ADITI,S POV

I still remember the sting in my eyes—that sharp, burning sensation as muddy water rushed in, clouding everything around me.

One moment I was laughing near the edge, and the next… silence. My screams had no sound, only bubbles escaping from my mouth as I sank deeper and deeper. The sunlight above the surface blurred, bending into strange shapes that made it feel like I was falling into another world.

My hands reached out instinctively, as if someone might be there to pull me back—but there was only water. Cold. Dark. Endless. My heart pounded in terror, but my limbs were already growing weak. The more I fought, the faster I sank.

It’s funny how loud fear can feel when no one can hear you. My mouth was open, screaming for help, but there was no sound—just water rushing in. I wanted someone, anyone, to see me, to notice I was gone.

But above the surface, the world carried on. The voices, the laughter… they must’ve been too far away. Or maybe I was never loud enough to matter. Even at seven, that feeling of invisibility hit me hard. I was right there, drowning just feet away from everyone I loved, and not one of them knew I was slipping out of their world.

In that moment, the only thought looping through my mind was simple and terrifying—I’m going to die. At seven years old, I understood death not through words or explanations, but through the icy grip of the lake and the silence pressing in on my lungs.

I remember the fear turning into numbness, my body too tired to fight. Everything slowed down. My heartbeat. My thoughts. Even the panic began to fade, replaced by this quiet surrender. I don’t know if I prayed. I don’t know if I cried. I just… gave in.

Then—like a jolt of lightning—something grabbed me. Strong hands. Urgent. Alive. I didn’t see his face, I didn’t hear a voice at first, but I felt it—the shift. From helpless to held. From drowning to being dragged back into the world.

The cold still clung to me, but it was different now… it wasn’t empty. I remember being pulled up, breaking through the surface, the sun hitting my face again like I’d just been reborn. The air hurt when I inhaled, my lungs fighting to live again. And that’s all I knew—someone had saved me. Someone had chosen to save me.

When I finally opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the water anymore. I was lying on the grass, my clothes soaked, my chest heaving, my lips trembling. My mom was holding my face, her hands shaking as she cried something I couldn’t fully hear.

My dad kept rubbing my back, whispering that I was safe, that I was alright—but even at seven, I could tell from their eyes they were more scared than I was. Their relief was messy, raw, like they had just witnessed something they never wanted to imagine. And in the middle of all that chaos… I was back. Alive. But changed.

Before I could process anything else, Maahi threw herself onto me. Her tiny arms wrapped around my wet body so fiercely, it was like she was scared I’d vanish if she let go. She was crying—loud, hiccupping sobs that didn’t stop.

Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her voice cracked, and she kept saying my name like she was trying to bring me back with each repetition. I’d never seen her cry like that before. And I think, in that moment, I realized how close I had come to leaving everyone behind. Her hug grounded me. Made it real.

Shivam sat beside me silently, holding my hand as if it was his job to anchor me to the earth. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say much. But his face said everything.

He looked pale, his brows furrowed deep in worry, lips pressed tight. I remember thinking—he's trying to be strong for me. That’s what big brothers do, right? He kept glancing at the adults, then back at me, his grip on my fingers tightening every time I coughed or shivered.

It was the first time I saw real fear in his eyes. The kind of fear that comes from almost losing someone.

It’s been nine years since that day. I’m sixteen now, in a completely different phase of life, surrounded by people who know nothing about that moment in my past.

But for some reason, it never fully left me. I don’t talk about it much. Most days, I even forget it happened. But sometimes, when I’m near deep water, or when the air feels just a bit too still—I remember. The blur. The fear. The hands that pulled me out. It’s a memory stitched quietly into my bones, always lingering at the edge of awareness.

And yet… I never knew who he was. I’ve asked, of course. My parents never gave me a clear answer. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t stay long enough for anyone to ask his name.

I don’t even know if he was from the same picnic group or a passerby who just disappeared after making sure I was safe. He left no name, no trace. Just a mystery wrapped in half-memory. And it bothers me sometimes—that I lived because of someone, and I can’t even thank him.

I know it wasn’t Shivam. I know it wasn’t anyone from my family or relatives—those faces are all too familiar. This boy… he was different. I can still feel it in the way he held me, the urgency, the warmth.

He wasn’t just rescuing a kid—he was terrified too. But he never let go. And that… that doesn’t just happen. That kind of moment—it leaves a mark. Not just on the body, but somewhere deeper.

Whoever he was, he changed the course of my life in a matter of minutes. He was there at the exact moment I needed someone most—and then he was gone. No name. No goodbye.

Just a ghost of a memory that sometimes feels more real than anything else. I don’t know where he is now. I don’t know if I’ve walked past him on a street, seen him across a classroom, or spoken to him without even realizing it. But I do know this… I owe him everything. And maybe, just maybe, one day—I’ll find out who he really was.

The scent of sizzling aloo parathas was the first thing that hit me when I came down the stairs, hair still a mess and my brain half-sleepy from a weird dream I couldn't quite shake off.

The comforting warmth of a Sunday morning clung to the walls, but I was already mentally preparing for the circus I was about to step into. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of spices crackling and my mom’s ever-so-gentle yelling.

“Aayiye madam, finally neend se jaagi hai!” she said sarcastically without even looking up from the pan she is one who can roast a girl like me.

"Good morning," I muttered, dragging my feet toward the dining table.

She was still in her night suit, hair tied in a messy bun, multitasking like the queen she is—stirring the sabzi in one hand and checking WhatsApp forwards in another.

“Shivam abhi tak so raha hai? Yeh kab uthega?” I asked innocently, knowing very well what the answer would be.

She turned around with that expression. You know the one—the one that says you better do what I say or you'll be eating karela for the rest of your life.

“ Jakar uthao usse! 11 baj gaye hain!Nalayak kahi ke dono ke dono bhai behen.”

Ah yes. Sunday or not, my brother’s sleeping beauty act wasn’t going to be tolerated. I sighed. Deeply.

Of course, I could have said no. I mean, technically I’m 16 now, a full-blown teenager with rights and stuff.

But in my house, saying “no” to mom is less like rebellion and more like signing a suicide note even my dad can't say no to her love marriage ki thi na toh bane pade hai joru ke gulam.

“Nahi bolungi toh zyada din zinda nhi rahungi,” I mumbled under my breath and dragged myself upstairs like a martyr heading to war.

I pushed his room door open and found exactly what I expected—Shivam, sleeping diagonally across the bed like he paid rent for all four corners.

His blanket had committed suicide during the night, lying dramatically on the floor, and his one leg was hanging off the bed like he was auditioning for a horror movie. Hadd hai mera bhai hi aisa namuna kyu hai iss duniya mei pta nhi kon woh ladkiyan hai jo isse hot bolti hai??.

But what really made me stop and question my entire life choices was what he was doing with his pillow. Jungli toh hai hi isliye pillow ko harass kar ra literally neend mei hey parbhu!

“Shivam?! Tu takiye ko kyu maar raha hai?” I shouted.

Yes. You heard that right. My dumbass of a brother was aggressively karate-chopping his pillow in his sleep.

Like… bro was throwing punches like it owed him money.

One more hit and the poor pillow would have filed for domestic abuse.

I stood there, watching the drama unfold. He groaned in his sleep, mumbled something like “teri toh... chhodunga nahi...”, and went back to punching. I swear, if someone ever installs a CCTV in our house, we’re going viral for sure.

"Uth jaaa Shivam!" I yelled louder this time, marching to his bed and shaking him by the shoulders.

He finally stirred, eyes barely open, hair looking like he’d fought a cyclone.

“Kya hai chudail.. Sunday hai... mujhe neend aane de...”

“Sunday hai toh kya, kutte kamine uth jaaa!!!Mummy bol rahi hai utho, warna breakfast mein nashta nahi, thappad milega sath mei chappal free!” I said, arms crossed, channeling my inner Maa 2.0.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes like he was born five minutes ago.

“Tu na... Hitler ki adopted beti hai,” he muttered, trying to fall back on the bed.

“Aur tu mental hospital se bhaaga hua patient lagta hai, takiye ko kya dushman samajh ke pita hai?” I replied, smacking his arm.

And just like that, the day began in true dysfunctional sibling style—with violence, insults, and mom’s voice echoing from downstairs:

“bhaad mei jaa suar mummy aa gayi na toh mujhe mat kehna!”

I stormed out, victorious.

Keyansh’s POV

I finally woke up around 10 a.m. Sharp, I know… except not really. My eyes were barely open, hair a certified disaster, and my brain still processing basic human functions.

The reason for this divine delay in waking? I was up late last night studying. Yes, actual books. Not reels. Not cricket highlights.

Not even scrolling memes of “Padhai ka pressure.” It was textbook-level nerdiness, and now I was paying the price with sleep-deprived brain cells screaming for mercy.

Yawning like a malfunctioning ceiling fan, I dragged myself out of bed and descended the stairs like a wounded soldier returning from war. Only to realize…

My house had turned into a full-fledged WWE battleground.

No kidding.

Slippers flying, cushions tossed aside, and voices echoing loud enough to wake the dead in Haridwar.

Maa was sprinting like a trained assassin—with a chappal in her hand—chasing after Aarav like she’s the brand ambassador of justice.

“Ruk jaa tu Aarav! Aaj teri game over hai! Chocolate ke liye jhooth bola?! Chappal milegi mooh pe!”

And my brilliant brother Aarav—who clearly believes he's Usain Bolt—was running in circles like his life depended on it. Which… considering Maa’s rage… it probably did.

He shouted breathlessly while dodging her,

“Main toh Krisha ke peeche bhaag raha hoon! Woh meri Dairy Milk le gayi thi subah!!”

His face looked like he’d just survived a zombie apocalypse… caused by a missing chocolate bar.

Now let’s talk about the real villain of this episode—Krisha, the undercover chocolate thief, sitting on the sofa as if she’s just won a Nobel Prize in stealing and not getting caught.

She flipped her hair like some dramatic heroine and replied,

“Aww... baby bhaiya crying over chocolate? Kitna cute hai… lekin thoda zyada embarrassing bhi hai na?”

Then she had the audacity to giggle and eat chips while Aarav tried to grab a cushion to throw at her.

Their bickering echoed through the walls like musical notes—except this music could rupture eardrums.

I blinked, stunned, trying to figure out if I was dreaming.

Was this real life?

Was I still asleep?

Or did I wake up inside an Indian daily soap where “Sasural Simar Ka” meets “Roadies”?

And there—sitting in the middle of all this madness—was Papa.

My cool dad.

My peace-loving dad.

Sitting with a bucket of popcorn.

Like a freaking spectator at a cricket match.

He was literally munching away, eyes wide, as if he’d bought front-row tickets to this family drama.

I blinked at him. “Papa?? What… what even is happening?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Beta, live entertainment ho toh aise. Subah-subah free ka drama kaun miss kare?”

And I swear to God, the moment Maa heard that, she did a full 180-degree turn. Poor dad.

Like a storm sensing its next target.

She narrowed her eyes at him and thundered,

“Arey wahhhhh! Tumhare liye yeh sab entertainment hai? Ab chappal tumhare liye bhi nikaalti hoon!!”

Poor Papa nearly choked on a popcorn kernel as he tried to escape, slippers echoing in the hall like a crime scene chase.

And me?

I just stood at the stairs. Blank. Baffled. A toothbrush still in my hand.

My house is not a house.

It’s not even a circus.

It’s a reality show, war zone, and stand-up comedy club rolled into one.

But somehow… even with all the chaos, the noise, the drama…

My house is full of life. And maybe that’s what I love the most about it.

Even if it means dodging chappals before breakfast.

Keyansh’s POV

After the storm that had just passed downstairs—where maa had nearly turned the living room into a crime scene with her slipper in hand and Aarav had screamed like his life depended on it, all because Krisha allegedly munched his chocolate—I thought peace had finally descended upon the Khurana household. For a few seconds, at least.

Maa, still muttering curses under her breath about “bache bigad gaye hain” and something about locking the fridge from now on, turned to me. She gave me a small, half-tired smile and handed me an apple. Just like that. Like I was her priority, even in chaos.

“Tu raat bhar padha tha na? Kuch kha le pehle,” she said, brushing invisible dust from my T-shirt with a mother’s instinct that didn’t need blood to exist.

I blinked, holding the apple for a second longer than I should’ve. The apple wasn’t the big deal, obviously. It was the way she said it. The way her eyes always knew when I had stayed up late. The way she remembered the smallest things—like how I skipped breakfast when I was anxious before a test, or how I liked my tea slightly bitter, just like dad’s. And sometimes… sometimes when I’d fall asleep on my desk, I'd wake up with a blanket around my shoulders. No words. Just warmth. Care. Presence.

I’ve never really thought of her as anything other than my “maa.” People often asked me if I felt the difference. You know—the real one versus the step one. Truth? I never did. In fact, this woman who wasn’t biologically connected to me had mothered me in a way my real mother never even tried.

I smiled weakly, said thank you, and made my way back to my room, biting into the apple like it was the most important task of the day. The taste was crisp… just like the thoughts running inside my head.

Lying down on my bed, I rested my back against the headboard, letting the cool pillow support my neck. The apple now half-eaten on my side table, I stared at the ceiling.

Silence.

It always came after the chaos. And with it, came thoughts I tried not to think too often.

My phone buzzed once.

Maa?

The name flashed on the screen, and for a second, I genuinely felt confused.

Not the maa who had just handed me the apple.

Not the maa who tucked me in silently.

No. This one.

The one who left.

I hesitated, staring at the screen. The call kept ringing, and like muscle memory, my thumb moved to answer. My voice came out quieter than usual, laced with a question I wasn’t even sure I wanted answered.

“…Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then came her voice.

“Keyansh… tu theek hai na?”

I don’t know why, but something about that question made my throat feel tighter than it should. Maybe because I didn’t know how to respond. Was I okay?

“Haan,” I said, too quickly. Too flatly.

She went silent again. Maybe she could sense it. The wall I had built between us over the years. It was solid now. Made of quiet betrayals and unspoken wounds.

She used to call more often when I was younger. Back when I still believed one day she’d say sorry and come back. But now, it was rare. The guilt must be louder in her mind these days. Or maybe the rich man she left us for was finally too busy to notice her missing.

Truth?

I can forgive her. I can tell myself that people make mistakes, that life is complicated, that maybe she was scared.

But I will never forget.

Never forget the nights dad stared at the door, thinking maybe she'd return. The mornings he left home in silence, just so I wouldn’t see his red eyes. The birthday where I kept checking the gate, holding a return gift just for her. She never came back not even for her 1yo son

She never came.

She chose someone richer, more stable, when dad was drowning in debts.

She left us behind.

And no matter how much I try to pretend I’m over it—every time her name flashes on my screen, that little boy inside me still asks…

“Why wasn’t I enough to make you stay?”

I ended the call quickly, pretending there was a network issue.

Then stared at the screen again. At the name. The word.

Maa.

I sighed, tossing the phone aside, and closed my eyes—trying to let go of a woman who never looked back…

…while being silently thankful for the one who never walked away.

________________________________

It was around 3 PM. The kind of dead, lazy hour where even the clock ticks slower and the sun seems too tired to shine properly.

Maahi had been bored out of her mind. She had already scrolled through Instagram three times, rewatched two old reels of Vihaan tripping over a bench (her favorite stress buster), and even picked a fight with her little cousin just for entertainment. But now, she was officially out of chaos and crawling toward insanity.

With a dramatic sigh, she picked up her phone and called the only person who could handle her bored, over-the-top existence — Aditi.

On the other side, Aditi had just finished washing her hair. She was wrapped in a fluffy towel, her wet strands sticking to her neck, and she was using another towel like some royal turban, casually flipping it as if she were auditioning for a shampoo ad.

The phone rang, and with a half-smile, Aditi picked it up on speaker.

“Aditi yaar, I’m so bored,” Maahi whined the moment the call connected, skipping all pleasantries as usual. “Life has no meaning anymore. Can I come over before I start talking to the walls?”

Aditi rolled her eyes with a grin, inspecting her reflection in the mirror like some glamorous villainess plotting her next sarcastic reply.

“Iske liye meri maa — arthaat apni bua se poochiye,” she replied sweetly, stretching the words just enough to let the sarcasm settle like perfume in the air.

There was a pause. Then came Maahi’s groan.

“Arrey yaarrr! Tu toh apni maa ke HR manager ban gayi hai. Ek chhoti si request bhi process karke forward karte ho. Shame on you, madam.”

Aditi, now sitting on the edge of her bed, burst out laughing.

“HR nahi, main toh CEO hoon is ghar ki chhoti beti for a reason,” she shot back, “aur yeh ghar meri company hai. Bina meri approval ke toh toothbrush bhi apni jagah se nahi hilta sapne mei toh hota hi hai yeh sab reality se iska koi lena dena nhi hai.”

“Bas, abhi call karti hoon bua ko! Complaint karungi ki beti unka boss ban gayi hai,” Maahi fired back with mock outrage.

“Aur main bolungi tujhe ghar mein ghusne mat dena. Dosti wosti sab jhooth hai aur haan mai toh mami ko bol dungi aapki beti apne padosi pe line marti hai.”

“Arrey re Aditi tu toh bura maan gayi mai mazak kar rahi thi.”

And just like that, both girls were laughing. The kind of laugh that didn’t need logic or occasion — it just flowed. Because some friendships are built not on deep talks, but on random calls, towel heads, and jokes about being human remotes in their own homes.

As Aditi continued drying her hair and Maahi prepared her dramatic entry into the Pokhariyal household, one thing was certain — boring Sundays didn’t stand a chance when these two were on a call.

_______________The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the sheer curtains as Aditi finally dragged herself out of the comfort of her room. Her hair was still damp from her shower, cascading down her back like a waterfall — the towel had been thrown aside somewhere on the bed in a battle lost to Maahi’s constant nagging.

Her mother had gone out shopping, leaving behind a note with her usual ten-item list and one sarcastic line at the end — “TV zyada dekhogi toh aankhon ka power badhega, meri chappal ka bhi.”

Yes, classic mom.

Downstairs, the silence was almost suspicious. Aditi, still tried to tie her hair with cluture, adjusted the loose top she had slipped into and started descending the staircase with the grace of a sleepy panda.

“Maahi toh bolti hai ‘get out of your lazy routine’… lekin yeh routine break karna toh morning gym se zyada painful hai,” she mumbled under her breath, still rubbing one eye. “Aaj Sunday hai bhai… poora jism ‘main thak gayi hoon’ chilla raha hai kuch toh kiya nhi phir bhi thak gayi hu …”

Us Aditi us 😭😭😭🤚🤚🤚

And just as she placed her foot on the fourth stair —

She saw him.

Keyansh.

Standing in the living room.

Dressed in a dark blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, one hand casually flipping through a book, the other… holding an apple. The same apple her mom gave him every Sunday. His hair slightly tousled, eyes half-lost in thought.

And he looked up.

Their eyes met.

And in that exact moment — like gravity had a personal grudge against her — Aditi’s foot slipped.

“Aaaaaah!”

She lost her balance, the world tilted, and the steps blurred into one giant slope of doom.

But before she could complete her grand freefall — strong arms caught her by the waist.

Firm. Protective. Warm.

Her breath hitched.

She blinked. Her hair fell like a curtain over her face, heart hammering like a band-baaja at a baraat.

And there he was — Keyansh Singhania, holding her inches above the marble floor, like some overdramatic hero from a 2000s Bollywood movie.

“Aankhen khol Aditi… gir gayi thi almost aur tujhe aise nhi chillana chahiye yk,” he whispered with a smirk, his voice low and teasing, but the concern in his eyes impossible to miss.

“Tu—tu?!” she stammered, cheeks blooming in a hundred shades of pink, her hands awkwardly placed against his chest for support. “Yeh… kya tha abhi?”

“giri toh giri aise mat chillaya karo waise bhi logo ke dimaag mein bahut tharak hai,” he replied with that infuriating grin. “I am one of them isiliye warn kiya.”

"Keyaaaaanshhhhh!!!!" She said  frustrated.

She quickly tried to straighten herself, but he didn’t let go immediately. His hands lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then slowly, he helped her stand upright.

She tried to regain her balance — and her dignity — brushing back her hair in a very Main toh bas casually gir gayi thi kind of way.

He stepped back, holding up his hands dramatically.

“Mujhe kya pata tha ki mera face dekhte hi log seedhiyan chhod kar hawa mein udne lagenge.”

“delulu ki hadd hoti hai,” she snapped, hiding her flustered state. “Maahi ko bula lo, main tumse baat nahi karne waali!”

“Arey, main toh bas Shivam ki notebook waapis karne aaya tha… tum toh bonus mein girti mili.”

“Next time pakadne ki zarurat nahi hai. Mujhe girne do. Zameen meri purani dost hai,” she huffed and stomped toward the living room — only to almost trip again on the rug.

Behind her, Keyansh chuckled.

“Aajkal toh bhalayi ka zamana hi nhi hai.”he said dramatically exactly knowing how to piss off her.

“Ho gaya Saste Shahrukh khan?.”

"Ji nhi!" He said making her grit on her teeth. ___