I slam the laptop closed and press my forehead against the cool wood of the desk.

Fuck, am I crazy?

Professor Nair wants a 1,500-word story on lost loved ones.
Gramps is gone.
The words don't come.
Not the real ones. Not the ones that dig, that bleed.

I stare at the blank document, the blinking cursor like a taunt.

I drag open my phone instead.

Just a break, I lie to myself.-
Just a second.

Instagram loads like it's been waiting for me.

First thing on my feed: a reel.
Rain falling soft and slow outside a glass window, amber café lights flickering inside.
The caption reads:

"Late night magic at Monsoon Café ✨ #MidnightMonsoon #BhopalNights"

It looks unreal.
Too clean. Too curated.
Too perfect.

I scoff—half‑hearted—but my thumb hovers before I scroll past.
Okay.
Why not.
Let's see what the big deal is.

I tap the location tag.

Monsoon Café.
Turns out it's one of those upscale, borderline mythic hangouts that somehow remain open past midnight.
Owned by the Sharmas.

Of course.

The kind of family whose last name sounds like a brand.
The kind of money that comes with its own weather system.

And here I am.
Stuck in a two‑fan dorm room with a barely working kettle and a borrowed mattress.
Not poor.
But nowhere near that world.
Middle class, dull‑edged, invisible.

Figures Meera would be there.

She's live.

"meera_xoxo is live — 58 viewers."
That's a lot for 2:13 AM.

I tap in.

Meera's face fills the screen, glowing under soft café lights.

"Heyyy," she says, smiling wide at the chat. "You guys are unhinged, seriously. Fifty‑eight people watching me sip overpriced tea in the middle of the night?"

She's distracted, skimming the comments.

Then—

"Oh! He is here!"

Her voice softens, just a little. "Guys, he's the reason I gained five kilos in first year. Homemade pastries. Insane stuff."

She pans the camera.

That's when I see her.

Behind the counter.

Hair pinned up loosely, one strand stuck to her cheek. Her apron's dusted with flour and coffee grounds. She isn't smiling. She isn't trying.
She's just moving—pouring, tamping, wiping down a tray—with this... rhythm.
A quiet violence in her precision.

I can't look away.

My brain flicks through old memories, dusty corners.
I've seen girls.
Talked, flirted, hooked up, even.

But I've never noticed someone like this.

Like gravity changed.
Like the café tilted slightly toward her.

I type:

"wya?"

Meera lights up.

"Ooh, he wants in. Should we tell him?"

She laughs, teasing, but all I can see is the girl behind the counter.
Her profile sharp in the warm light.
Eyes half-lidded.
Mouth unsmiling.

Like she's the only real thing in a room full of filters.

And for the first time tonight, I don't feel like writing.
I feel like watching.

And tomorrow, maybe—I'll go.

Not because I believe in magic.
But because I want to know if she's as real as she looked.

I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

My assignment glares back: 1,500 words on lost loved ones.

Fuck.

Gramps is gone.

And here I am, staring at a blank screen, feeling every second stretch like a blade.

What the hell am I doing with my life?

Why can't I summon the words?

I slam my palm onto the desk.

My vision swirls.

I think of Dostoevsky's men, torn apart by their own minds—Raskolnikov, consumed by guilt, longing for redemption.

Am I any different?

Do I even deserve to spill ink about loss when I can't face my own?

My chest tightens.

A DM pops up:

meera_xoxo: Kani! Finals cram sesh at Monsoon Café? You in?

Monsoon.

The place from the feed last night.

I should keep writing.
But my chest twists with equal parts dread and curiosity.
Okay... I'll bite.

I grab my jacket and step into the humid Bhopal night.

The Monsoon Café façade towers before me: hanging lanterns, painted vignettes of rain‑soaked streets, brass letters gleaming.
It feels over‑the‑top—like someone bottled monsoon magic and dumped it on the sidewalk.
But maybe that's the point.

A bell chimes as I push inside.

Polished wood.
Aqua‑tinted glass.
Potted ferns dangling from the ceiling.
Soft jazz drifting through hidden speakers.

In my two‑fan dorm room, ambience meant a buzzing bulb and peeling plaster.
Here, every detail is curated—and you pay for it.

I sink into a corner table, mind racing:

Why am I chasing this curated world at 3 AM?

My phone buzzes again—Instagram Live:

meera_xoxo is live — 58 viewers

I tap in.

Meera's face floods the screen, glowing under warm café lights.

"Heyyy," she chirps.
"Fifty‑eight people watching me sip overpriced tea in the dead of night?"

She flips her hair—white‑gold strands sparkling.
Designer perfume drifts off her in waves.

I taste entitlement in her tone.

She glances toward the counter.

"That's... our barista," she says, flicking her phone camera.
"Say hi to Kanu!"

My heart lurches.

Behind the counter moves a figure in shadow—no nametag visible—just an espresso‑dust apron and loose strands of hair brushing her cheek.
Each motion is precise, deliberate.

She meets my gaze for a heartbeat—calculating—then returns to her work.

Meera leans in, voice a teasing whisper:

"Omg, someone's totally infatuated."

I flush and turn away.

My eyes land on the pastry display.

They're... cheap?
Almost shockingly so.

Why would the Sharmas undercut themselves like this?
This craftsmanship should cost a fortune—unless they don't care about margins.

In my dorm, a week's groceries barely buys Maggi and milk.
Here, a chocolate‑mint croissant costs less than my instant‑noodle budget.

I lift one to my lips.
The chocolate is rich, the mint flicks my tongue awake, the flaky layers dissolve like a dream.

Warmth floods my chest—like Gramps's lullaby.

I take a sip of the coffee. Too hot. I make a face, careful not to spill.

My doubts—about this place, about Meera's world, about why I came—melt away.

All I can think:

Who is she?

,,,

Back at my table, the cursor blinks.

My assignment waits.

But my thoughts trace every line of her silhouette behind the counter.

My deadline ticks closer, but I'm already lost...

I shut the laptop.

Not with conviction. Not with rage. Just... a quiet resignation.

That kind of surrender that leaks in when you're too tired to pretend it matters anymore.

Lost loved ones.

The cursor blinks like it's mocking me.
What do they want from me?
A poetic ode to grief?
A metaphor-laced journal entry?
Something raw but still palatable enough for a classroom?

I could write about Gramps, sure.
The way his silence filled the room more than any voice ever could.
The hum of his fan.
The way he'd tap his knuckles on the wood of the armrest whenever he was deep in thought.
The last conversation we never had.

Or Dadi.
Who once kissed my scraped knee and told me boys are allowed to cry—
before the world spent the next decade un-teaching me that.

But they're not here.
And I've already rewritten their memories so many times in my head
they feel fictional now.
Polished grief.
Post-production heartbreak.

The kind you package nicely in 600 words and double-space for your professor.

I don't even know what love is supposed to look like anymore.
It's either abandonment, or obligation, or the echo of things I can't say aloud.

And still, somehow,
my brain reaches for her.

Not Dadu.
Not Dadi.
Not even Gulab—the fat, foul-mouthed parrot I had in fifth grade
who only ever squawked "chal nikal"
and dropped dead mid-sentence one afternoon.
Even he knew when to quit.

Her.

I close my eyes and she's there again—
behind the counter, still and sharp,
like a figure caught between sleep and waking.
Somehow present and distant all at once.
There's a hush to her presence, a pale kind of stillness
that doesn't scream for attention
but draws the eye anyway.
Like silence in a room full of static.

Unbothered. Unavailable. Untouchable.

And that only makes it worse.

I shut the laptop.
The blank document mocks me in silence.

I don't write. I don't try. I don't care.

Or maybe I do.
Too much.
all at once.

So I don't.
I crawl under the covers,
fold myself into the smallest shape I can,
and let the dark have me.