Hello, readers! I hope you’re all doing well. ❤️

I know I haven’t been very active these days, and I’m sorry for disappearing a little. I’ve been busy with my exams lately, so things have been a bit hectic.

But I’ll still try my best to keep posting whenever I can, even if that means just one chapter a week. I really appreciate your patience and support, and I hope you’ll stick around with me. 🥹❤️

Thank you for reading and for being here. It truly means a lot to me. ✨

Now, enough about that…

Let’s get back to our story. 👀❤️

Her pov

I took a deep breath before opening the door of my flat.

Today would be better.

It had to be.

At least that was the lie I had been telling myself since waking up.

The truth was that no amount of sleep had managed to erase yesterday. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain kindly replayed the highlights for me. Falling inside a crowded temple. Sliding across the sanctum floor like a human sacrifice to embarrassment. Getting laughed at by half of Gurgaon. Having a conversation with a self-proclaimed Lord Shiva. Returning home and spending nearly an hour trying to convince myself that none of it had actually happened.

Unfortunately, reality remained stubborn.

Yesterday had happened.

And now I had to go to work and behave like a normal human being.

I adjusted my laptop bag on my shoulder and reached for the handle.

Maybe today would be better.

I wasn't even asking for good anymore. I would happily accept ordinary.

A boring day.

Just one of those painfully ordinary days that usually bored me to death.

With that hopeful thought, I unlocked my door and stepped outside.

And immediately saw the last person I wanted to see this early in the morning. Not because I disliked her.

Because every conversation with her somehow felt like an exam I hadn't prepared for.

My neighbour.

Shreya.

For one hopeful second, I considered quietly stepping back inside and pretending I had forgotten something important.

My laptop.

My charger.

My wallet.

My will to live.

Any excuse would do.

Unfortunately, fate once again demonstrated its deep personal hatred for me.

She turned.

Our eyes met.

“Oh, you're here.”

I mentally cursed myself.

Thirty seconds.

If I had waited thirty seconds, this entire interaction could have been avoided. Instead, I stepped out of my flat while trying very hard to look uninterested.

I gave her the most uninterested look I could manage.

“What now?”

I asked while focusing on locking my door. She gave me one of her trademark smiles.

The fake one.

The smile that usually meant she was about to complain about something.

“Your shoes.”

I looked up at her. Then followed her gaze. A pair of black heels sat neatly beside my door.

“Oh, those?”

The shoes were slightly dusty.

I had left them outside because I didn't want to drag the dirt into the apartment.

I had planned to clean them on my day off. Yesterday had clearly not been that day. I looked back at her.

“Yes, that's my shoe. Then what?”

“It's coming out of your tiled line.”

I frowned and looked down.

Oh.

The tiled boundary.

Each flat had a small section marked out by different tiles, unofficially claimed territory in a corridor that technically belonged to everyone.

The front edge of one heel was crossing the line by barely an inch.

I shrugged.

“So what?”

She stared at me.

“It's been there for three days.”

I sighed.

Unfortunately, she was right. I had noticed it. I just hadn't cared. But I couldn't agree that easily.

That would be surrender.

“And?”

“It's in the common area.”

The moment she said it, my eyes moved toward the collection of pots outside her own door.

Money plant.

Snake plant.

Aloe vera.

Something leafy.

Something flowering.

Something that was placed neatly, unlike my heels, and had nothing to do with this argument.

“So is your jungle.”

She followed my gaze. For a second she stared at her plants.

Then she sighed.

No comeback.

Nothing.

Interesting.

Maybe there really was a chance of having a boring day. I turned back toward my door and pushed the key into the lock.

As I turned the key in the lock, a faint clicking sound reached my ears. But I knew it wasn't locked now, and I felt her looking at me. I glanced up. She was looking at my door.

Then she looked at me.

“You should keep checking your taps.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“The taps,” she repeated casually.

I focused on locking the door.

“Thanks for the advice, but my taps work perfectly.”

“Ah.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“And the shower?”

 I stopped. The key paused halfway through the lock. “What about the shower?”

“Nothing.”

The answer came too quickly.

Far too quickly.

The innocent expression on her face was so obviously fake that it almost deserved applause.

“My shower works too.”

“Oh.”

Something about her expression suggested that this was not the answer she had been hoping for.

For reasons I still didn't fully understand, every interaction with this woman felt less like speaking to a neighbour and more like participating in a debate competition neither of us had agreed to enter.

But not today; I won’t let this continue. I want a boring, pathetically normal day, so I decided to leave the corridor at once. I checked the lock twice before straightening.

I had barely taken three steps toward the staircase when an odd sensation made me slow down.

The feeling that someone was still standing there.

Watching.

Waiting.

I knew without looking that Shreya hadn't moved. For some reason, that bothered me more than it should have. With a sigh, I stopped and turned around.

She was exactly where I had left her.

I raised my eyebrows.

Well?

The universal expression for " What do you actually want to say?

For a moment, she looked caught. Then she blinked and immediately pretended otherwise.

“What?” I continued staring. The silence stretched. Finally, she sighed.

“Nothing. You must be getting late.”

There it was again.

That tone.

The one people used when they clearly had something to say but expected the other person to drag it out for them. Why couldn't she say whatever was floating around inside her head?

I had never understood why people do that. Either say it or just don’t. This irritating middle ground irritated me.

I stared at her for another second before speaking.

“Come on, Sreya.”

Her eyebrows immediately drew together. There it was. That expression. I shouldn't have enjoyed it as much as I did.

But I did.

The irritation appeared every single time.

“It's Shreya.”

I couldn't help the small smile that appeared on my face.

“Sounds the same.”

“It absolutely does not sound the same.”

“To me, it does.”

Her expression suggested she was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.

Then she took a step closer.

“You Haryanvis always have a problem with 'S' and 'Sh'.”

I shrugged. That’s one of so many stereotypes around Haryana and Haryanvis. Because I clearly can pronounce literally every sound of “S” under the sky.

The truth was that I enjoyed this far more than I should have.

Shreya had been my neighbour for six months, yet somehow I knew surprisingly little about her. I knew she was from Karnataka. I knew she worked in Cyber City. I occasionally saw her leaving at impossible hours carrying a laptop. Sometimes it felt like looking into a mirror because I might look exactly like her, returning from the office and feeling personally betrayed by corporate life. I knew she drank coffee that could probably be smelled from miles away, and I knew she corrected the pronunciation of her name every single time I got it wrong, which was frequently.

Beyond that, she remained a mystery.

My gaze drifted over her face.

Just saying she was beautiful didn't seem enough. There was something quiet about her beauty. Her features seemed so perfectly balanced that they reminded me of sculptures carved into the walls of old South Indian temples. She was slightly fairer than me—not much, just enough for people to point it out if they were the sort of people who pointed out such things. She was also slightly taller than me.

The thought appeared before I could stop it.

She would've reached that Shivling without falling.

I blinked.

Then frowned.

I was supposed to be forgetting yesterday, I mentally reminded myself. Unfortunately, my brain had a dangerous habit of returning to my most embarrassing moments.

And my neighbour chose that exact moment to step closer and ask, “What if I started calling you Bavya instead of Bhavya?”

I blinked.

That was unexpectedly reasonable.

“Go on. Call me Bavya if you want. I won't mind.”

She blinked.

The reaction was immediate enough to make me wonder if I had accidentally said something shocking. But for me, it was more than normal; I am used to hearing that.

Because apparently, in a small town in Panipat, my parents decided to name me Bhavya, where anyone hardly cares if it's Bhavya or Bavya.

“You won't?”

I shook my head slightly and closed my eyes for a moment.

“No.”

When I opened them again, she was staring at me with an expression that suggested she was having a serious internal argument. It was almost visible on her face. One part of her clearly wanted to say something. The other part was trying to decide whether it was worth the embarrassment.

I cleared my throat.

“Just say it.”

She looked away.

I sighed.

“I'm actually getting late.”

That finally did it. She exhaled slowly before speaking.

“My shower is not working.”

For a second, I looked at her.

Then I blinked and frowned immediately.

“And you want me to fix that for you?”

She frowned right back.

“You should know somebody.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You should ask the landlord.”

The look she gave me made it clear she had already considered that option and rejected it.

Honestly, I couldn't blame her.

Our landlord.

The man.

The myth.

The legend.

The landlord was the kind of man who could somehow make you feel guilty for informing him that part of his property was actively falling apart. If a pipe burst through the ceiling, he would probably find a way to blame the tenant for encouraging reckless plumbing behaviour.

Finding a decent apartment in Gurgaon was already difficult enough. Nobody wanted to risk annoying a landlord over something that might turn into an argument.

She looked away.

“I'll manage.”

There was a strange finality in her voice. As if she had already expected this answer. As if she had asked only because she didn't have another option.

Then she turned around. And started walking toward the stairs. I watched her go.

Logically speaking, this was where the conversation ended. Her shower wasn't my problem. Her landlord wasn't my problem. Her apartment wasn't my problem.

For six months, I had successfully maintained a very healthy policy of minding my own business.

A policy I greatly valued.

People's lives became significantly less complicated when they stayed out of other people's problems.

So naturally, I opened my mouth.

“Wait.” The word escaped before I could stop it.

She paused.

Just before reaching the staircase. Slowly, she turned around.

I sighed.

“I'll send someone to fix your shower.”

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

As though she wasn't entirely sure she had heard correctly. I immediately straightened. For reasons I still don't understand, helping people always felt less embarrassing if I sounded annoyed while doing it.

No.

This needed clarification. I wasn't being nice. Absolutely not.

“I mean,” I said, clearing my throat, “I know a plumber.”

Much better.

Far more reasonable. Technically, I knew a guy who knew a plumber, but details were irrelevant.

“I'll send him.”

For a second, she looked at me.

Then a surprisingly genuine smile appeared on her face. Small, but still a smile may be relief. I don’t know.

I cleared my throat and adjusted my bag.

“Just make sure whoever shows up is actually the person I sent. Don't open the door for random strangers.”

The smile changed into a little smirk. There she is back, oh, so this is why she didn’t fuss about those shoes.

“I know.”

“Good for you.”

Without waiting for a response, I walked past her and headed down the stairs.

“And move those shoes,” I heard her saying behind me.

But I will pretened I never heard.

Both of us lived on the first floor of the building. The ground floor was partly occupied by the landlord's family, while a few additional rooms had been rented out to people I occasionally saw but never really spoke to.

By the time I stepped out onto the street, the morning air felt surprisingly pleasant.

For a moment I considered booking a ride. Then I checked the time on my watch and decided against it.

My office wasn't that far away. Walking would be faster than waiting for a rider to accept the trip.

As I lowered my wrist, my eyes landed on my shoes.

Heels.

Actual heels.

Not like the ones I was wearing yesterday, proper heels.

And just for the record, I knew how to walk in them.

One unfortunate temple incident did not suddenly erase years of experience.

Today I was wearing wide-legged brown trousers paired with an off-white linen shirt. My hair, despite reaching almost to my waist, was twisted into a neat bun at the back of my head. Most people assumed women with long hair enjoyed keeping it open.

Those people had clearly never spent a Gurgaon summer with their hair sticking to the back of their neck.

I reached the main road while mentally attempting to manifest the most uneventful day in human history.

The sky above Gurgaon was unusually clear. Thin clouds stretched across the blue in soft, uneven lines that reminded me of waves frozen in the middle of an ocean. It was a rare sight. Most days the sky looked faded behind dust and traffic fumes.

The city itself was already fully awake. Cars filled the roads. Motorcycles slipped through impossible gaps.

Delivery riders raced past with a confidence that suggested either remarkable skill or complete disregard for personal safety.

A few luxury cars rolled by.

One of them caught my attention immediately.

For a second I admired it.

Now that was a beautiful car.

Not a Thar.

No.

Because, honestly, Gurgaon had ruined Thars for me.

Once upon a time, I had wanted one. Now I preferred maintaining my dignity.

Because with great power came great responsibility. And I can’t handle them while walking, forget driving.

Owning that particular car in Gurgaon came with an unofficial reputation. Somewhere along the way, a large percentage of its owners had collectively decided that purchasing the vehicle also granted them authority over every other person using the road.

A little farther ahead, I noticed a streetlight leaning at a deeply concerning angle.

It looked one strong gust of wind away from collapsing entirely. The thing had been leaning like that for weeks.

Apparently everyone had accepted it as part of the city's architecture. In Gurgaon, even potential disasters learned patience.

As I continued walking, I found myself watching the crowd around me. Thousands of people moved through these roads every day.

Thousands.

But no one knew me. It was one of the things I liked most about the city.

Nobody here cared whose daughter I was.

Back home, that was the first thing people knew about me and the last thing they let me forget.

A name to be protected, controlled, and eventually handed over.

Every step had rules.

But here nobody cared.

Nobody cared which family I belonged to.

Nobody knew my relatives.

Nobody knew my caste.

Here I was simply Bhavya.

Not someone's responsibility.

Just me.

But this freedom came at the cost of paying tax, which I don’t mind; maybe I do, but then I remember taxes are still cheaper than permission.

The thought made me smile.

Then, naturally, my brain betrayed me.

Because the very next thing it remembered was me lying face-first on a temple floor in front of a Shivling while half the crowd watched.

I groaned.

“No.”

I pointed a finger at my own brain.

“Stop.”

A passing man gave me a concerned look. I immediately pretended I had been fixing my earring. The man continued walking.

Good.

The last thing I needed was to become memorable for a second reason.