18

The next morning, Tara had finished her shower and gotten ready for the day. She was sitting on her bed, scrolling through her phone when it lit up with Aakash's name.

She picked up. "What's up?"

"Hey, listen... can you check where Aryan is? We need him for the boys' football thing, and he's not picking up his phone."

Tara blinked, a bit caught off guard. "Uh... okay. I'll check."

"Thanks, Tara. You're the best."

She hung up, tossing her phone beside her with a sigh.

Of course, Aakash doesn't know...

He didn't know about her and Aryan. None of the boys did. That's why he asked her so casually, assuming it was no big deal.

"Okay, Tara... let's go," she muttered to herself.

Steeling her expression, she stepped out of her studio and crossed the short distance to his door. She raised her hand and knocked firmly, keeping her face neutral. There was no answer. But she paused—she could hear faint shifting inside. Movement. He was in there. He could hear her.

Her eyebrows knitted together. She knocked again, this time louder.

A few seconds passed, and then she felt his footsteps nearing. She knew he was right by the door—probably peeking through the peephole, seeing who it is.

Finally, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Aryan stood there, leaning against the frame. He looked... off. His skin was paler than usual, his eyes a little sunken, and his hair was messily pushed back like he'd just woken up.

"What happened, Tara?" His voice was low, scratchy.

She kept her tone firm. "Aakash is looking for you. He needs you for some football thing. Pick up your phone."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I don't want to go anywhere, Tara."

Her brows furrowed. "Then answer your phone and tell him that."

She turned, ready to leave, but then Aryan coughed—deep, rough. Her steps halted. She turned back, noticing his shoulders sag slightly as if the simple act of standing was tiring him out.

"What happened to you?" Her voice softened just a little.

He blinked. "Huh? Nothing. See you later, Tara."

She crossed her arms, her concern growing. "Are you sick?"

"I'm fine, Tara. Relax," he mumbled, attempting to step back inside, but his movement was sluggish.

Her eyes followed him as he wavered slightly on his feet. That was all it took. Before she even realized it, she pushed the door open wider and stepped in after him. Her gaze swept across the studio—it was a complete mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere, boxes half-opened, takeaway containers on the table. It looked nothing like the clean, organized Aryan she knew.

"What... what have you done here?" Her voice rose, irritation mixing with concern. "Why is everything a mess? What's going on with you?"

Aryan leaned against the kitchen counter, breathing slowly. He didn't say anything—he just watched her, his lips parting slightly, as though he was in awe.

"Tara..." he started, but she cut him off.

"I asked you something, Aryan!"

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I moved in two days ago, Tara. I haven't had the time to unpack properly. And now, I'm not feeling well. That's all. It's okay, star."

Her jaw clenched at the word. Star. He said it like it was second nature. Like he never stopped.

She tried to ignore the way it made her feel. She crossed her arms tighter. "You're clearly not okay," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than him.

The tension in the room was heavy, but it was different from their usual arguments. This was something else.

She looked at him one more time—his tired eyes, the slight flush on his cheeks from the fever he was clearly trying to hide.

"Just... sit," she ordered.

Tara stepped into her studio, her mind racing but her actions steady. She opened her medicine box, grabbed some fever tablets, and then went to her fridge. There was some leftover khichdi—comfort food—and the sabzi Aryan had made yesterday, along with a few rotis. She packed everything into a small bag and, without giving herself time to overthink, walked back across the corridor to his studio.

She knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting for a response. Aryan was still sitting on the couch, leaning back, eyes closed, but he opened them slowly when he heard her.

Tara frowned, setting the bag down on the counter as she glanced at him. "Why weren't you answering your calls?" she asked, her tone edged with concern.

Aryan ran a hand through his hair, his voice low and tired. "I didn't want to see anyone today."

She raised a brow, arms crossed. "Yet you opened the door just now."

He looked at her, eyes softening despite the feverish haze. There was a weight to his words, a quiet truth they both knew. "Because it's you, Tara. You're not 'anyone.' You never were. You're... you're my everyone."

Ignoring the goosebumps in her mind, she tied her hair into a messy bun and moved toward his kitchen area. She spotted the unopened boxes and the general disarray, and without a word, started unpacking his utensils and arranging everything into the cabinets.

Aryan shifted slightly. "Tara, it's okay. You don't need to do all this."

"Shut up," she snapped, not even turning around.

He smiled faintly but didn't argue.

As she heated the khichdi on the stove, she quickly put the dishes in place, wiped the counter, and cleared up the space. Within ten minutes, his kitchen looked organized—functional, at least.

She brought the steaming bowl of khichdi to him, adding a spoonful of ghee on top. "Eat."

He took it but glanced up. "What about you?"

"I'll eat later," she said, crossing her arms.

Aryan reached out and gently took her hand. "Eat with me. Please."

There was something in his voice—soft, sincere. She tried to resist, but this time, she couldn't.

Letting out a small sigh, she grabbed another plate, served herself some khichdi, and sat beside him. They ate quietly, the only sound being the clinking of their spoons.

Halfway through, Aryan spoke, his voice gentle. "I'm feeling better now, star. Thanks to you."

Tara didn't reply. She kept her eyes on her plate.

He tried again. "You didn't need to clean the kitchen."

She shrugged. "I hate seeing mess."

There was a brief silence before he muttered under his breath, "That's why I didn't want you see me in second year..."

Her hand froze mid-air, spoon halfway to her mouth. She looked at him, confused and a little stunned. "What...?"

He glanced up, realizing what he had let slip, but she was already staring at him with wide eyes.

"I—uh...nothing," he stammered. "Forget it."

She blinked a few times, but instead of pressing, she got up. "I'm... I'm gonna go now."

As she started to walk toward the door, Aryan stood quickly. "Wait."

She paused, hand on the handle.

He picked up their plates, walked to the sink, and washed them carefully. He placed them in the drying rack, wiping his hands on a towel. Then he came back to her.

"Thank you, star," he said softly.

She kept her face neutral, trying to ignore the warmth his words sparked in her chest. She held out a strip of Panadol. "Have this."

He took it with a small grin. "You're my Panadol."

"Shut up," she shot back, rolling her eyes.

Inside, Aryan bit his cheek to stop himself from saying what was really on his mind: I'm fighting the urge to make you shut up, baby.

But he only said, "Okay."

She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Clean this place."

And then, she was gone.

Aryan leaned against the closed door, a smile spreading across his face.

Step by step, he thought.

💜