— Pihu's POV
People think working in a café is cute.
Aprons.Coffee art.Free brownies.Independence.
No one tells you about the exhaustion.
The kind that doesn't make you sleepy.The kind that makes you quiet.
That night, BrewPoint was crowded. Office people. College kids. Couples pretending not to be couples.
My feet hurt.My head hurt.My phone had six missed calls from home.
I hadn't called back.
Because every time I do, my mother tries to sound normal.And my father tries to sound strong.And I sit there smiling like I can fix distance with words.
Around 9:30 p.m., Raghav walked in.
I noticed before I meant to.
He had that calm walk. Like he wasn't trying to arrive anywhere.
He smiled when he saw me. Not wide. Just real.
"Long day?" he asked, leaning on the counter.
"Long life," I replied, handing him a menu even though he never needed one.
He ordered cold coffee.
Then stayed.
Talking while I worked. Joking when customers were annoying. Filling silence when my mind went heavy.
At one point, I messed up an order and had to remake it.
I muttered, "I'm becoming terrible at everything."
Raghav looked at me. "You're becoming tired. There's a difference."
That sentence hit harder than any insult.
During my break, I sat outside with him.
Mumbai at night has a way of making you forget tomorrow exists.
He asked about my family.
I told him half.
He told me about his.
Single mother. Younger sister. Scholarships. Gym at 5 a.m. College till evening. Coaching at night.
"You don't stop," I said.
He shrugged. "If I stop, things fall."
We sat quietly.
Then he said, "You don't joke the same when you're tired."
I smiled. "I don't have energy for my personality."
He looked at me for a moment.
Then reached out and brushed the foam from my finger.
Very gently.
Very briefly.
But my chest forgot what it was supposed to do.
"Pihu," he said softly, "you don't have to carry everything alone."
The words were kind.
The tone was dangerous.
Because for a second, I wanted to.
I wanted to lean into him.
Into something warm.
Into something that wasn't pressure.
And then my phone rang.
Home.
I stepped away and answered.
My father's voice sounded smaller.
"The shop owner wants the space back early," he said. "We might have to move. Your mother's trying not to panic."
I stared at the street.
"I'll send money," I said quickly.
"No," he replied. "I want you to study."
"I can do both."
"Not everything," he said gently.
I hung up and stood there, breathing wrong.
Raghav stepped closer. "What happened?"
"My life," I said, trying to laugh. "Again."
He hesitated. Then said, "You could move out. Find something closer to work. Cheaper. Less pressure."
The idea made sense.
And terrified me.
Move out.
From Room 407.
From the girls.
From the only place that still felt like breathing.
"I can't," I said immediately.
He frowned. "Why?"
Because if I do, I don't know who I'll become.
I didn't say that.
I just said, "Because some things are holding me up. And I'm scared to let go."
He didn't push.
But when I walked back inside, my hands were shaking.
Not because of him.
Because for the first time, I had been tempted to choose easier.
And easier almost always asks for something precious.
That night, back in Room 407, Ananya was asleep at her desk.
Meher was on her phone, jaw tight.
Nandini was writing.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.
And realized something quietly terrifying:
I wasn't just scared of losing.
I was scared of wanting.
And that meant my life was about to get complicated.