𝔹𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕙𝕚🖤✨

𝙸𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚊𝚗𝚟𝚒'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟:

7th July 2025

Delhi greeted me like a storm.

The moment I stepped out of the flight, the hot, dry air hit my face with a slap of familiarity. Horns blared somewhere beyond the airport gates, mixing with the ceaseless announcements echoing inside the terminal.

Giant billboards flashed neon promises of new brands, luxury apartments, and endless consumer dreams. Crowds pressed from all sides—families reuniting with tears and garlands, harried businessmen typing furiously on their phones, children tugging at their mothers’ dupattas while crying for ice cream.

It was overwhelming. The city hadn’t changed—it was still chaos stitched together with color and noise. And yet, after five long years, it felt both alien and achingly familiar. I couldn’t decide if my chest was filled with excitement or dread. Maybe both.

My phone buzzed relentlessly, vibrating against my palm like a living thing. Hundreds—no, thousands—of missed calls and unread messages from Meher. Only she could summon this level of drama.

I braced myself and picked up.

“Ishaanvi!” Meher’s voice burst through the speaker, a strange cocktail of fury and relief. “Abhi toh tu aa gayi na? Pehle bata, Jaipur kyun chali gayi thi?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Main yahi airport par baith ke poora din bolu kya?”

“No need of all that. I’m on my way. Two minutes.”

Of course she was. I sighed. Meher had always been dramatic, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. If there was a whirlwind waiting for me in Delhi, she was its center.

Before I could even gather my bags properly, a light tap landed on my shoulder. I spun around, expecting Meher in all her theatrics—but instead, I came face-to-face with someone I hadn’t imagined in years.

Nikil Varma.

Aditya Mehra’s best friend.

My pulse skipped. For a second, I couldn’t find words.

Our families had been rivals for as long as I could remember. My father and Aditya’s shared a history stitched with betrayal and bitterness, and by extension, anyone associated with the Mehra household was supposed to be untouchable. Off-limits. Dangerous.

And yet, here Nikil was, in his casual jeans and navy polo, grinning like the city wasn’t divided into enemy camps.

“Hey,” I managed, my voice a whisper of calm over the storm inside.

“Back in Delhi after five years?” His grin widened, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

We talked briefly—nothing dramatic, just polite words, careful smiles. Still, there was an undercurrent, a reminder that even the smallest encounters here carried weight. He asked for my number, casually as though it meant nothing, and I gave it, against better judgment. Seconds later, his phone rang. He excused himself with a rushed wave and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me shaken but oddly relieved.

At least my dad wouldn’t find out. Not yet.

I hurried to the parking lot, weaving through the chaos until I spotted Meher. True to form, she wasn’t rushing toward me with open arms. Instead, she was leaning against her scooter, her head tilted, lost in a private, secretive conversation with her boyfriend.

I rolled my eyes. “Bata, kon hai mere jiju?” I teased as I reached her.

She smirked, lips curling around mystery. “Surprise… he’s coming back in three days.”

Three days. My patience had never been my strong suit.

Before I could press her, my phone rang again. Varun. My best friend . I answered, distractedly walking, only half-listening to his questions about my arrival.

And then—impact.

I collided head-on with someone. My phone almost slipped from my hand, and I looked up, ready to mutter an apology.

But the words froze on my tongue.

Aditya Mehra.

He was taller than I remembered, sharper around the edges, his presence commanding the air between us. The airport lights caught in his hazel eyes, which now bore into me with a glare that felt equal parts dangerous and magnetic. He was in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled back, exuding a kind of effortless authority.

And there it was—the faintest trace of my lipstick smudged on his collar.

Panic surged through me. He hadn’t noticed. Not yet.

“Are you okay?” Varun’s voice crackled through the phone, cutting the silence.

“I’m fine,” I whispered, ending the call abruptly. My heart was beating so fast I was sure Aditya could hear it.

By the time I reached Meher’s scooter, she was grinning from ear to ear. “Parking lot mein mere jiju dhoondh liya kya? Shaadi kab hai?”

I smirked, hiding the adrenaline. “Busy in a call,” I lied. Half true, at least.

The ride home was quiet for once. Meher’s silence was rare, but I was grateful. My mind was too crowded to entertain her chatter. Images of Aditya’s glare, Nikil’s grin, and my father’s stern face collided until I felt dizzy.

When we reached my house, warmth enveloped me before I even stepped inside. Aarti, our long-time caretaker, greeted me with tears in her eyes and open arms. Cousins and neighbors hovered, their smiles wide, their voices cheerful. Everyone seemed genuinely happy that I had returned.

Everyone, except me.

I smiled anyway—the kind of smile that had been practiced for years, polished until it looked real. Inside, though, a storm raged.

My father’s deep voice carried over the crowd. “Aaj Ishaanvi ke aane ki khushi mein poori family dinner ke liye bahar jayegi.”

Cheers erupted. I nodded politely, excused myself, and climbed the stairs to my room.

The door creaked open to reveal walls painted in soft pastels, teddy bears arranged neatly on the shelf, and my favorite blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Nothing had changed. It was comforting, yes. But was it home? No.

In the shower, hot water cascaded down my hair and skin, washing away the dust of travel but not the memories. Not the fear. Not the sudden image of Aditya’s hazel eyes seared into my mind. That accidental brush of lipstick on his shirt haunted me already.

“Yaar Bhagwan, why me?” I muttered under the hiss of water. Then, almost immediately, I scolded myself. “Chhod yaar, Ishaanvi. Tumse Aditya se kabhi miloge?”

But deep down, I knew. Fate wasn’t so easily avoided.

Later, dressed in a simple black kurti and white leggings, hair left loose around my shoulders, I descended to the living room. Aayan, my elder brother, came running and hugged me so tightly I nearly lost my breath. His warmth was the first genuine comfort of the day, and I smiled for real.

Manshika aunty said Sanya is upstairs.

I couldn’t resist. Mischief stirred, and I decided revenge was long overdue. Grabbing a can of shaving cream from the bathroom, I sneaked to the balcony where Sanya was scrolling on her phone. One swift spray, and her face was covered in white foam.

“Didi!” she shrieked, laughing and fuming all at once. “You act more childish than me!”

I laughed—a sound so light and carefree it startled me. I hadn’t laughed like that in years. For a flickering moment, I felt like the old Ishaanvi again.

“Get ready. Mom and Dad are waiting,” I reminded her before slipping out quietly.

I tried calling Meher again, but she didn’t answer. God knows what was going on with her. She had her own secrets—always had.

Later that evening, I sat alone in my room, staring at the mirror. The girl reflected back looked the same—same eyes, same hair, same familiar face. But inside, everything felt altered. Tiredness lingered in my bones. Caution curled around my heart like barbed wire. Delhi hadn’t changed. My life hadn’t changed. But I had.

And still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to shift.

From the living room, laughter and chatter echoed, seeping through the cracks of the door. I took a deep breath. Whatever awaited me in this city—whatever challenges, mistakes, and secrets lay hidden—I had to face them.

Because some stories, no matter how painful, always find their way back to you.

And mine was just beginning.