Kabir had never seen rain up close. He'd watched it from the window - the way it blurred the street below, made strangers run, turned the garden into something silver and alive. But Papa always pulled him back before he could lean too far out. "Why?" Kabir asked once.

He didn’t remember lying down. Only the cold. It seeped through his shirt first, then into his bones like something patient… something that had all the time in the world. Aarnav stirred, half-dreaming, half-drowning in last night’s cheap whiskey.

He didn’t remember lying down. Only the cold. It seeped through his shirt first, then into his bones like something patient… something that had all the time in the world. Aarnav stirred, half-dreaming, half-drowning in last night’s cheap whiskey.

We didn't fall in love so much as recognize each other. That's the only way I can explain it. Like meeting someone and thinking, oh, there you are. No reason for it. No buildup. Just certainty, warm and quiet, the kind that doesn't announce itself. We had a language that needed no translation. A look across a crowded room and we both knew.

Buckets slam against concrete. Laughter spills from balconies. Someone’s speaker crackles to life with an old Bollywood song that everyone somehow knows by heart. The air smells of gulaal, fried gujiyas, and the sweet burn of thandai drifting from someone’s terrace. We had only moved here a few weeks ago. I barely knew anyone yet.