"Some people enter your life with a bang. Others arrive with a broken lamp and mismatched socks."
"Ma! Where's my other sock?"
Ritu Verma sighed for the tenth time that morning and shouted back from the kitchen, "Whichever one you find first, wear it! You never wear the same pair anyway!"
"I like the yellow SpongeBob with the green dinosaurs!" Vansh declared proudly as he hopped on one foot, trying to balance while pulling up his sock. He finally found a clean-ish pair—well, sort of—and made his grand entrance into the living room wearing a bright cartoon tee with Tom chasing Jerry across his chest, and his trademark mismatched socks.
"Fashion disaster reporting for duty," his older sister Nikita commented without looking up from her laptop.
"You're just jealous because I have a personality," Vansh replied with a dramatic hair flip, despite his already-messy curls.
Their father, Dev verma , was sipping tea and reading the newspaper upside down. Not because he was eccentric, but because he simply didn't notice. That's how the Verma household worked—loud, chaotic, and filled with the kind of love that crashed into furniture.
"Breakfast is ready!" Ritu called, and within seconds, the three Vermas crowded the tiny kitchen like hungry contestants in a food reality show.
Vansh chewed a paratha thoughtfully. "Do you think red sauce pasta looks green to me?"
Ritu blinked. "You... what?"
"Just thinking out loud." He shrugged.
Vansh had red-green color blindness—a quiet detail about him that only his family and close friends knew. He didn't like talking about it to outsiders, mostly because he hated being looked at like he was broken.
"Beta, don't worry about colors. You've got us to help you match your outfits." Ritu smiled.
"Yes, because you did a great job this morning," Nikita teased, pointing at his cartoon shirt and socks.
"Exactly!" Vansh grinned. "I'm a walking aesthetic!"
After a dramatic goodbye involving a twirl and blowing kisses to his imaginary fans, Vansh left home, his novel notebook tucked under his arm. He was a second-year English Literature student who believed life was a Bollywood film and he was the main character.
He walked down the lane, humming a random tune, eyes scanning the book in his hand. So naturally, he didn't notice the large wooden crate placed right in the middle of the footpath.
Crash.
Something shattered.
"Are you kidding me?!"
Vansh froze, eyes wide. At his feet lay a beautiful, now very broken, antique lamp—ceramic and intricate, with golden edges and a hint of emerald green (which he couldn't see properly, but still appreciated the shape).
"I... uh... oh no." Vansh looked up.
A man, probably in his late twenties, was glaring at him with the intensity of a thriller movie villain. Dressed in plain black, sharp jawline, stormy eyes, and a serious frown. His arms were crossed, and the way he stood made Vansh feel like a school kid caught stealing chalk.
"Do you not see where you're walking?" the man snapped.
"I see mostly where I'm walking. I was just... multitasking. Also, this thing was in the middle of the road!" Vansh tried to defend himself.
"That thing," the man said through gritted teeth, "was a collector's piece."
"Oh." Vansh winced. "Okay. I can fix it."
"With what? Super glue and drama?"
"Drama helps in every situation," Vansh said solemnly.
The man sighed and rubbed his forehead like he was in pain. "Who even lets you walk around unsupervised?"
"I'm emotionally independent."
"You're emotionally something," the man muttered.
They stared at each other for a few seconds—Vansh awkward and fidgety, the man stiff and brooding.
"Look," Vansh said, taking a deep breath, "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to destroy your... antique candlelight vase—"
"Lamp," the man interrupted.
"Lamp. Right. You have my apologies, Mr...?"
The man turned away, lifting another box from his car without answering.
"Oh wow. Mysterious type," Vansh mumbled. "Bet he writes broody poetry and listens to sad songs."
The man looked back. "I heard that."
"Good," Vansh replied cheerfully. "Anyway, enjoy your moving-in day, neighbor stranger with no name. I live in the house next door. If you hear screaming and loud singing, it's just me chasing inspiration or cockroaches."
No response. The man was already walking into the villa next to Vansh's home.
Vansh pouted. "Rude."
Then he looked at the shattered lamp again. "Oops."
---
"Do you ever think," Vansh said dramatically, flinging his backpack onto the desk, "that the universe is just... playing pranks on me?"
Tarika didn't look up from her iced coffee. "Every day."
Advik grinned. "What happened this time? Another squirrel stole your lunch?"
"Worse," Vansh sighed, dropping into the seat across from them in the college café. "Someone moved in next door this morning. Very serious, very sharp-jawed, very 'I'm-too-mature-for-this-universe' type. And I—" he placed a hand over his chest, "—broke his antique lamp."
Tarika blinked. "Wait. You what?"
"It was dramatic," Vansh declared, leaning forward. "I was lost in deep literary thought. You know, poetic vibes. Then BAM! Foot hit a crate. Lamp died. Man glared. I panicked."
Advik laughed. "You are the chaos this world needs."
"He didn't even tell me his name," Vansh continued. "Just stood there like he was about to sue me with his eyes."
"Maybe he's mysterious," Tarika offered, stirring her coffee.
"Or just annoyed," Advik added.
"Same thing," Vansh shrugged. "Anyway, now I have to apologize. Probably with sweets. Or a choreographed song. Haven't decided."
Tarika smiled, watching the two boys banter. She had known them since high school—Vansh, the hurricane of emotions, and Advik, calm and quietly funny. She still remembered the exact moment she realized she loved Advik—during a class trip in eleventh grade, when he stayed up all night helping a lost dog. That soft kindness in him had never changed.
But she had never told him.
And he still didn't know.
Now, the three of them were in the same college, just different departments. Vansh buried himself in literature, while she and Advik studied architecture. Their friendship remained solid, and Tarika had learned to live with her secret tucked safely inside.
"Hey," Advik interrupted her thoughts. "You okay?"
"Hmm? Yeah," she smiled quickly. "Just thinking about how you're both disasters."
"Some of us are adorable disasters," Vansh corrected.
—
That evening, Vansh trudged home, his brain still spiraling around the mystery man next door. As soon as he stepped inside, the scent of dinner hit him, and he groaned happily.
"Ma, you are the reason I believe in love."
"You better say that after I make karela next week too," Ritu replied from the kitchen.
"Don't ruin the mood, Ma." Vansh flopped on the couch, kicking off his shoes. "Anyway. Big news. We have a new neighbor."
Dev peeked from behind his newspaper. "Really? No one told me."
"Because no one tells you anything, Papa. You read the comics page and forget what year it is."
"He's not wrong," Nikita added from the dining table.
"He's also not polite," Dev muttered.
"So, the new neighbor," Ritu said, entering with a bowl of sabzi (vegetable). "What's he like?"
"Silent. Brooding. Probably the type who reads sad poetry while drinking black coffee."
"And you made a great first impression, I'm guessing?" Nikita asked.
Vansh grinned sheepishly. "I broke his antique lamp."
Ritu froze mid-step. "What?"
"He put a box on the footpath! I was reading! My brain was active, my feet were confused."
"Beta..."
"I apologized! Kind of. Not properly."
"Then go tell him again," Ritu said firmly. "Take something sweet and say sorry. Properly this time."
"Ma..."
"No excuses. Go. Now. Or I'll tell the aunty group you cry during movies."
Vansh gasped. "You swore you'd never—fine! I'll go!"
He grabbed the tin of rasgullas and marched out the door like a soldier going into war. As he reached the neighbor's porch, he stared at the door for a few seconds, rasgullas in hand, mismatched socks still very visible, and heart slightly pounding.
He raised his hand and knocked.
Let's hope the mysterious brooding man liked sugar.
Or drama.
Or both.