Aanya wasn't someone who usually believed in promises.
People made them all the time—during birthday parties, under fairy lights, over late-night phone calls. And then they broke them like brittle glass.
But when Vihaan said "Roz", there was no music, no background score. Just rain tapping rooftops and the sound of two chai cups being set down.
And still—it felt like something.
The next day, she didn't text him.
They hadn't exchanged numbers.
She hadn't even asked for his last name.
But somehow, she found herself standing at the exact same tea stall at 6:55 p.m., umbrella in hand and a voice in her head saying: You're being stupid, Aanya.
She ordered one cutting chai anyway.
And just as she was about to sip it—
"Miss Coffee-Hater," came the familiar voice.
She turned around, and there he was. Slightly drenched, hair a mess, breathless from running.
"You came," she said, trying not to sound too relieved.
"Told you. Roz."
They both smiled.
This time, the conversation came easier. They talked about everything and nothing.
He told her about his job scoring music for short films no one watches. She told him about the mural she was painting in her bedroom — half-finished, a sky without stars.
"Why no stars?" he asked.
"Because I'm scared I'll mess them up," she admitted.
He looked at her for a long second and said, "Kya tumhe pata hai… galtiyon mein bhi khoobsurti hoti hai?"
("Do you know… there's beauty even in mistakes?")
She didn't reply, but her eyes did.
They met again the next day.
And the next.
Under umbrellas, beside chai stalls, walking down Lutyens lanes, sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter. With each meeting, something invisible stitched itself between them—a thread neither dared pull too tight.
One night, they found themselves watching a street magician perform tricks near India Gate. Children clapped. Couples held hands. Aanya, without realizing, stepped a little closer to Vihaan.
He noticed.
And this time, he didn't pretend not to.
"Tumhe darr lagta hai?" he asked again.
("Are you scared?")
She nodded. "Hamesha."
("Always.")
"Mujhe bhi."
("Me too.")
Their fingers brushed.
Didn't hold.
Not yet.
Back in her room, Aanya picked up her paintbrush. She dipped it into a small pot of silver, stood before her mural, and finally—dotted a star into the sky.
Then another.
And another. Smiling.