feather and a full stop.

Behind it sat Ashvik Suri, the man no one really knew.

Dressed in a muted linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his fingers brushed the edges of a fountain pen cap he hadn’t used in days.

Across from him, looking far less poetic and far more exasperated, sat Dev Sharma, his editor and longtime friend.

Dev sipped the now-cold Americano. He winced. "You’re ignoring your mother’s call again, aren’t you? She knows you're with me. She called me. Said she’s coming to drag you home if you don’t pick up.”

Ashvik’s voice was calm, almost too calm. “It’s lunchtime. She’ll forget in an hour.”

“Except it’s not about food this time.” Dev threw his phone on the desk. “It’s about this. The new project. Ashvik, we have to talk about it.”

Ashvik leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. His brows furrowed slightly, the only real sign of irritation. “We are talking about it. I already said no.”

Dev's voice rose with the urgency of business pressure. “It’s not optional anymore. The board wants A. Reyaan Vale to shift gears. The market is flooded with love stories—everyone wants thrillers, twisted dark romances, crime stories. You’re a brand now. You evolve, or you get replaced.”

Ashvik’s jaw tightened, but his tone didn’t lose its softness. “I write love stories, Dev. I don’t write to chase trends. I write to heal. To remind people that love exists... that it’s not always perfect, but it’s possible. That’s what my readers expect. I won’t serve them blood just because the world wants a mess.”

Dev’s fingers drummed on the table. “You think I don’t respect that? I do. But this isn’t just about you anymore. Reyaan Vale isn’t just a pen name. He’s a phenomenon. You don’t show your face, and that’s fine. But the publishers have marketing budgets and expectations. A little darkness won’t kill your poetry.”

Ashvik shook his head, gaze drifting to the bookshelf behind Dev where copies of In Moonlight, She Danced Alone and When Stars Forgot to Burn sat quietly. “They trust me, Dev. The readers. Without knowing who I am, they feel me. I won’t betray that trust.”

Dev softened slightly. “I’m your friend, yaar. But I’m also your editor. Your success feeds fifty mouths at the publishing house. Just one book—try a new genre. Maybe you’ll surprise yourself.”

“I don’t want to surprise myself,” Ashvik replied, lips curving in a wry smile. “I want to stay who I am. That’s all.”

The room fell into silence. The only sound was the muted murmur of a customer asking Neel, “Who is this A. Reyaan Vale? His words feel like someone understood me for the first time.”

Dev let out a breath and stood up. “Fine. No thriller. But at least... give me a darker love story? Something with shadows?”

Ashvik thought for a long second. Then nodded, slowly. “Only if it still ends with light.”

Dev chuckled. “You really are impossible.”

“And yet,” Ashvik said, glancing at the manuscript draft on his desk, “you keep coming back.”

“I must be cursed.” Dev grinned, grabbing his coffee. “Pick up your mom’s calls. Or she’ll come here and throw a chappal at you”

As Dev left the room, Ashvik stayed seated for a moment longer, fingers brushing the edge of a worn-out copy of Letters to a Quiet Girl.

He turned it over in his hand, the last book he’d written under Reyaan Vale. It had healed thousands.

He remembered Dev’s words, “You know… even poets carry darkness, Ashvik. Especially the quiet ones. You’re not just a romantic, you’re a storyteller. And once you dare to try this genre, I know you won’t just do well. You’ll outshine yourself.”

Ashvik closed his eyes and let the quiet hum of the bookstore settle over him like an old friend.

Outside, the doorbell tinkled as someone entered the shop. The scent of new paper mingled with sunlight.

He smiled faintly.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The scent of jasmine-scented candles and turmeric-stained memories welcomed Ashvik Suri the moment he stepped into the Suri house.

There was something grounding about home—about creaking wooden floors, the faint bhajan playing in the kitchen, and the way time seemed to slow its pace here.

But before comfort could wrap around him, a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.

“Aayi lagaa na!” Ashvik winced, stumbling a step back. “Maa!”

Renu Suri stood with one hand on her waist, the other already pulling at her eldest son’s ear. “Phone karte hain toh uthata kyun nahi? Bhukh nahi lagti tujhe? Lunch ka time dikhayi nahi deta kya?”

Ashvik groaned, crouching halfway to lessen the damage. “Ka—kaaan! Mummy, bas bhi kijiye. Laal ho gaya mera kaan!”

From the living room couch, Neil, the youngest of the Suri brothers, let out a cackle. “Bhaiya! Itne bade ho gaye ho aur fir bhi pitai ho rahi hai!”

Ashvik glared playfully at him. “Tere bhi din aayenge, Neil.”

Aarush, the middle Suri, looked up from his sketchpad and smiled softly. Before Ashvik could react, the quietest sibling had clicked a picture.

“Delete kar,” Ashvik said.

“No,” Aarush replied, tucking his journal away like a secret. “This one’s going in the ‘Bhaiya being scolded’ series.”

Renu shook her head, returning to the kitchen. “Teri biwi hi tujhe line pe laayegi. Meri baat toh tu sunne se raha.”

Ashvik flopped down beside Aarush, raising a brow. “Ab meri biwi ki baat kahan se aa gayi, Maa?”

Neil, always happy to stir the pot, beamed. “Bhaiya! Mummy ne aapke liye ladki dekhi hai!”

Ashvik blinked. “Kya?!”

Before he could say more, a familiar voice echoed from the hallway.

“Kaun hai woh ladki, bahu?” came the deep, weathered voice of Dadaji—Renu’s father-in-law and the Suri family’s patriarch, dressed in his white kurta and reading glasses still perched on his nose.

Renu placed a bowl of steamed rice on the table, her face glowing. “Papa ji, meri dost hai Nivedita. Uski badi beti Mira.”

Neil clapped his hands like a dramatic TV host. “Wahi Mira Deshpande jiska do gali baad mein bakery-café hai! La Poesia!”

Ashvik turned to him, half-curious. “Tujhe kaise pata?”

“Main roz college jaate hue waha se unka famous bubble tea leta hoon,” Neil said proudly. “Aur bhaiya, trust me. Us café ka ek ek item… uff. Aapka man hi nahi bharega.”

Ashvik raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Inside, something shifted. His family didn’t praise easily, especially his mother.

But the way she and Neil spoke about this Mira Deshpande stirred a flicker of curiosity he wasn’t ready to name.

Just then, soft footsteps descended the staircase. His grandmother, his Amma, wrapped in her favorite maroon cotton saree, entered with her serene smile.

“Hume toh Mira bahut pasand aayi,” she said, sitting beside Dadaji. “Neil ne itni tareef ki. Aur Renu toh karti hi rehti hai. Ab toh mann kar gaya Mira bitiya se milne ka.”

Renu lit up, “Toh kal hi chalte hai unke ghar? Mil lete hai sab?”

Dadaji nodded in approval. “Sahi rahega.”

Ashvik sat frozen for a moment, watching his family plan his future like it was a vacation itinerary.

Marriage.

Was he ready?

He could write about love in metaphors. He could pen kisses that made people sigh, heartbreaks that made readers weep. But love? In real life? That was a language his fingers spoke better than his lips.

He had never been in love.

His life was built on silent comforts, on books and ink and the smell of paper. His friends were loud and wild—Dev, Daksh, Advait and Raghav—but he… he was a man of restraint. A man who spoke gently, walked slowly, lived quietly.

Could he love someone?

Would he even know how?

He sighed, leaning his head back. “Agar ladki ko nahi pasand aaya toh?”

Renu turned from the kitchen. “Toh nahi pasand aaya. Hum zabardasti thodi karenge?”

“But agar Mira Deshpande ne haan kaha…”

Then maybe, just maybe…

He’d try.

Maybe he didn’t know love.

But he could learn.

Even silent hearts could echo someone else’s laughter.

Even a writer of the quiet could find rhythm in a stranger’s voice.

And just like that, Ashvik Suri, bookstore owner by day, A. Reyaan Vale by heart, whispered to himself, “Let’s meet her first.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Kaisa laga first chapter?

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