It happened a few hours after the "hangover soup" incident.
Rohan had been restless at the office. He couldn't focus on the spreadsheets or the flirtatious glances from the receptionists. He found himself looking at the small, cheap notebook Asha had accidentally left in Roy's car.
Instead of going to lunch, he drove back to her hostel under the guise of "returning her property." He found her sitting on a park bench nearby, a small drawing board on her knees, staring at a dilapidated old building across the street.
"You left this," Rohan said, tossing the notebook onto the bench beside her.
She jumped, her eyes wide. "Oh. Thank you."
Rohan didn't leave. He stood there, looking at what she was doing. She wasn't just sketching; she was reconstructing. On her board, the crumbling brick building was being transformed into a masterpiece of glass and light.
"You're an interior designer, right? Roy mentioned it," Rohan said, trying to sound casual.
Asha looked down at her sketch, her fingers tracing the lines of a flying buttress. "That's just what pays the bills. Or... what's supposed to pay them. I'm a designer because I can't afford to be what I actually am."
"And what's that?"
"An architect," she said, and for the first time, her voice didn't shake. It was firm. "I don't want to just pick out curtains for rich people, Rohan. I want to build things that last. Things that are so strong the world can't tear them down."
Rohan looked at the sketch. It was brilliant—complex, daring, and structural. "Why aren't you doing it then? Someone with your talent should be at a top firm."
Asha let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Talent is for people who have time. I have a sister to look after. I have a family that needs a check every month. In this city, if you don't have a 'name,' you stay invisible. I've applied to thirty firms in two months. I got thirty silences in return."
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the harsh afternoon sun. "You wouldn't understand. You walk into rooms and the doors just stay open for you. I have to kick them down, and my legs are getting tired."
Rohan felt a strange, uncomfortable prickle of shame. He looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the frayed edges of her sleeves. He saw the way she tucked her drawing board away as if she were embarrassed of her own dreams.
"I'm not just a prank, Rohan," she whispered, turning back to the building. "I'm just a girl trying not to drown."
He didn't know what to say. He was the "Playboy." He was supposed to make a joke, tell her she was too pretty to worry, and walk away. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just sat there on the bench with her for twenty minutes, watching her sketch a world she believed she would never belong to.