17

The next evening, Tara had just returned from a long day at university. Her head was pounding, her bag weighed heavy on her shoulder, and all she wanted was a quiet night, a simple dinner, and sleep. She had barely stepped into her studio when she noticed the note from the delivery guy—her parcel had been left at reception, and in all her exhaustion, she had completely forgotten about it.

Sighing, she dragged herself back down to collect it. The lift ride felt longer than usual, every second stretching out. When she finally returned, parcel in hand, she was more than ready to shut herself away from the world.

She started her cooking until she was disturbed by a knock at the door. As she approached her door, she froze.

Aryan stood there, holding another smaller package—her grocery delivery— that she hadn't even realized was missing. He leaned casually against the doorframe of 1101, but his eyes softened when they met hers.

Her heartbeat quickened, but she masked it under irritation.

"You... What are you doing here?" Her voice was clipped.

He held up the bag. "You forgot this."

She snatched it from his hand. "Thanks. You can go now."

He didn't move. "No."

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"I don't want to go. I want to stay here. With you."

His words were simple, steady—no hesitation, no doubt. It wasn't a plea; it was a fact. He was being clear about what he wanted, and it threw her off.

Her instinct was to push him away, build the walls higher. "Aryan, leave. I don't want this."

Just as she was about to shut the door, the sudden, sharp whistle of her cooker pierced the air. She jumped, heart racing, and rushed to the kitchen to switch it off before the steam burst out.

In those few seconds, Aryan slipped inside her studio and closed the door behind him, removing his slides.

When she turned around and saw him standing in the middle of her space—her space—something in her chest tightened.

"What the hell, Aryan? Why did you come in? Go away!" Her voice rose, but it held more frustration than real anger.

He ignored her. His eyes scanned the room—the soft string lights, the neatly stacked books, the tiny indoor plant by the window. "I like what you've done with the place," he said with a faint smile.

She didn't respond. She crossed her arms, trying to block him out.

Then, he noticed her fumbling with the sabzi she had been trying to cook. He saw she had been cutting the onions, the tomatoes, but he could tell she was struggling—half distracted, half drained.

He stepped forward. "Let me do it."

She frowned. "I don't need anything from you."

His eyes held no challenge, only warmth. "I know you don't. But let me."

Before she could argue, he gently took the knife from the counter after guiding her to sit down on the chair near the kitchen counter. His touch was light, but firm. She sat, watching him move around her small kitchen with surprising ease.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't know how to cook this before... Her mind raced back to their first year—him messing up even the simplest dal, her teasing him endlessly.

But now... his hands worked swiftly, confidently. He knew exactly when to stir, when to lower the flame, when to sprinkle the masalas.

Her voice softened, laced with curiosity, "How...?"

He glanced at her, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. His hand paused briefly before he murmured, "I... I had to learn."

Something in his tone made her heart clench. He didn't say more, but she knew. He had been alone. He had taken care of himself. He had grown.

But she didn't want to go there. She refused to let herself feel that pull. She hardened her face again.

"Aryan... Go away."

He turned off the stove, wiped his hands, and then... he was suddenly in front of her.

Close.

Too close.

Before she could react, he pinned her lightly against the wall beside the kitchen. His arms caged her in, but his touch was careful, not trapping—just keeping her there, holding her attention.

His voice was low, rough with emotion. "I know you're in there, Star. I know you still feel it. I'm not stupid. And I'm not stopping... not until I get my baby back."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes flickered between his, trying to hold onto her anger, her distance, but his gaze stripped it all away. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her—God, a part of her wanted him to—but he didn't.

He stepped back.

Leaving her breathless against the wall.

He grabbed his keys from the counter and walked to the door. As he opened it, he glanced back, giving her one final look—determined, certain.

"I'll get you back, Taru."

Then he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

She exhaled, her hand pressing against her chest, trying to calm the storm inside her. But the warmth of his touch lingered.

That night, Tara stood at her kitchen counter, wiping it down after finishing her dinner. Her movements were slow, her mind elsewhere—replaying the evening over and over. Her plan had been simple: keep Aryan at a distance, build walls high enough that he could never reach her again. And yet, he had come in so effortlessly, made himself at home in her space, cooked for her like he belonged there.

She frowned, but it wasn't with anger.

Damn... the food was actually good, she thought begrudgingly, scrubbing the counter a little harder to distract herself. She had wanted to criticize it, dismiss it, but she couldn't. It had tasted... perfect. He had remembered her favorite spices, the exact way she liked her sabzi—not too oily, just the right amount of heat. He had cooked it like someone who cared. Someone who still knew her.

She sighed.

After finishing up, she dimmed the lights and slid into her bed, pulling the blanket over herself. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep, but her thoughts wouldn't stop.

Why is he doing this?

Why now?

He's the one who left.

He's the one who pushed me away.

And now he's talking about getting me back?

Her chest tightened. She was angry, yes. But there was confusion beneath it. And somewhere, buried even deeper—there was still that ache. The ache of what they had once been. The ache she thought she had buried.

She turned to her side, clutching the pillow closer. Why do you still affect me like this, Aryan?

Just then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She frowned and picked it up. An unknown number.

'Hey, it's Aryan. I finished the HTML coding. Just add the CSS, and we're done.'

Her heart skipped, but she forced herself to stay neutral. Her fingers hovered for a second before she typed back a simple:

"Okay."

She stared at the message thread, but her eyes drifted to his profile picture. It wasn't the same one he had when they were together—the loud, goofy one of him grinning after scoring a goal. This was different.

He was leaning against a wall, wearing a plain black shirt. There was a faint smile on his lips, but it was subtle—almost like he was trying to convince himself to smile. His eyes... they weren't the same. They held something heavier. Softer. Tired.

She stared at it longer than she should have.

His smile has faded too.

Her chest tightened again. She locked her phone, turned over, and shut her eyes. But sleep didn't come easy.

💜