Falguni Rathore:
A girl of eighteen, with long chestnut-brown hair that refused to stay tamed and eyes that often betrayed the swirl of thoughts she kept hidden. Her skin carried a natural warmth, though a few stubborn pimples dotted her forehead like tiny reminders of late-night worries. She was of average height, with a lean frame that made her look taller than she was, and a quiet confidence that came from knowing herself better than most.
Falguni looked like her father—just in a smaller, slightly messier package. The same sharp features, the same expressive eyes, even the little stubborn set of her jaw—all straight from Mr. Rathore. Her mother might claim the credit for her laugh and her fussiness, but anyone who looked closely could see that Falguni had inherited her dad's calm confidence and quiet authority too. It was like she was a tiny, slightly more chaotic, female version of him—same DNA, same attitude, just with a bit more sparkle.
Falguni loved books more than people sometimes, and had a knack for noticing small details others overlooked. She is studying business management in college, trying to balance her ambitions with the everyday chaos of life. She was neither extraordinarily beautiful nor strikingly dull—just… Falguni. A girl who laughed at her own jokes, overthought endlessly, and secretly believed that life had bigger plans for her than her small lane and modest home could ever contain.
Devansh Mehra:
A year older than Falguni, slim and fair-skinned, with sharp, expressive eyes that seemed to notice everything but reveal nothing. His dark hair was always slightly tousled, giving him an effortlessly casual look, and a small dimple appeared whenever he smiled—rarely, but memorably. He carried himself with quiet confidence, the kind that didn't need loud words to announce itself.
Ever since his last years of school, Devansh had been preparing for a career in the Air Force. While others his age worried about social life or casual hobbies, he spent hours studying for service exams, running drills, and planning his path to join the forces. Determined, disciplined, and focused, he wanted nothing more than to serve his country, and every decision he made seemed to inch him closer to that dream.
Aarav Rathore:
Three years older than Falguni, pursuing Computer Science in IT at university. With sharp features softened slightly by a hint of their mother's warmth, he carried the Rathore look in his own way—dark hair, alert eyes, and a build that suggested quiet strength. While he might have inherited his father's poise, the motherly streak in his expressions appeared now and then, especially in the set of his smile or the tilt of his head when he was deep in thought.
Aarav was engaged in an arranged engagement with Ishita kapoor, it wasn't one of convenience—he genuinely loved his fiancée, and she returned his affection with equal sincerity. Yet, his relationship with Falguni remained tense.Aarav and Falguni hadn't always been on the best terms. Years ago, she had deleted his favorite game from their father's phone just to prove a point—that what she said, she did. He had been furious, swearing never to talk to her again. That small incident had changed everything. Even now, as young adults, the old grudge lingered: he rarely spoke to her, avoided showing any warmth. Conversations between the siblings were scarce, clipped, and devoid of affection, a silent reminder of a rift that had never fully healed.
Mrs. Rathore:
Mrs. Rathore's days began before sunrise and ended only after everyone else was fed, scolded, or cared for. Sturdy in build, with a wheatish complexion and hair pulled tightly into a bun, she carried herself with the brisk authority of someone who always had a dozen things running through her mind. Her sharp eyes rarely missed anything, whether it was dust on the shelf or worry on her family's face. Practical, protective, and endlessly energetic, she was the kind of mother who wrapped love inside instructions, and care inside complaints.
Mr. Rathore :
Mr. Rathore was forty-eight, a man of quiet authority, the kind that didn't need raising a voice to be noticed. Tall and muscular, with half-shredded black-and-grey hair and sharp features, he carried himself with the confidence of a self-made businessman. His spectacles often slid down his nose when he spoke, usually while delivering short lectures to his family about discipline, time, or money—little lessons tucked into everyday conversations. Though he rarely displayed affection openly, his presence was steady and protective, a figure of strength in the Rathore household.
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