The pub was crowded, chaotic, alive.
Lights cut through the darkness in flashes of blue and red, music thudding so hard it felt like it was inside their ribs. Roohi had been dancing since the moment they walked in—no pauses, no breaks, hair sticking to her forehead, laughter spilling out of her like she had nothing to lose.
Mahi stood near the counter, smiling, clapping, watching everyone with a quiet ease. A mocktail sat untouched in front of her.
Nikhil noticed that first.
He walked up beside her, voice casual but eyes sharp.
"You're still not drinking?" he asked, tilting his head. "After all this time?"
Mahi didn't look at him.
"I don't need it."
He laughed softly. Not amused—almost bitter.
"Of course you don't. You were always like this. Responsible. Controlled."
Then, quieter: "Still playing the mature one, huh?"
That did it.
Mahi finally turned to him. Her expression didn't break—but something underneath it did.
"Funny," she said, "you never complained when it was us."
Silence hit between them, thick and sudden.
She slipped off her jacket slowly, deliberately, handing it to Roohi without breaking eye contact with Nikhil.
"Get me those," she said, nodding at the counter.
Five non-alcoholic tequila-style shots lined up. Salt. Lime. Applause.
She took them one after another—fast, fearless. The crowd cheered.
Nikhil didn't.
His jaw tightened.
"So now you're proving something?" he asked.
Mahi wiped her lips, leaning closer just enough.
"No," she said softly. "I'm reminding myself."
Before he could reply, Rishabh grabbed her hand.
"Dance," he said. "You owe the floor."
She went.
The music swallowed them. Mahi danced like she had nothing left to protect—laughing, spinning, moving too close, too free. Rishabh matched her energy, hands never crossing a line but close enough to make a point.
Nikhil watched from where he stood, fists clenched.
Roohi noticed.
"Don't," she warned him. "You lost the right."
He snapped back, voice low and angry.
"I didn't lose her. She walked away."
Roohi turned to him sharply.
"No. You let her walk away."
On the dance floor, Mahi laughed again, louder this time. Nikhil looked away—then back—like it hurt too much not to.
Suddenly Roohi stopped dancing, face paling.
"Okay—nope. Not okay."
She grabbed Mahi's arm.
"Washroom. Right now."
They rushed off, barely making it inside before both of them were bent over, half-laughing, half-gagging. Wrong door. The gent's washroom.
Mahi groaned.
"Of all the places—"
Before she could finish, Rishabh stumbled in, collapsing into the next stall.
"I swear the floor attacked me."
They tried to hold it together.
They failed.
When they finally stepped out, Rishabh tripped—and threw up right onto Nikhil's shoe.
Everyone froze.
Then Roohi burst out laughing.
"Oh my god—Nikhil—I'm so sorry—"
Mahi laughed too, uncontrollably, tears spilling out. Rishabh joined in, laughing between apologies.
Even Nikhil cracked—a short, helpless laugh he didn't mean to let out.
As the laughter faded, something shifted.
The pub noise softened. The lights blurred.
From somewhere behind them, "Fisla Fisla" began to play.
Mahi stopped laughing.
She looked at Nikhil the way she used to—like she knew him. Like she remembered everything.
"You still hate messes," she said quietly.
"And you still pretend you don't care," he replied.
A beat.
"You cared enough to watch," she said.
"You danced to hurt me," he said back.
She didn't deny it.
The space between them felt heavy—loaded with words they never finished, love that never fully disappeared.
Mahi shifted, almost stepping back—then stopped.
For the first time that night, neither of them spoke.
They just stood there, music playing, past and present colliding—
not enemies,
not lovers,
just two people who once loved each other
standing in an intimate, fragile silence.
The streets were quieter now.
The noise of the pub had faded into a distant memory, replaced by uneven footsteps and soft laughter that kept breaking and restarting. Mahi walked between them, head heavy, words slipping in and out of sense. Priyan was arguing with Rishabh about directions, Roohi trailing behind them, holding her heels in one hand and her phone in the other.
Mahi slowed.
Nikhil noticed before anyone else did.
"Careful," he said, instinctively stepping closer.
She swayed—and without thinking, leaned into him. Her head landed on his shoulder, light at first, then fully resting there as if her body remembered the place before her mind could stop it.
He froze.
Roohi glanced back, her expression changing instantly, but she didn't say anything. She just slowed her pace, giving them space.
Mahi's eyes were half-closed. Her voice came out soft, broken, unguarded.
"Why didn't you come after me?" she murmured.
Nikhil's breath caught.
She shifted slightly, her forehead brushing his collarbone, words tumbling out like they'd been waiting too long.
"Why didn't you stop me… when I was walking away?"
The streetlight above them flickered.
He didn't answer immediately—not because he didn't want to, but because every answer felt too late.
"I thought," he said quietly, "that you'd already decided."
Mahi frowned, still leaning on him.
"I was waiting," she whispered. "I kept thinking… maybe he'll come. Maybe he'll call my name."
His throat tightened.
"I was scared," he admitted. "And I thought loving you meant not holding you back."
She let out a soft, tired laugh—more sad than amused.
"No," she said. "Loving me would've been choosing me."
Her grip tightened slightly on his sleeve—not deliberate, just human.
Roohi turned around then.
"Mahi," she said gently, "we're almost there."
Mahi hummed in response, eyes closing again, still resting against Nikhil like the world had narrowed down to just this walk.
He didn't move her away.
For a few steps, he let her stay—carrying the weight of her words, the warmth of her presence, and the ache of everything he hadn't done when it mattered most.
When they reached the gate, Roohi stepped in carefully, taking Mahi's other arm.
"Come on," she whispered. "Let's get you home."
As Mahi was pulled gently away, she looked back at Nikhil once—confused, vulnerable, honest.
"Don't disappear again," she said softly.
Then she was gone.
Nikhil stood there long after they'd walked inside, the echo of her words still resting on his shoulder.