Mumbai.
In a tall apartment that seemed to kiss the clouds, Kabir, the best-selling novelist with a guarded heart and a millions fans, sat before a glowing screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard like hesitant birds. His fingers hovered the keyboards but no words came.
He had once been called a genius, a literary storm, a voice of his generation. Millions of fans waited eagerly for his next masterpiece. But tonight, the weight of that expectation pressed so hard against his chest that he could barely breathe. His inspiration had withered months ago, crushed beneath deadlines, interviews, and the hollow echo of applause that no longer reached his soul.
His friend David's words echoed in his head: "You need to get some fresh air, Kabir. You can't just lock yourself in this penthouse and expect inspiration to magically appear."
Kabir exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his thick black hair. The silence of the apartment was suffocating. He rose, his steps heavy on the polished floor, and drifted toward the window.
After a long moment, he reached for his phone. His thumb hesitated above the screen before pressing the one number he trusted most.
"David," he said when the line clicked open, his voice quieter than he intended. "Come over. I need to get out of here."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. David had known him long enough to read between the words.
Kabir's mind drifted backward, unbidden, to the first time he had met him. He had been a nobody then, a young man with nothing but a manuscript and a fragile dream. The city had been too loud, too fast, too cruel for someone who carried more ink than armor. Back then, Kabir was just a nameless writer. David's father, Mr. Roth, a well-known publisher with a sharp eye for brilliance.
He read Ashes of Love, Kabir's raw manuscript, in one night. And by morning he was ready to bet everything on the boy's story.
Now, years later, the boy had become a man and a bestselling novelist with a guarded heart. Yet fame had stolen something from him, too: the raw fire that had once burned at his fingertips.
He pulled the curtains shut and leaned back against the wall. For the first time in months, Kabir allowed himself to admit the truth. He needed to leave this glass tower behind, if only for a while.
The elevator chimed faintly down the hall, followed by the solid knock on Kabir's door.
He didn't move right away. He stood in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains, arms folded, as if bracing himself. Finally, he opened the door.
David strode in, tall and sharp in his navy jacket, his tie slightly loosened as though he'd left a meeting mid-sentence to get here. He set his phone on the marble counter, his eyes sweeping over Kabir.
"You look like hell," David said flatly, though his voice held more concern than judgment.
Kabir huffed a dry laugh. "Nice to see you too."
"Still staring at blank pages?"
"Still staring," Kabir admitted, dragging his hand across the back of his neck. "I can't... breathe in here anymore."
David gave him a long look, then crossed to the desk where the laptop still glowed with its accusing emptiness. He tapped the space bar; the cursor blinked like a pulse on a hospital monitor. "You're choking on your own success, Kabir. You need out."
"That's why you're here," Kabir said. His voice was quiet, almost raw. He went to the cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed one to David. "I want to leave. Just for a while."
David raised a brow. "Leave? As in vacation?"
"As in escape." Kabir sank into the leather armchair, staring at the glass in his hand. "I thought maybe... going back. To the place it all began. Where I wrote Ashes of Love. Before the awards, before the deadlines, before this cage."
For a moment, David said nothing. He studied Kabir with the practiced patience of a man who had seen him at both his highest peaks and darkest valleys.
"You think the city took your words," David said slowly. "But maybe it's not the city. Maybe it's you."
Kabir's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.
David sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. If you want to go back, then go back. Call it a mini-break, call it exile, I don't care. Just promise me one thing."
Kabir lifted his eyes. "What?"
"That when you find whatever it is you're looking for... you don't run from it this time."
For the first time all evening, Kabir smiled, faint and weary. He raised his glass in a silent toast. "No promises, David. But I'll try."
The city hummed beyond the glass walls of the penthouse, alive and endless. Yet for the first time in months, Kabir felt something stir inside him, not quite inspiration, but the faintest flicker of it.
A beginning.