The sun didn't rise that morning.
Or maybe Aarav just forgot to open his curtains.
The once-organized desk in his apartment looked like a battlefield—half-finished assignments, crumpled notes, empty coffee mugs, and a cold, untouched butter paneer wrap. The same one he used to share with her.
He hadn't spoken a word in two days.
His phone buzzed endlessly—texts from friends, missed calls from his mother, calendar reminders, and one persistent notification blinking at the top:
Rhea Sharma – Last seen 3 days ago.
He'd re-read her message at least fifty times.
> "Don't wait. Focus on your world. I'm not meant for it."
It read like closure.
But felt like punishment.
---
The family dinner was excruciating.
Polished cutlery clinked against bone china. Waiters stood at attention. His mother wore her usual silk saree, perfectly pleated, her gaze sharp as ever.
"Mr. Khurana's daughter just got back from Stanford," she said, mid-bite. "She'll be joining the gala on Sunday. You should speak with her."
Aarav didn't respond.
His father didn't look up from his phone. "Son, you're 22 now. You've had your fun. Time to step into real responsibility."
His mother added, "We're not asking for a wedding. Just... someone appropriate."
He finally spoke. "And what if I already had someone?"
There was a pause. The kind that cuts deeper than shouting.
His mother placed her fork down gently. "A girl with no background? No ambition? A hostel and masala noodles don't make a life partner, Aarav."
"She had ambition," he snapped. "She just didn't dress it in diamonds."
His father sighed. "You're letting emotion get in the way of empire."
Empire.
That was always the word.
Not family. Not love. Not even legacy.
Empire.
---
Weeks passed. Seasons blurred.
Aarav changed.
The boy who once skipped meetings to write poetry started skipping poetry to attend shareholder meetings.
He shaved regularly. Wore suits tailored tighter than his patience. Smiled in photo ops, shook hands with foreign investors, and spoke fluent finance at brunch.
He was, in every way, becoming the son they always wanted.
But not the man he ever dreamed of.
---
One night, after sealing a million-dollar merger, he returned home and sat at the edge of his bed, untying his watch like it weighed a thousand bricks.
He pulled open the drawer.
There it was.
A worn-out notebook with faded ink and crooked margins. Rhea's notes. Her sketches. Doodles of him as a potato in a tuxedo.
He laughed.
Then cried.
Softly.
Like he didn't deserve to be heard.
---
Somewhere across the city, Rhea stared at her phone in the dark.
She'd typed Aarav's name a hundred times in her contact bar.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed.
Deleted.
Her hostel room felt smaller now. The dreams on her vision board didn't shine like they used to.
But she knew she had no choice.
She remembered the day she met Aarav's mother in secret.
How polite her smile was. How cruel her words were.
> "You will never be able to give him what he needs. I'm not insulting you. I'm protecting him."
Rhea hadn't replied. Just nodded. And walked away with a storm in her chest.
---
Back in Aarav's world, everything looked perfect.
At least from the outside.
His photos were on magazine covers. He was named "Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year."
He attended red carpet events with models and diplomats. Rumors swirled. Fans speculated. The press asked him about love.
He always replied with the same line:
"I'm married to ambition."
But sometimes, late at night, he'd drive past the university. Park outside the old noodle shop. Walk the hostel street where Rhea once laughed under a broken umbrella.
One time, he saw a girl with a messy bun and a bag of instant noodles and almost ran to her—
But it wasn't her.
It never was.
---
Then, one rainy evening—almost two years later—he found something.
A poetry book at a second-hand store. On the inside cover, written in Rhea's unmistakable handwriting:
> "To the boy who hated fairy tales, but made mine feel real."
No name. No date. No address.
Just... a whisper from the past.
He stood frozen in that aisle for a full minute. Then bought the book. Read every page. Every underline. Every tear stain.
He smiled bitterly.
She was still somewhere in the city.
Still writing.
Still breathing.
And still breaking his heart.
---