It had been two weeks.
Two weeks of tea and laughter, of painting stars and humming unfinished songs. Aanya and Vihaan had carved a world between streetlights and metro stations. A strange, soft sanctuary.
But they hadn't called it a date. Not yet.
Until tonight.
"Let's do something different today," Vihaan had texted, the first time he ever messaged her.
She replied with a single word: "Okay."
Now, they were sitting at a tiny rooftop café in Hauz Khas. Fairy lights dangled overhead like constellations. The menu was handwritten. The table wobbled slightly.
Vihaan looked nervous for the first time since she'd met him.
Aanya broke the silence. "You're fidgeting like you're about to propose."
He laughed. "No, not yet. Maybe on the second date."
She smiled — but there was something behind it. A tension. A storm she hadn't named yet.
The food came. They talked about songs, the weirdest dreams they'd ever had, and how Delhi summers felt like punishment from the gods.
But then Vihaan said it.
Casually.
Too casually.
"So, I might be moving to Mumbai next month."
Aanya blinked.
"What?"
He paused. "Yeah. There's a studio there… they offered me a spot as a resident composer. It's big, Aanya. Like—huge."
Silence.
All the fairy lights above seemed to dim a little.
"When were you going to tell me?" she asked, her voice still even, but her hands clenched.
Vihaan winced. "I just did."
"Exactly."
He leaned in. "Come on, don't do that. It's not like we—"
He stopped himself.
"Not like we what, Vihaan?" she asked. "We're not something? We're just two strangers drinking tea every evening and pretending it means nothing?"
He swallowed hard. "It means something to me. You mean something to me."
"Then why did you wait until now to tell me?"
He looked away.
"Because I didn't want to ruin this."
Aanya stood up suddenly, her chair screeching against the floor.
"Too late."
She walked away without another word.
Vihaan didn't follow. He just sat there, under the fairy lights that now felt cold.
Back in her room, Aanya stared at the mural. The stars she had painted seemed too far, too bright, like they belonged to someone else now.
She picked up the brush.
Hovered it above the silver paint.
Paused.
Then turned away.
Meanwhile, Vihaan sat in an auto, his hands shaking slightly.
He opened his phone. Typed a message. Deleted it.
Typed again.
"Main jaa raha hoon, Aanya. Lekin agar kahogi, toh ruk jaaunga."
("I'm going, Aanya. But if you ask me to stay, I will.")
He didn't hit send.
Yet.