Hey lovely readers 🤍
Before we move ahead, just a small note: the flashback parts in this story will appear in italics so that it’s easier for you to follow the timeline and not get confused between past and present.
Avni-
I tell myself I’m busy.
It’s easier to use that word than the real ones—uneasy, afraid, unsure. “Busy” sounds respectable. It can be typed quickly and put away. So I type it and send it.
Sorry, can’t make it today. Too busy.
The message drops into the Agnihotris’ family group. Blue ticks appear right away. Shivani sends a thumbs-up. Auntie replies with a heart and a photo of the evening snacks. Uncle writes, “Work hard, beta.” Aditya doesn’t reply. His silence presses harder than any words could.
I set the phone down and look out the window. The sky glows orange, laundry lines wave like sleepy flags. Inside, the pressure cooker hisses in the kitchen and the television murmurs the news. My desk is a mess of notes and highlighters. I push papers into a fake little stack to make the room look under control.
Then a Facebook memory pops up, sharp in its timing. I open it before I can stop myself. A photo from three years ago: fairy lights across a terrace, marigold strings, a winter sky, me in a green lehenga laughing at nothing in particular. Next to me, partly turned, is Rahul. His dimple shows, his jaw soft in the light, his eyes scanning the crowd like the room belonged to him.
My chest tightens. I try to close the app but my thumb doesn’t listen.
Rahul.
He was not who I thought he was. That much I know now. But memories don’t care about truth. They pour in like rain through a cracked window.
I put the phone face down and rest my palms on the desk, tracing the old pen marks.
It was Sweety’s engagement, and the house throbbed with laughter. Aunties in silk saris moved like slow rivers. Uncles tested their speeches, then gave up once the DJ began. Children ran around sticky with sweets. The house smelled of incense and masala and something hopeful.
I was stuck in my usual role—organizer. Fix the flowers, tape the lights, stop relatives from stealing the bride’s seat for photos. My bun kept slipping. I stabbed the same stray hair again and again, irritated with myself.
“Avni!” Maasi’s bangles jingled as she waved me over. “Come, meet Rahul. Sharmila’s nephew from Pune. Works in finance, very smart boy.”
He stood tall, neat, smiling just enough to win people over. He bent to touch my grandmother’s feet, tucked his phone away when elders spoke, and laughed at aunty jokes without looking forced.
Then he turned to me. His eyes didn’t sweep me up and down like most boys. They just stayed, steady and calm.
“I heard you’re the one running this whole show,” he said with a half-smile.
“That means I’ll also take the blame if anything goes wrong,” I replied too quickly.
“Then I’ll make sure to only praise the good parts.”
Later, when the music started and the terrace lights flickered, I was wrestling with a fairy-light pole that wouldn’t stay straight. Rahul appeared beside me like he had been waiting for the right moment.
“Chief of Logistics,” he said, giving a mock salute. “Permission to help?”
“You’ll ruin your jacket.”
“Consider it festive investment.”
We laughed as he pressed the tape down with patient thumbs. The string straightened and we grinned at each other like we’d shared a secret victory.
The next day I got a WhatsApp message.
Rahul: Fairy-light pole: 7/10. Extra points for effort. Lost marks for uneven tape.
Me: Excuse me? That was flawless work.
Rahul: Maybe you should show me again. For inspection.
Me: Inspector, get lost.
That was the beginning. Soon it was daily. Memes, silly voice notes, encouragements slipped between work hours. He sent photos of his bad coffee with captions like failed barista. I replied with my awful panda doodles.
One night, nervous about applying to a firm, I confessed my fear.
Rahul: Courage is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.
Me: Philosopher now?
Rahul: Don’t expose me. I have a reputation.
I laughed under my blanket, hugging the phone to my chest.
When he visited my parents, he brought kaju katli. Within minutes Ma whispered, “Such a respectful boy.” Papa nodded, impressed. Rahul set up our Wi-Fi router after actually reading the manual. My parents melted, and I didn’t stop them.
A week later, at a café, we argued about books.
Rahul: Hardcovers last longer.
Me: Paperbacks feel alive. They fold into your palm.
Rahul: Fine. I’ll buy you both. Problem solved.
Me: Who says things like that?
Rahul: Smart investors.
I laughed so hard I had to hide behind the menu. With him, life didn’t feel like survival. It felt lighter.
One evening, dark clouds rolled in and Delhi drowned in rain. My balcony was full of half-dry clothes. I ran outside, phone pressed to my ear because Rahul was on the line.
“Save the poor shirts,” he said, laughing at the thunder.
“They’re already soaked!” I shouted.
“Then pretend you tried. I’ll supervise.”
He stayed on the call while I wrestled with wet clothes. By the time I came back, dripping and out of breath, he announced, “Congratulations. You saved three socks and a handkerchief. True hero.”
“Shut up,” I laughed, hair plastered to my face.
“Headline coming in,” he said. Local girl rescues endangered socks during monsoon. Boyfriend deeply impressed.
“Boyfriend?” I teased.
There was a pause, soft but warm. “Too early for that word?”
I bit my lip and smiled. “Maybe not.”
That night even folding socks felt special.
We never put labels on it, but the closeness was there. He remembered the way I tapped my pen when I was nervous, how I hated long calls but loved voice notes, how I liked my tea with less sugar. On bad days he showed up with chai in paper cups, as if the world could be fixed at the right temperature.
Once, when I had to study late, he came with samosas and a playlist he had made: songs that didn’t demand too much attention but kept you company. My notes were spread everywhere and he sat on the floor, cross-legged, reading sections I stumbled over.
“You’ll get this,” he said, as if it were fact.
“But what if I mess up?” I whispered.
“Then you’ll learn and do better next time.”
He even wrote a fake interview email and made me practice replies. When I left for the interview, he caught my hand at the door. “You’ve got this,” he said. And I believed him.
Telling Aditya felt heavier than it should have. His opinion mattered too much. We met at our usual café.
“I’ve been spending time with someone,” I said. “His name is Rahul. We met at Sweety’s engagement. He’s good.”
Aditya listened quietly, sipping his coffee.
“And how do you feel when you’re with him?” he asked.
“Like I can breathe,” I admitted.
He gave a small smile. “Then that’s important.”
When Rahul met the Agnihotris, I watched nervously. He shook Aditya’s hand.
“You’re the famous Aditya,” Rahul said lightly.
“And you’re the new Rahul,” Aditya replied, steady.
I held my breath, but later when I asked, Aditya smiled. “He seems nice, Avni. I’m happy for you.”
That was enough.
Back in my room the present came rushing back. A scooter backfired outside. My phone lay face down on the desk. I flipped it over—the old photo glowed. Fairy lights, my smile, Rahul’s half-turned face.
I touched the edge and pulled back quickly. Touch is a dangerous habit.
I think now about how innocent I was back then, how easily I believed people were exactly what they showed me. I didn’t question much. I didn’t look for cracks. When someone gave me warmth, I thought it would last forever.
Maybe that’s what trust really is—the madness of handing your heart to another person and believing they’ll protect it.
And I had trusted Rahul with mine, more than I had ever trusted anyone, even Aditya.
So this chapter was all about taking you back in time — to show how Rahul entered Avni’s life, and how she slowly let herself trust him. I wanted you to feel the charm and warmth she felt, because only then can you understand how much his presence meant to her.
Tell me — how are you feeling about Rahul so far? Do you like him the way Avni does, or are you being a little cautious already? 👀 I’d love to know your thoughts in the comments.
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