Love was never on the itinerary. For Rohan, attachment was a foreign language he had no interest in learning, and romance was just a hollow word used by people who didn't know how to have a good time. He lived his life in the shallow end, and he liked the view from there.
Rohan never had to try. At six feet tall with shoulders that seemed built to carry the gaze of every woman in the room, he was a walking distraction. When he entered the office, the atmosphere shifted—a sudden drop in pressure followed by a wave of frantic whispers. Some women stared openly, lost in the sharp lines of his jaw; others looked away with practiced indifference, though they tracked his every movement through the reflection of their computer screens.
He flirted with the casual ease of someone breathing. He smiled without an ounce of meaning behind it, and he walked away from every encounter without a single promise. They called him a playboy—a reckless, beautiful storm. He didn't deny it; he wore the title like a tailored suit.
Then, there was Roy.
If Rohan was a storm, Roy was the steady hum of a calm sea. He was the picture of perfect composition—obedient to his own discipline, quiet in his confidence. Roy's charm didn't hit you like a wave; it spread slowly, like the warmth of a morning sun. He moved with a controlled, "sexy but decent" aura that made people trust him before they even knew his name.
Every morning, their lives synchronized. The lift doors would slide open, the clinical scent of the corporate world would rush in, and they would step into the rhythm of meetings, laptops, and endless cups of coffee. By day, they were the golden boys of the firm—the professionals.
But when the sun dipped below the horizon, the masks changed.
Night Heaven was a small club, tucked away in an alleyway that was far too easy to miss. Yet, it was the most famous secret in the city, held together by two men who lived between the cracks of reality.
The club never truly slept. On some nights, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume as women crowded the floor just to get close to Rohan. They wanted a picture, a laugh, a fleeting touch—something that meant nothing to him but felt like everything to them. He gave it all away for free, posing effortlessly, his eyes never quite reaching his smile.
But on other nights, the crowd changed. They came for the Ghost.
Roy sang with a mask on—no face, no identity, just a voice that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones. It was soft, deep, and devastatingly soulful. When Roy sang, the room fell into a silence that felt heavier than any scream. People didn't cheer; they listened, breathless, as if he were singing the secrets they were too afraid to whisper.
By eleven, the music would die. Rohan would soak up the final remains of the spotlight, while Roy would slip into the shadows, maintaining a careful, lonely distance.
Their homes told the stories they refused to say out loud.
Rohan's apartment was a graveyard of impulse. Beer bottles cluttered the mahogany tables; plates of half-eaten takeout sat forgotten like relics of a life lived in a hurry. Clothes were discarded wherever they fell—on the sofa, the floor, the kitchen counters. It stayed that way all week, a chaotic mess that mirrored the void he carried inside.
Only on Sundays did he clean. Not because he valued order, but because appearances were the only thing he had left to protect.
Roy's home was the antidote. White walls, the serene face of a Buddha at the entrance, and plants that breathed life into every corner. Peace didn't just live there; it was cultivated. In the heart of the house was a separate room—Roy's universe. A piano, a guitar, and the silence required to turn pain into melody. For Roy, music wasn't a hobby; it was survival. He possessed an innocent mindset, a purity that was far too fragile for the world he inhabited.
In truth, if it wasn't for Rohan's protective, jagged edges, Roy wouldn't have survived the city at all.
They were two men living between the corporate grind and the neon glow, between the noise and the song. Neither of them knew it yet, but the silence between the notes was about to be filled by a girl who would shatter every wall they had ever built.