Monday Morning — Rakshita's Room
Lavender sheets.
The red-tinted sunlight bled into her room like it was trying to comfort her. But it couldn't. Not today.
Rakshita sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, eyes open — but blank.
She was back.
But it didn't feel like a return.
It felt like being dropped.
The swap had happened without sleep. The mist had come. It wasn't like before. It wasn't theirs. It was… wrong.
She turned her head toward the desk but didn't get up.
Saharsh's last note — the one he must've left before returning to his world — still sat there, folded neatly.
She didn't reach for it. Not yet.
She wasn't ready to face it. Not yet.
Instead, she slid open the drawer, placed a blank sticky note inside, and closed it again.
Today, she didn't want to write.
She just wanted to feel like her world wasn't falling apart.
Monday Morning — Saharsh's Room
The world outside his window was loud.
Normal.
Birds, traffic, the occasional scooter honk.
But Saharsh sat in silence.
The black mist hadn't taken his voice — but it had taken something harder to describe.
His sense of safety.
Of pattern.
Of play.
He finally stood and walked over to his desk, already knowing what he'd find.
Her note from Sunday — the one she'd left before the mist.
It was the only thing about this whole nightmare that still felt steady.
He read it quietly.
The part where she admitted the swap didn't feel like theirs anymore.
The part where she asked for just one normal Sunday.
And of course, her gallery joke — the lock emoji and warning sign doodle.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
Then he picked up his pen and wrote:
"Applause granted. Supreme Commander of Temptation Resistance, at your service."
"Didn't peek. Some things deserve to be shared, not stolen."
"Next Sunday: boring, pinky promise. Sticky notes only."
"Still with you."
He added a doodle: a samosa in sunglasses guarding a vault door labeled TOP SECRET.
He placed the note where she'd find it.
And let his hand rest on it for a moment longer than usual.
Monday Afternoon — Rakshita's Room
Anaya didn't knock. She never did.
She burst in like a hurricane. "Okay, what is going on? You've been a walking Tumblr poem for days, and today you're at full sad song playlist energy."
Rakshita blinked slowly, then gave her a tired smile.
"I'm just... somewhere else."
Anaya sat beside her, quieter now. "Want to talk?"
Rakshita shook her head. "I don't think I have the words for it."
"Well," Anaya said, wrapping an arm around her, "when you do, I'll be here. Possibly with popcorn. Or ice cream. Or both."
Rakshita leaned into her best friend just a little.
Sometimes, presence said enough.
Monday Afternoon — Saharsh's Room
Deepak barged in with a samosa in one hand and dramatic flair in the other.
"Do you even exist on Mondays anymore? Bro, you look like you got dumped by someone you never officially dated."
Saharsh gave him a flat look but didn't respond.
Deepak flopped onto the bed. "Okay, real talk — if this is about your mystery girl again, I swear—"
"It's not that," Saharsh interrupted quickly.
(Which was a lie. It was exactly that.)
Deepak shrugged. "Alright, man. Just promise me you're not gonna go full poetic recluse and start naming your houseplants after emotions."
That got a real smile from Saharsh.
"Too late. One of them's already called 'regret.'"
Monday Night — Two Earths Apart
Rakshita sat by her desk, sketchbook closed, pen uncapped but untouched.
She didn't write.
But she didn't cry either.
She just stayed still.
Letting the silence press against her gently.
On the other Earth, Saharsh lay under his blanket, watching the fan spin and fade into blur.
He didn't write another note.
But he kept her last one beside him on the pillow, like a quiet reminder that the connection still existed — even if everything else was uncertain.
No jokes.
No doodles.
No chaos.
Just stillness.
And the quiet understanding that they were both still here.
Still breathing.
Still with each other — even in the silence.
Saturday Night — Saharsh's Room
The streetlight flickered outside as Saharsh stared at his ceiling, a pencil between his fingers.
An idea had been echoing in his mind all week — a new possibility about the swap.
But he didn't move on it.
Not this time.
He picked up a sticky note instead.
"Thought a lot this week. But I'm hitting pause on thinking for now.
Let's make tomorrow simple.
Just a normal Sunday. Just us."
Then below, with a flick of his pen:
"P.S. I stocked the wallet. Also checked the fridge.
You'll find paneer, fresh herbs, and zero regrets. You're welcome."
He folded it with exaggerated care and slid it under the corner of his desk lamp.
Just in case she came looking.
Saturday Night — Rakshita's Room
Rakshita stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair in silence. The soft hum of her room couldn't mask the quiet prayer in her head.
Let it be soft this time.
Let it feel like ours again.
She placed a small envelope inside Saharsh's hoodie — the one she always borrowed when she arrived in his world.
Inside:
A few notes folded with care, a small amount of money, and one last message:
"Left some cash for your next nerdy tech binge."
"Also, the kitchen's officially upgraded. Try not to burn the coriander."
They both fell asleep that night.
Not with fear.
Not with curiosity.
But with quiet hope.
That Sunday would return something they both needed.
Something not normal — but familiar.
Yet even in the quiet trust of sleep, something stirred beneath.
That lingering fear hadn't left — not completely.
It lingered in the corners of their minds like a shadow waiting for a flicker of doubt.
And somewhere between the drift of dreams and the pulse of the unknown…
They felt it.
The shift.
Not a jolt — but a slow, stretching sensation.
Like falling without moving.
Like being peeled gently out of their worlds.
Their eyes fluttered open mid-transport — not fully conscious, not fully dreaming — and suddenly, they were there.
In the mist again.
But this time… slower.
Suspended. Weightless. Watching.
And across from each of them... was someone.
A figure.
Saharsh blinked, breath shallow.
Across the soft waves of darkness, something shimmered — a girl, floating midair.
Not just any girl.
She wasn't walking. She wasn't standing.
She was… hovering.
Her hair moved as if underwater. A soft glow clung to her, delicate, almost unearthly.
There was something familiar about her posture — the way her arms curled inward, protective, thoughtful. The oversized hoodie. The shape of her eyes.
But the mist clouded her features just enough to make him unsure.
Still… his heart whispered something before his mind could catch up.
He leaned forward slightly. Almost called out.
But the moment shattered before he could speak.
And Rakshita —
Her breath caught as her eyes opened in the dark.
A boy floated in the distance. Barely outlined in the dim currents of black and silver.
His hair was messy, caught in the current like falling stars.
His hands hung loose by his sides, fingers twitching — like someone trying to hold onto something he didn't understand.
She couldn't make out his face. Not clearly. But his presence pulled at something deep and quiet inside her.
Something that whispered: You've seen him before.
She blinked hard.
One word formed silently on her lips, but she didn't speak it.
Then—
Just like that.
They were gone.
The mist swallowed the space.
The air closed in.
And they were flung — silently, instantly — into their new rooms.
Was it a dream?
A fragment of the in-between?
A trick of the mist, or something else entirely?
Neither of them knew.
But they would carry the image —
that almost-connection —
through the week like a breath they hadn't finished taking.