Three months earlier.
Ashray didn't believe in fate. But bookstores? Bookstores were holy ground.
It was raining that day. Not movie rain. Real rain—the kind that soaked through your socks and forced you to pretend you liked black coffee in paper cups. He ducked into an old, independent store in Connaught Place to avoid getting soaked and ended up in the "Psychology & Poetry" section, which, in retrospect, felt like a twisted omen.
She was already there.
Wearing a navy-blue kurta and reading the back of The Bell Jar.
He almost walked away.
But she looked up—and held his gaze two seconds too long.
That was enough.
"You don't look like someone who reads Sylvia Plath," he said.
She arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you don't look like someone who talks before thinking."
"Touché," he smiled. "But that's a good thing. She's heavy."
"I like heavy."
He could've walked away. He should have. But her tone wasn't flirtatious. It was like she was daring him to leave before she crushed him with a one-liner. And Ashray had a stupid weakness for women who looked like they'd already survived five versions of him.
"What's your name?" he asked, shameless.
She paused. Thought. And said:
"Sameera."
It wasn't her name.
But he told her his real one anyway.
They spoke for eleven minutes. He bought Lolita; she bought The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
They left with no numbers. Just an understanding: they'd see each other again, if it was meant to be.
It was.
Because the next time he saw her, she was sitting on a bench in Lodhi Garden, notebook in hand. Writing.
Not Sameera.
Ira.
And he didn't ask why she lied.
Because he liked it.
He liked women with reasons to hide.