Food. I need food. Or something pretending to be food.
I fill a kettle, set it on the stove, and grab a packet of ramen from the shelf. It’s not exactly dinner, but it’s warm, and it’s fast, and it doesn’t require emotional investment. Cooking has never been my strength. I can survive, not thrive.
I can make khichdi. I can make chappathi and rice. I can make aloo ki sabzi.
That’s it.
Enough to stay alive. Not enough to enjoy. Everything else I burn, undercook, or somehow leads to a mess that makes me regret ever trying. So I don’t try. I survive on chips, Snickers, coffee, and the occasional cupcake.
Cupcakes are different.
I smile faintly as the water begins to boil.
My father used to make cupcakes when I was in a bad mood. Chocolate ones, mostly. He’d mess up the kitchen completely, flour everywhere, batter on his shirt, and my mother would stand at the doorway with her arms crossed, scolding him for “spoiling the child.”
He’d just wink at me and say, “Bad moods need sugar, Ishi.”
The memory sneaks up on me, soft and sharp at the same time. I swallow and focus on the ramen, tearing open the packet and dropping the noodles into the boiling water.
I stir. Slowly. Mindlessly.
Today was…productive.
A lot got done. More than I expected. The contractors followed instructions, the layout is shaping up nicely, and the materials arrived on time for once. I should feel satisfied. Proud, even.
Instead, my thoughts drift. Tohim. To the way he turned on the fan like an idiot. To the papers flying everywhere. To the sound of my own laugh—real, uncontrolled, unfamiliar.
I hate that moment. Not because it wasn’t funny. Because it was. Because laughing meant I let my guard slip. And I don’t do that. I don’t let people see that side of me. Laughter invites closeness. Closeness invites attachment. Attachment leads to disappointment.
That’s the pattern.
Aryan Khanna doesn’t fit into my carefully controlled world. He’s too present. Too observant. Too comfortable in my space. He sees things I don’t want him to see. And worse—he enjoys it.
I don’t like that. I don’t like how my body reacts around him. How my thoughts get messy. How my emotions refuse to stay neatly boxed. I am very good at ignoring people. I’ve built an entire life on that skill.
With him, that skill fails.
That’s dangerous.
I drain the noodles, mix in the seasoning, and eat straight from the pot, I pick it up and move to the couch. Opening my laptop and switching on Netflix, I take another bite. It’s salty, bland, comforting in a way only bad food can be. I take a sip of coffee and let the warmth settle.
I tell myself tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I’ll be more careful. Tomorrow I’ll keep my distance. Tomorrow I won’t laugh.
I glance at the locked door again. And suddenly, the flat feels a little quieter than usual. I shake my head, push the thought away, and take another bite of ramen.
Nothing happened. It was just a delivery mistake.
It has to be.
CHAPTER 13
ARYAN
It’s 11:30.
I know this because I’ve checked the time at least five times in the last ten minutes, each glance followed by the same tightening in my chest that I’ve been ignoring for an hour now. The building is quiet in that unsettling way—no keyboards clicking, no footsteps, no conversations leaking from cabins. Just the dull whirr of the AC and the occasional distant sound of traffic that reminds me the world outside is still moving.
She’s still here.
