Between the shelves, the hours stayed,
In quiet corners, destinies swayed.
Her name once spoken, the silence stirred,
And his world unfolded without a word.
Mornings in the Suri household began like orchestra symphonies. A kettle whistling. A door creaking open. The lazy clink of teacups being arranged in a line. But for Ashvik, mornings started in silence always in silence.
He stood beneath the steaming cascade of his shower, the water tracing slow poetry down his spine as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Not for breakfast. Not to the sun spilling over the curtains. But to the page blank, impatient, haunting him.
His fingers pressed lightly against the cold marble, eyes half-closed, while plots unravelled quietly inside him.
"What if the murderer was never real?”
“What if the girl... knew the ending all along?”
“What if pain wasn’t a twist but a beginning?”
He breathed in steam and breathed out the story.
This was routine.
He didn’t count time by minutes, but by ideas. And today, the clock had spun an hour and a half before he reached for his towel. Hair soaked, skin flushed from heat, soul a little lighter. Ashvik stepped out of the bathroom like a man walking out of another world. His own.
Back in his room, the windows welcomed golden light with slow, deliberate affection.
He moved like he belonged in old films silent, careful, unhurried. His steps softened by the polished wooden floors, his thoughts louder than any sound.
Ashvik wasn’t handsome in the loud way. His charm wasn’t rehearsed. It rested in the curve of his collarbones, the tilt of his head when he thought too deeply, and in the way he always looked like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
From his closet, he chose an olive-green polo soft, slightly wrinkled, like comfort. Paired with dark denims, worn-in but tailored. His style wasn’t curated. It was inherited. Like books, like silence.
He dabbed his wrist with sandalwood and lemongrass cologne, his signature. The scent of evening rains and thoughtful men.
A final glance in the mirror. His dark hair was towel-dried, swept back with fingers that had held more pens than combs. A little messy. Intentionally unintentional.
Just then, his phone buzzed with the familiar name lighting the screen.
Dev [7:58 am]
“CALL ME. I swear if the killer turns out to be the sister, I’m disowning you as an author.”
Ashvik chuckled, that rare curve of his lips that made even the mirror pause.
He typed half a reply.
Paused.
A new idea floated in like smoke.
What if the killer wasn’t a person... but a truth?
He blinked once, twice, then smiled wider.
“Dev, you idiot…” he muttered, “you just solved my climax.”
But before he could retreat back into his writing desk, the kingdom of ink and half-told tales, a voice stormed up from the staircase like an army of brass bells.
“Ashvik!”
“Ashvik Suri! Agar is baar breakfast skip kiya na toh upar se neeche tak sunaa dungi main!”
His mother’s voice rang like a well-timed plot twist.
“Phone uthane ki fursat nahi milti. Lekin shower mein Romeo bane baithe ho!”
Ashvik winced and laughed, running a hand through his still-damp hair.
“Aa raha hoon, Mummy…” he muttered, slipping his phone into his pocket. “At least let me smell like a decent man before I’m scolded like a schoolboy.”
But Dev’s message lingered. As did the thought of the plot shift.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Ashvik descended the mahogany stairs two at a time, muttering a string of “sorry, sorry, sorry” under his breath like it was a prayer meant for one woman, his mother.
Renu Suri stood at the far end of the dining table, arms crossed, chin tilted, the look in her eyes sharp enough to slice through the morning air.
“Ashvik Suri… phir se late,” she said, every syllable clipped, the tone of a mother who had repeated the same line for twenty-eight years.
Ashvik crossed the room quickly, leaning in for a half hug as though affection might soften her glare. “Sorry, Mumma. Pakka kal se nahi hoga,” he promised, voice carrying the optimism of a boy who still believed charm could erase lateness.
Her expression didn’t shift. Instead, she reached up and pulled his ear, not gently.
“Hamesha yahi kehta hai tu. Itna bada ho gaya phir bhi nahi sudhar raha.”
“Mummy… mere kaan!” Ashvik winced, laughing, trying to escape her grip until she finally let go with a sigh.
At that exact moment, Neil strolled down the stairs, headphones slung around his neck, a smirk already tugging at his lips.
“Good morning, bhai. Kaafi acha scene chal raha tha aap dono ka,” he teased, sliding into the chair beside their grandfather.
Ashvik shot him a look. “Neil, ek din tera bhi hoga.”
“Hoga toh mujhe yaad se bula lena,” Neil replied, opening his laptop like the conversation had only been background entertainment.
Their father, Arvind Suri, entered then, a calm presence that steadied the room. Adjusting his reading glasses, he took his seat with quiet authority.
“Lagta hai aaj subah ka drama start ho gaya.”
“Aaiye, dekhne baith jayiye,” Renu countered, setting a steaming bowl of poha on the table. “Kaise aapke bete ki aadat sudhar rahi hoon.”
From the other end, Aarush appeared, his shoulders slightly hunched, eyes still heavy from sleep. The quietest Suri, always lingering at the edges before slipping into the chair next to his eldest brother.
“Bhai, aap time pe aate ho, yeh badi baat hai,” Neil quipped, earning only a soft smile from Aarush as he reached for his plate.
Their grandfather, Raghunandan, cleared his throat, subtle, yet enough to gather the room. “Sab baithe? Toh shuru kare?”
Soon, the table filled with the rhythm of breakfast spoons against plates, steam curling from cups of chai, conversations overlapping and tangling together like threads in a tapestry.
“Neil, teri padhai kaisi chal rahi?” Arvind asked, pouring his wife her tea.
“Papa, padhai toh first class chal rahi!” Neil grinned, confidence a little too polished.
Ashvik glanced at him, amused. All three brothers had been good students in their own ways, though their paths were nothing alike. Aarush lost himself in music and sketchbooks,
Neil drifted through his engineering degree with more interest in everything else, and Ashvik… Ashvik had chosen literature, built a life among stories, and now ran a quiet bookstore in Bandra.
“Dadu, Amma kidhar hai?” Ashvik asked, reaching for the chutney.
“Apne bacchon ko paani pila rahi,” Raghunandan said with a smile, “aur Ghalib sahab ki shayari suna rahi hogi.”
Neil smirked, breaking a piece of parantha. “Dadi ko humse jyada toh apne podhon se pyar hai.”
The table laughed softly at that, though no one truly disagreed.
A few minutes later, the sliding doors opened and Savitri Suri entered, her cotton saree trailing gently as though she carried a piece of the garden in with her.
She smelled faintly of mogra, her silver hair loosely tied, her eyes bright with an old-world softness.
“Bas, ab aagayi Amma,” Renu said, rising to pour her a cup of tea.
Savitri settled at the table, her gaze sweeping across the family before resting with quiet affection on each of them.
“Subah ka sabse khoobsurat nazara yahi hai,” she murmured, “sab ek sath, ek mejaas pe.”
“Bas Amma, aapki wajah se hi yeh sab sambhav hai,” Arvind said softly, as he broke a piece of parantha and dipped it into chutney.
“Badi tareef ki jaa rahi meri?” Savitri asked her son.
“Ab Amma aapki tarif karenge toh poore din daant nahi milegi na. Kyu, Papa?” Neil teased, earning a sharp look from Renu, who reached over to swat his arm.
“Tum na, ek din tameez seekh lena,” she muttered.
Neil grinned, unbothered. Aarush only shook his head faintly, hiding a smile as he pushed his plate closer for another serving.
The breakfast continued with chatter. Neil narrating an exaggerated version of a college incident, Renu scolding him between laughter, Aarush quietly observing, Arvind slipping in thoughtful remarks, Savitri humming in approval at her grandchildren’s antics.
Then, just as Ashvik reached for his cup of tea, Savitri’s voice cut through the noise, calm yet carrying the weight of something important.
“Renu,” she said, her eyes resting on her daughter-in-law, “ladki walon se kab milne ja rahe hai?”
The table stilled for a moment, the casual laughter replaced by an expectant hush. Ashvik froze mid-sip, the words settling in his chest like a stone dropped into water.
Renu’s face lit up instantly. “Mummy ji, shaam 6 baje hum Nivedita ke ghar jayenge. Mira bhi tab tak free ho jati hai.” Her voice carried excitement that she couldn’t quite hide.
“Arre wah,” Arvind said, leaning back in his chair with an approving nod. “Nivedita ji se dosti purani hai. Rishton ka bhi waqt aa gaya hai.”
“Bilkul,” Savitri agreed, her eyes twinkling. “Humari padosan, Mrs Dubey keh rahi thi Mira bahut acche sanskaar wali ladki hai. Kisi ke bhi ghar ki bahu banegi toh ghar chamak uthega.”
“Main toh keh rahi hoon,” Renu added, pouring more tea into Savitri’s cup, “Ashvik aur Mira ekdum perfect hain ek dusre ke liye. Jabse main ne Nivedita se baat ki hai, mujhe lag raha hai jaise Bhagwan ne khud joda banaya ho.”
Neil, ever the instigator, leaned forward with mischief in his grin. “Wah bhai, ab toh aapki shaadi fixed hi samjho. Ab toh mummy ke sath sath bhabhi ki bhi daant paregi”
“Neil,” Renu warned, but there was laughter in her tone.
Ashvik managed a small smile at his brother’s joke, but his heart wasn’t steady. Inside, thoughts churned, silent and unsettled.
Mira Deshpande.
The name wasn’t unfamiliar. He had heard it from his mother often, seen glimpses of her from a distance perhaps once or twice at community gatherings. But what did he truly know of her? Nothing.
Nothing except that she was Nivedita Deshpande’s daughter, the girl his mother’s friend adored and praised endlessly.
Would she even agree?
Would she want to sit across from him as a stranger and be told their futures had already been tied together?
Ashvik’s hand tightened around his cup, though his expression remained calm, unreadable.
Shaadi… the word lingered heavy in his mind, carrying more weight than anyone at the table could see. He wasn’t against marriage, not exactly.
But the idea of Mira, her laughter, her silence, her dreams, her fears being thrust into his life without either of them knowing each other unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain.
What if she said no?
What if she said yes?
The irony didn’t escape him, that both answers scared him equally.
“Ashvik?” Renu’s voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back. She was smiling at him, eyes shining with the kind of hope only a mother carries for her son. “Shaam ko tu mujhe 5 se pehle tayaar dikhna chahiye. Achhi shirt pehen lena. First impressions matter.”
He nodded automatically, his lips curving into the polite smile they expected of him. “Ji, Mumma.”
But inside, his mind whispered a truth no one at the table could hear.
First impressions matter but what if she doesn’t want to see me at all?
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Sunday afternoons at Quill & Reverie had their own rhythm, soft yet alive. The bookstore stretched wide, its wooden shelves rising in quiet majesty, each section marked like a compass pointing toward new worlds, fiction and philosophy, poetry and science, history and myth.
Light streamed in through the tall arched windows, falling across velvet couches where readers curled up with paperbacks, their whispers turning pages more gently than wind ever could.
It was the kind of afternoon where stories hummed in the air. Children tugged at parents’ sleeves in the fantasy aisle. A couple argued playfully over which poetry collection to buy. A young boy sat cross-legged by the classics section, lips moving as he read aloud to himself.
At the counter, Veer leaned lazily on his elbows, sipping his third cup of chai, while Ashvik stood tall beside him, his presence steady as the oak desk itself.
Their eyes lifted with every chime of the brass bell, greeting customers, helping them find books as if pairing souls to stories.
And everywhere Ashvik looked, he saw his readers.
Not as Ashvik Suri, the quiet owner of a bookstore. But as A. Reyaan Vale.
In the corner, a group of girls clutched his latest novel, voices bubbling with delight.
“The way he wrote her grief…” one of them said, eyes shining.
“And the ending! I swear, I cried for hours. Who writes like that anymore?” another added.
“It feels like he knows me. Like these words were meant for me,” whispered the third, hugging the book to her chest.
Ashvik listened, a small, secret smile tugging at his mouth. There it was his quiet triumph. To heal. To make someone feel less alone. To let words cradle them the way he himself had once longed for.
His chest warmed with the kind of joy that asked for nothing in return. And yet, beneath it, lay the ache of silence.
None of them knew. Not Veer, not Neil, not Aarush, not his friends, not even his parents. His name, hidden beneath contracts and ink, belonged to the world but never to his own family.
“Bhaiya,” Veer’s voice broke his thoughts, the steam from his chai curling upward like unfinished sentences. “Aapko pata hai? Yeh Reyaan Vale… kya likhte hain yaar.”
Ashvik’s hand stilled over the counter. “Hmm,” he hummed, careful.
Veer’s eyes lit up, eager. “Unki kahaniyon mein na… bas ek ajeeb si roshni hai. Main bohot likhne ki koshish karta hoon apne college ke assignments mein, but woh jaise likhte hain… lagta hai jaise dil ke andar ghus kar nikalte hain lafz.” He took another sip, almost reverent. “Aisa lagta hai… woh likhte hi isliye hain ki duniya thodi si aur theek ho jaye.”
Ashvik’s throat tightened, words refusing to surface.
Veer chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Kabhi mila na unse toh… bas ek thank you kehna hai. Bas itna. Unhone zindagi aasaan kar di hai, bhaiya.”
Ashvik looked at him then, really looked, the sincerity in the boy’s face, the warmth in his tone. His heart pressed painfully against his ribs. He wanted to say it.
I am him. The man you want to thank sits right here, handing you your chai, giving you this job.
But the words never came.
Bound by ink, by contract, by silence.
Instead, he offered Veer the smallest smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kabhi zaroor miloge, Veer. Kabhi na kabhi.”
The boy grinned, content, while Ashvik turned his gaze back to the shelves, to his readers, to his books, to the unspoken truth that lived quietly between the pages and his own heart.
Ashvik’s thoughts dissolved like ink in water the moment the brass bell above the door chimed again.
A gust of laughter and argument entered before the men themselves did. Two of them stormed in first, their voices overlapping like badly tuned instruments.
One had ruffled hair falling over his forehead, his shirt half-tucked as though he’d dressed in a rush; the other wore his blazer too perfectly, but his tie hung loose, rebellion peeking through.
Their steps were loud, their bickering louder, and behind them trailed two more, their patience thinner than the Sunday sunlight that poured in.
Ashvik sighed even before he saw their faces.
“Daksh, Advait, dono ko ladna hi hai toh andar mat aao,” he called, his baritone calm but edged with the resignation of long practice.
Advait only grinned, that easy charm radiating from him as naturally as breath. He shoved Daksh lightly on the shoulder and slipped in, his words ringing across the room with dramatic flair.
“Apni lugai ko tu khud se door kaise kar sakta hai, Ashvik?”
Every head in the bookstore turned as though choreographed, curiosity sparking in the air.
Ashvik dragged a hand down his face, heat rising in his ears. Of all the places for Advait’s antics, it had to be here, in front of his readers.
“Please don’t mind him,” came a smooth, steady voice. The calm one, Raghav, stepped forward, his presence quieting the room like rain on restless leaves. “Ye pagal hai bachpan se.” His tone was gentle, almost apologetic, yet laced with amusement that curved at the corners of his lips.
Daksh, never one to let silence win, chimed in with a wicked grin. “Haan, Ashvik ke pyaar mein pagal hai.”
The group of girls in the corner gasped, then burst into delighted squeals. Their books forgotten, they clutched each other like witnesses to a miracle.
“Hum toh apne favourite author ka book lene aaye the. Yaha toh live BL dekhne ko mil raha!” one of them cried, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
Ashvik’s eyes widened in horror. He shot a glare at his so-called friends, his composure crumbling. “Esa kuch nahi hai. Aap sab is pagal ke baaton mein mat aayiye.”
The customers laughed again, entertained more than convinced.
Raghav chuckled, soft and melodic, the kind of laugh that carried warmth like sunlight through a curtain.
Meanwhile, Dev leaned against the oak counter, his composure untouched, arms folded as though watching a play. “Raghav,” he said lazily, eyes flicking to Ashvik, “Dekh raha kaise badal jaa raha Ashvik ab?”
Ashvik narrowed his eyes, “Kya bol raha tu?”
“Main toh sirf sach bolta hoon,” Dev replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Daksh suddenly broke into fake tears, clutching at Advait’s shirt. “Dekha? Ashvik ab humse sharmane laga hai. Humein chor dega ab wo apni new dulhan ke liye.”
“Bas!” Ashvik’s patience snapped, his voice sharp but his ears burning. “Daksh, ek din tumhe main…”
Advait interrupted, eyes sparkling. “Ek din shaadi ke mandap mein khada karega, right?”
The bookstore erupted into laughter.
Ashvik groaned, dragging his palm down his face again. He could run a bookstore, he could secretly write novels that touched people’s hearts, but surviving his friends? That, apparently, was the true test of endurance.
“Mazak ek taraf,” Daksh leaned forward on the counter, his grin sharp with curiosity, “ab toh ye bata, humari hone wali bhabhi kaun hai?”
Ashvik’s brows pulled together, his calm slipping into surprise. “Mummy ne… tum sab ko bata diya?” The question carried both curiosity and confusion, as if he couldn’t decide whether to scold his mother or himself.
“Of course,” Advait laughed, tossing his hair like it was part of his drama. “Tu hume bataye na bataye, Aunty hume sab kuch batati hai.”
Ashvik let out a dry chuckle. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai tum sab mere dost ho hi nahi… tum sab toh mumma ke hi dost ho.”
“Woh toh hum hai,” Raghav replied with his quiet reasoning, voice honey-smooth. “Jaise tu humari mummy ka hai.”
“Phir se topic se bhatak gaye,” Dev muttered, his calm baritone grounding the chaos. He gestured lazily with his hand. “Ashvik, ab humari bhabhi ke baare mein bata.”
Ashvik’s gaze dropped, his voice lower, softer. “Mujhe khud nahi pata unke baare mein… tum sab ko kya batau?”
Daksh and Raghav pounced together, like mischievous twins. “Naam toh janta hoga? Bhabhi kya karti hai yeh toh maloom hoga?”
Ashvik sighed. “Rishta fix bhi nahi hua aur tum sab unhe ‘bhabhi’ bulane lage.”
“Renu Aunty fix kar hi dengi,” Advait replied with complete faith, as if it was law.
And then Veer, who had been biting back his words far too long, finally let it spill. “Hone wali bhabhi ka naam Mira Deshpande hai. Unka bakery-café hai, La Poesía.” His tone carried a little triumph, like he had just won a match.
Ashvik’s head snapped up. “Tumhe kaise pata?”
“Neil se,” Veer said smoothly. “Woh apni naye books lene aaya tha subah aur badle mein ye bata kar gaya.”
“Ye bakery-café…” Dev’s sharp eyes flickered. “Do gali chhod kar hi toh hai na?”
“Haan,” Veer confirmed.
Daksh clapped his hands once, already scheming. “Mai kya kehta hoon—”
“Nahi,” Ashvik cut him off instantly, his glare pinning him in place. “Bilkul nahi.”
“Sun toh le, bhai,” Daksh protested, feigning innocence.
“Mujhe pata hai tu kya kehne wala hai,” Ashvik warned, voice clipped.
But of course, Advait couldn’t resist saying the unsaid. His grin was wide, wicked, and full of mischief. “Chalo La Poesía… hone wali bhabhi se mil kar aate hain.”
Daksh’s smirk deepened like he’d been waiting for this all day. Dev and Veer nodded without hesitation, already on board.
Ashvik’s patience thinned. “Nahi. Koi nahi jayega.”
“Arey bas dur se dekh kar aa jayenge,” Dev reasoned, his calm logic sounding far too convincing.
Neil’s name slipped into the conversation, and before Ashvik could argue, Veer raised his hand proudly. “Neil ki zarurat nahi hai. Maine khud dekha hai Mira di ko.”
“Bas, ab toh chalo,” Advait declared, spinning on his heel to leave.
But Ashvik grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him still. “Shaam ko chal hi rahe ho… abhi jakar unhe nervous kyun karna?” His voice held a rare edge of pleading.
“Shaam ko as family jayenge,” Advait shot back, eyes glinting. “Abhi as customers. Suna hai La Poesía ke cupcakes bahut tasty hote hain.” He tugged against Ashvik’s grip.
The truth was, Ashvik wanted to go. He wanted to see her. His mother’s endless praises, his brother’s enthusiasm, even Veer’s casual admiration of her café, had planted an ache in him, a restless urge to know the girl whose name now echoed in the space between them.
He had glimpsed her before, at community gatherings, never her face, only the veil of her hair. Dark strands always spilling forward, shielding her like a curtain, as if she were a secret even the world had no right to read.
Before he could gather his arguments, Daksh and Advait had already hooked their arms through his, dragging him along with matching grins.
“Chalo bhai, chalo.”
Veer tossed a final instruction to a part-time employee, entrusting him with the bookstore. The bell above the door rang again.
This time not for customers, but for friends leaving behind a trail of laughter, mischief, and one reluctant groom-to-be.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Ashvik had never thought a doorbell’s chime could sound so much like destiny’s whisper. Yet, as the little bell above La Poesía’s door sang, something in his chest stilled then stumbled.
He stepped inside with Daksh, Advait, Raghav, Dev, and Veer trailing him, and the world outside blurred away.
The café wasn’t just a café. It was a living poem.
Walls draped in paintings, every stroke heavy with meaning. Quote boards dangling like secret companions, words strung across them for strangers to lean on.
A small garden bloomed for customers, fresh petals brushing against the wind. There was even a rooftop, Veer had whispered once, where evenings tasted like starlight and cinnamon tea.
Ashvik’s gaze wandered. Each board seemed written for a lost soul, gentle reminders that even loneliness had its antidote in words. His steps slowed when he noticed the paintings, their colors spilling deeper than pigment.
Below them, a signature: Ira. And next to it, a quiet inscription of words, the meaning behind the art. He felt a shiver in his fingertips, that ache only art could leave.
But it wasn’t the walls or the paintings that made his breath falter. It was the shelf tucked neatly near the corner. His books. All of them. From his timid first to his most recent, the one Mira had clutched like a lifeline in the prologue of their story. Mira ji… humari reader hai? The thought felt like prayer.
Dev caught his eyes, his expression saying the same thing Ashvik’s heart screamed.
A soft voice interrupted, pulling him back. “First time in La Poesía? Welcome. Please, this way.”
The girl couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, with an eager smile that felt like a warm lamp. She guided them toward the wide couch near the glass wall. The sunlight painted gold halos over their shoulders as they sat.
“Please scan the QR for the menu. You can place your order directly,” she explained politely.
Raghav, ever the restless one, pulled out his phone first. “Got it.”
The girl thanked them and slipped away, leaving behind the faint trace of vanilla.
Advait leaned closer, eyes narrowing toward the counter. “Veer, counter par jo hai kya… woh Mira bhabhi hai?”
Veer, still sipping the last of his chai, shook his head. “Nahi bhaiya. Woh Mira di nahi. La Poesía ki co-baker hai. Sneha di.”
Ashvik exhaled softly, nodding along, though his pulse rattled. He remembered Mira’s hair, black, flowing like midnight. Sneha’s was cut shorter, touched with brown, brushing her shoulders.
His nerves weren’t fooled, though. His palms grew clammy against his thighs. His knees bounced under the table, betraying the calm he usually carried even during his biggest book launches.
The bell chimed again. A group of girls entered, their laughter like windchimes dancing in the afternoon air.
Raghav froze. One of them glanced at him. Recognition flashed. She smiled, small and polite.
Dev, ever the observer, nudged him. “Tu jaanta hai us bacchi ko?”
Raghav nodded, “Apni regular customer ko nahi pehchanunga main? Aise kaise ho sakta hai?”
Ashvik said, voice low. “Artist hai… tabhi teri regular customer hai.”
Before Raghav could retort, Veer leaned forward, grinning. “Mira di ki sabse chhoti behen hai.”
Every pair of eyes at the table whipped toward him.
Daksh squinted. “Tu kaise janta hai?”
Veer puffed his chest, proud. “Main yaha aata rehta hoon. Padhai karne ke liye isse best jagah aur koi nahi. Mira di ko bhi dekha hai. Unke friends ko bhi.”
Ashvik arched a brow. “Apna bookstore chor kar yaha padhne aata hai?”
Veer’s grin widened. “Bhaiya, aap jante ho… main foodie hoon. Padhte-padhte bhookh lagti hai, toh socha knowledge ke sath thoda sugar bhi ho jaye.”
Before Ashvik could reply, a warm voice floated toward them. “Veer?”
They all turned. It was Sneha, graceful in her apron, flour dust clinging like constellations on her sleeve.
“Hi, Sneha di!” Veer greeted with his usual boyish charm.
She smiled. “Order kar diya?”
“We can’t decide,” Raghav admitted. “Sab hi ache lag rahe hain. Aap suggest kijiye.”
Sneha groaned lightly, as though she heard that request a hundred times a day, then chuckled. “Veer baitha hai. Ussi se pooch lijiye.”
Veer leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Sneha di, aaj Sunday hai. Mira di special menu rakhti hai na? Wahi humara order hoga.”
Ashvik’s heart snagged at the name. Mira.
But Sneha sighed, almost apologetic. “Woh actually… aaj Mira ka special Sunday available nahi hai.”
“Kyuu di?” Veer frowned.
Sneha’s smile softened. “Kuch khaas reason nahi. Meri Mira ko ladke wale dekhne aa rahe hain. Thodi si alag duniya mein hai.”
Ashvik’s throat went dry. His palms burned. Advait’s smirk widened; Daksh hid a laugh behind his hand. Raghav’s smile turned knowing. Dev’s eyes flicked toward the counter.
“Abhi ke liye macarons le aayiye,” Dev ordered casually, hiding his amusement.
Sneha nodded. “Noted.”
The moment she left, Daksh leaned close to Ashvik. His voice was a low murmur, wickedly teasing. “Bhabhi… kahin teri duniya mein toh nahi?”
Advait, always sharper, added with mock seriousness, “Aaj ka special Sunday bhi cancel kar diya. Pakka tere hi baare mein soch rahi hongi, hone wali bhabhi.”
Ashvik’s ears burned. His lips parted to retort but before he could, a voice rang from the other side of the café, sharp enough to slice through the laughter.
“Meghna di! Mira di ko samjha do rishte ke liye naa karde.”
Daksh nearly choked on his water.
A woman in a floral slit dress, Meghna, lifted her gaze, calm and composed. Her voice carried weight, the kind only healers held. “Mira ko naa karna hoga toh woh khud karegi. Jab usne khud kaha hai ke ladke se milegi aur phir apna decision degi… toh let’s respect it.”
Her words rippled quiet authority, like a therapist who’d mastered the art of soothing storms.
Another voice rang, fiery as thunder. A girl in a satin shirt paired with black trousers and a careless bun leaned forward, her eyes sparking rebellion. “Lekin agar woh ladka kamina nikla na, toh main chhodungi nahi!”
The group at Ashvik’s table erupted. Raghav and Dev tried to swallow their laughter, shoulders trembling. Advait slyly unlocked his phone, typing furiously in their WhatsApp group, spamming laughing emojis. Daksh followed, his grin splitting wide.
Ashvik sat frozen, heat pooling in his neck. His hands pressed against his thighs, trembling. His eyes darted down, embarrassed, but his heart kept repeating her words: She herself said she wants to meet the boy.
She said it.
Veer, oblivious, began introductions like a seasoned host. “Woh baggy jeans wali, Ritu di. Mira di ki middle sister. Sab log unhe Chaos Queen bulate hain.”
Daksh studied Ritu, who at that moment was dramatically gesturing with her hands, knocking over a napkin holder.
Veer pointed at the serene woman in the floral dress. “Woh Mira di ki dost hai, Meghna Brar. Therapist hai.”
Dev raised his hand without hesitation. “Bas. Mujhe chahiye therapist. Meri biwi ne mujhe pagal bana diya hai.”
Everyone burst out laughing except Ashvik, whose eyes remained heavy on the counter, searching for her silhouette.
Veer continued. “Aur jo satin shirt mein hai, woh Tara Chauhan. Lawyer hai.”
Advait whistled low, leaning toward Ashvik. “Oh shit. Bach ke rehna, bhai.”
“And jo phoolon ke saath hai woh, Naina Shetty. Florist. Mira di ki bachpan ki best friend.”
After a pause, Veer added, “Aur Sneha di bhi Mira di ki best friend hai.”
Ashvik swallowed hard. The words tangled in his chest. His legs still trembled beneath the table, sweat dampening his palms.
For the first time in years, not as Ashvik Suri, the bookstore owner, nor as A. Reyaan Vale, the author adored by strangers, but as a man, a simple man waiting for a glimpse of the woman whose name already lived inside him, he felt utterly… undone.
ᯓ★
Sneha returned with a tray lined with pastel porcelain plates, the soft clink of china harmonizing with the low hum of conversation and the warm golden light of La Poesía.
She placed before them a neat row of macarons, lavender lilac, pistachio green, rose-pink, and hazelnut brown, each glossy with care, delicate as if they carried secrets within their shells.
“Macarons,” she said softly, as though announcing a poem. “Fresh from the morning batch.”
The boys leaned forward instinctively, the air already fragrant with roasted almonds and buttercream.
“Excuse me,” Advait leaned forward, flashing his usual easy grin, “macarons toh shuruat hai. Cupcakes bhi dikhi thi wahan. Humein bhi chahiye.”
“And donuts,” Raghav chimed in, his eyes mischievous, “usse bina toh meri coffee adhuri hai.”
Daksh tipped his chin, adding lazily, “Tiramisu bhi le aaiye. Sunday ka mood wahi set karega.”
Sneha chuckled, tucking back a loose strand of hair. “Theek hai. Aur drinks?”
Ashvik, who had been quiet until now, finally cleared his throat. “Black coffee. Without sugar.”
“Same for me,” Dev added quickly, his voice clipped, though his eyes betrayed a curiosity as they scanned the café.
“Hum latte lenge,” Raghav said on behalf of himself, Daksh, and Advait. “Extra foam if possible.”
“Noted.” Sneha jotted something on her notepad, but her smile lingered, softening her sharp cheekbones.
Sneha returned, balancing a tray that looked like a canvas painted with sweetness. She set it down carefully, and at once the table lit up with colors and aromas that tugged at the heart before touching the tongue.
There were cupcakes, each one crafted with the tenderness of a love letter. One was pale blue with a swirl of vanilla cream, as though the morning sky had been caught in sugar, Sneha called it Serenity.
Beside it rested Solace, ivory soft and crowned with tiny edible pearls, quiet yet beautiful, like comfort in its purest form. The last was Euphoria, a dark chocolate creation glimmering faintly with golden dust, daring and indulgent, yet carrying the promise of joy.
Beside the cupcakes, donuts gleamed like tiny constellations. One carried a sheen of lemon glaze, tangy and bright, christened Hope. Another was pastel pink, sprinkled with sugar hearts, named Bliss, as if it had been baked straight from laughter. The third, warm and spiced, was rolled in cinnamon sugar, a gentle echo of winter evenings, it was called Harmony.
And in the middle of it all sat the tiramisu, layered and dusted with cocoa, elegant in its restraint, like poetry written in whispers.
The boys leaned closer, curiosity etched on their faces. Advait, the first to break the silence, arched a brow and grinned. “Cupcakes aur donuts ke naam… Serenity, Bliss, Hope? Yeh idea kis ka tha?”
Sneha’s eyes softened instantly, a smile curving her lips as though the answer itself was precious. “Mira ka.”
Something in the air shifted then, as if her name carried weight the walls of La Poesía knew well.
Sneha continued, her tone lowering, almost reverent. “She always says duniya already bohot bhari hai. Nafrat, dukh, bojh sab jagah mil jaata hai. La Poesía uska tarika hai logon se kehne ka, ki yahan aao aur apne worries thodi der ke liye darwaze pe chor do. Coffee piyo, meetha khao aur halka mehsoos karo. That’s why she names everything after feelings she wishes people would carry with them when they walk out: peace, love, happiness.”
The words lingered, delicate as sugar dissolving on the tongue.
For once, the group of boys, usually a storm of banter, sat without interruption. Daksh’s teasing smile eased into something thoughtful. Raghav, usually unbothered, ran a finger slowly over the edge of his plate.
Advait leaned back, grin gentled into quiet wonder, while Dev’s expression, hard and unreadable at times, betrayed the faintest crack of softness.
And Ashvik, he found himself caught between the echo of Sneha’s words and the quiet hum of his own heart. The warmth that unfurled inside him was unfamiliar, almost frightening in its gentleness.
His fingers hovered over the cupcake named Solace, as though by touching it he might borrow the comfort Mira wished for strangers.
And for a moment, it was as if the café itself breathed with them, holding still in that fragile pause where sweetness was not just tasted, but felt.
“Ritu, ladka karta kya hai?” Tara asked, sipping her coffee as if the entire family’s evening plans depended on her cup.
“Mummy bata rahi thi… bookstore owner hai,” Ritu replied absently, fingers tapping across her laptop keys.
Sneha let out a laugh, her caramel-brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Mira yahi sun kar kahin ladke ko haan na karde.”
The boys at the next table froze almost imperceptibly, spoons clinking softer against plates. They didn’t speak, but their ears sharpened, each word pulled across the space like a string.
“Bookstore owner ho ya koi author,” Tara said, lifting her chin, “Mira itni asaani se rishte ke liye haan nahi karegi.”
Ashvik’s hand stilled around his coffee cup. For a fleeting moment, the steady rhythm of his breath faltered.
“Ladka handsome nahi hua toh?” Sneha tossed carelessly, raising her brows.
“Ladka emotionally available nahi hua toh?” Meghna added, her voice teasing but pointed.
“Shaadi ke baad badal gaya toh?” Ritu finished, eyes finally lifting from her laptop. Each question landed with deliberate weight.
At the other table, Daksh leaned closer, whispering, “Middle Deshpande nuclear bomb hai, bhai.”
Back at the girls’ corner, Naina shook her head, practical as always. “Bekaar ki chinta kar rahe tum sab. Mira ko lekar hum tense hai lekin us basis par hum Suri family ke bade bete ko judge nahi kar sakte.”
Advait exhaled a laugh, muttering under his breath, “Finally kisi ne toh samajhdari wali baat ki.”
Meghna nodded. “Naina sahi keh rahi. Pehle shaam ko milte hain Mr. Suri se… phir apna judgment denge.”
The conversation trailed into softer giggles and sips of coffee until Naina’s eyes caught Ira’s sketchbook. Her pencil had been moving restlessly, shading, outlining. Naina bent closer.
“Tumne… un ladko ka sketch banaya?” she whispered.
Ira’s fingers paused, but she gave a small, reluctant nod.
“Toh jao, unhe de aao,” Naina nudged.
Ira blinked at her, horrified. Talking to strangers was as impossible as breathing underwater. She shook her head quickly.
Naina’s smile softened. She knew. So she slipped her hand into Ira’s, standing with sudden, fearless ease. “Chalo. Main chalti hoon tumhare saath.”
The boys noticed first. Advait straightened, his fork clattering. “Oh God… did she hear what we were saying?” he whispered.
Raghav’s eyes flicked up then, just in time to catch the honey-brown gaze of Naina approaching. Something inside him stumbled.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Naina said with the kind of polite confidence that drew every head at their table upward. She tugged Ira gently forward. “This is Ira. She’s an artist. Yaha par jitni paintings dikh rahi hai… usne hi banayi hain.”
Ira shifted her weight, gaze glued to the floor. Her introvert’s silence clung to her like a shawl.
Daksh frowned, genuinely confused. “Hume… review dena hai?”
Naina’s laughter spilled out, bright, unrestrained. It startled the room, stirred something raw inside Raghav’s chest. He didn’t know why, but his pulse kicked harder, as if her laugh had taken residence there.
“Nahi, nahi. Review ke liye Mira nahi kehti. Customers jo bhi honest feedback dete hain, she accepts it,” Naina replied smoothly.
Ashvik’s heart lurched. The name Mira spoken so casually, so warmly, settled in his chest like a spark.
Naina continued, “Main actually ye sketch dene aayi thi. Ira baithe-baithe aap sab ka sketch bana rahi thi… lekin jab dene ko kaha toh uska introvert nature bahar aa gaya. Isliye main aayi.”
She held out the sheet.
Advait was the first to take it, brows rising. “Arre… this is….yaar ye toh kamaal hai.”
Raghav whistled softly. “Flawless. Bilkul candid.”
“Brilliant,” Veer added, tapping the edge.
Even Ashvik’s lips curved, just faintly. “Beautiful work.”
Ira finally looked up, cheeks warming. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice almost fragile.
With the sketch delivered and praises exchanged, Naina guided Ira back to their table, a knowing smile on her lips.
The boys sat back, exchanging glances.
“Introvert hai, but talent ki kami nahi hai,” Raghav murmured.
“Waise Naina…” Advait shook his head slowly. “Bhai, us ladki ka confidence… dangerous level ka hai.”
Raghav said, absent mindedly, “Aur laughter… contagious.”
Ashvik didn’t add anything. His thoughts were elsewhere, hovering over the single name that hadn’t left his chest.
The kitchen door swung open.
A hush fell over the air, though no one acknowledged it. It was not silence born of command, but the kind that happens when something ordinary suddenly turns sacred.
Mira stepped out, brushing the fine dusting of flour from her apron, her fingertips leaving faint streaks against the soft fabric. A loose tendril of hair had escaped her bun, curling along her cheek, and she tucked it absentmindedly behind her ear, smudging a little more flour against her temple in the process.
Her friends didn’t need to announce her presence, yet instinctively, Tara’s voice lifted, calling, “Mira…!” with the fondness of a sister who had waited too long.
Ashvik’s world shifted on that single syllable.
He turned before he could stop himself. And there she was.
Since yesterday he had only heard of her, in half-told stories, in his mother’s quiet praises, in Veer’s casual mentions. He had imagined a face hidden behind those soft veils of hair at the community gatherings.
But imagination, he realised, was woefully unskilled when reality decided to walk out of a kitchen with flour-kissed fingertips and the kind of grace that wasn’t staged, wasn’t planned.
It was just her. Simply her.
And yet his chest tightened as if he had witnessed something extraordinary.
Mira carried with her a tray, balancing it carefully, the aroma of freshly baked chocolate truffle cake rising from it. Her steps were unhurried, almost unaware of the way the room seemed to bend its focus towards her.
Her eyes, those dark autumnal pools, searched only for her friends at first. She smiled, the kind of smile that reached her eyes, soft, genuine, unpolished.
The boys, uncharacteristically, went quiet. Advait, usually the first to crack a comment, found himself staring at the table instead, as if caught stealing a glance at the sun. Daksh raised his brow at Ashvik as though to say, so this is her, but his smirk faltered when he realised even he had nothing clever to add.
Ashvik’s fingers curled slowly around the handle of his untouched black coffee. The warmth seeped into his palm, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that stole into his chest as her name lingered in the air. Mira.
The name felt like it belonged in poetry. Like it had been written in margins of books he had loved long before today.
Her friends pulled her closer, teasing, chattering, fussing over the cake she had just finished. She laughed, shaking her head, brushing off the playful complaints about taking too long.
And it was in that laugh, light, melodic, unguarded, that Ashvik felt the strange beginning of something.
Not thunderous. Not immediate. Just a quiet shift. The kind of shift that anchors itself in silence, waiting for its time to grow.
And though no one noticed it, not even himself, Ashvik did not look away.
𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩 𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩 𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ
Write a comment ...