Burrr. Burrr.
I ignored it.
Burrr.
I silenced it.
Burrr.
At this point, the phone was no longer vibrating—it was making a determined case for my attention.
By the fifth vibration, I conceded defeat. Sleep, clearly, was not winning today.
I picked up the call, already irritated and profoundly uninterested in human interaction.
"Hello?"
"Ishu," Drishti's voice burst through the phone, "please don't tell me you're still sleeping."
I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling, as always, offered no emotional support.
"Why are you calling so early?" I asked with slightly irritated voice . "We're meeting at eleven. I remember. I'll reach on time."
There was a pause. A carefully measured one.
"Sleeping Beauty," she said, her tone deceptively calm, "it's ten. I'm literally about to leave my house."
I sat up.
"That's impossible. My alarm didn't ring."
She laughed—loud, unapologetic. "Right. As if alarms fail on their own. Do yourself a favour and check."
I checked.
The alarm hadn't rung—because of course it hadn't. Alarms, like carefully made plans, collapse the moment you rely on them.
"Forget the investigation," she said briskly. "Get ready. I'll be outside your apartment in thirty minutes. Then we'll go to the café together. I'm starving. Bye."
Click.
I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary before dragging myself out of bed.
"This girl," I muttered, "treats urgency like a personal philosophy."
I turned on the TV and played Ophelia by Taylor Swift—loud, dramatic, unapologetically energetic, the kind of song that convinces you you're productive even when you're just standing there blinking. It filled the room with momentum I hadn't earned yet. I brushed my teeth, checked my emails (yes, in the bathroom—efficiency over etiquette), and found nothing important. I noted it mentally and moved on; calm, I've learned, is usually temporary.
After my shower, I opened my cupboard.
And froze.
I had packed my clothes.
All of them.
I stood there, staring, briefly hoping they might unpack themselves out of guilt.
Two options remained:
the hoodie and pants I had slept in,
or unwashed clothes that smelled like questionable life choices.
After a short internal debate, I chose the hoodie. Survival over aesthetics.
"A yellow hoodie that said Flight Mode—an optimistic lie, considering my life was permanently online with zero chance of disconnecting."Blue jeans that were not technically dirty. White shoes. A high ponytail. Pink lip balm. Thick-rimmed glasses I didn't need but liked anyway.
I checked myself in the mirror.
Good enough, I decided. Confidence is often overrated.
That's when the door started knocking—loud, insistent, impatient.
Obviously Drishti. No one else knocks like they're running late for their own wedding.
I opened the door to find her dressed as if Chanel had personally sponsered her this morning. Instantly, Chanel started playing in my head. It always does. And then and there i knew her current favourite song which lead to this version of her
"Ishu!" she burst out, already mid-sentence.
"Inside," I interrupted, stepping aside. "Not on the door. I know you—you'll start a full podcast out here, and I still have neighbours."
She laughed and swept past me, already talking.
"I swear, listen, I heard this song a few days ago—SO good—I played it on repeat, and then I just had to go out.".
I shut the door behind her."Let me guess," i said. "You went shopping"
She stopped dramatically and pointed at me. "Okay, but guess where."
I looked her up and down. Took in the outfit. The bag. The confidence.
"Chanel."
She grinned. "You know me so well."
And just like that, she launched into a detailed explanation—how she discovered each piece, why every purchase was emotionally necessary, and how the universe had clearly wanted her to own them. She is a billionaire's daughter. How we became friends is a mystery I've stopped trying to solve. When I once asked her, she simply said, "I like your vibe." Apparently, vibes ignore bank balances.
"Come," I said finally. "We're getting late."
She stopped. Looked at me. Took a long pause.
"Ishu," she said gently, "you're not ready."
"I am," I said.
To prove my point, I twirled—imaginary frock, imaginary elegance included.
She sighed. "Why are you hiding your curves by wearing this loose clothes? And why the glasses? Your eyesight is perfectly fine."
"I packed most of my things," I said. "This was all that was left. And I like the glasses."
"Packed?" she repeated.
Oh.
Right.
This was the moment I'd been quietly dodging.
"I have to go home," I said quickly, before my courage dissolved. "And before you react—no, you're not allowed to get angry."
Her eyes widened. "When were you planning to tell me? And our vacation—what happens to that? Your exams are over, so are you actually leaving this place?"
There it was. Every question stacked together, tumbling out before I could prepare answers for any of them.
"I'll come back," I said, softening my voice into a smile. "Maa called. It's just for a few days."
I said it lightly, as if repetition could make it harmless.
She studied me for a long second. Then her expression changed—not angry, not dramatic. Just still.
"So," she said slowly, "you packed all your clothes."
Yes. No. Maybe.
I chose the safest truth.
"Yes. Exams, no time to wash. They're all dirty. I'll deal with it at home."
She nodded once.
"Oh."
That was it.
No argument. No protest.
And somehow, that single word landed harder than everything else. Because oh meant she understood—and understanding was far more dangerous than anger.
We didn't talk after that.
She picked up her bag. I grabbed my keys. The door locked behind us with a soft click that felt heavier than it should have, like something unspoken had just been sealed shut.
"Let's go eat," I said suddenly, forcing brightness into my voice. "I'm starving."
She glanced at me. Then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
Ten minutes later—after two wrong turns—we reached the café, which was barely five minutes away. Direction sense has never been our strength.
The café was calm. The smell of coffee wrapped around the place like comfort. People worked on laptops; others talked softly. That's why I liked cafés—they pretend life is stable, even when it isn't.
I ordered chocolate pancakes and an iced black coffee—with five or six ice cubes, the sacred number that keeps it sharp and perfectly chilled without diluting the soul out of it. Drishti chose a burger and lemonade, decisive and unbothered.
We took a corner table.
She sat. Stood. Sat again. Adjusted her bag. Tapped her nails. Too much movement for someone who usually held rooms steady.
"Ishu," she said too casually, "you mentioned something about home."
"Maa called," I said. "She wants me to come back."
She nodded. "Okay. Fine."
Then, softer, "Why?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "She didn't say much. I think it's fine… at least, I hope it is."
She smiled—but not her real one.
"Good," she said. "Everything's always fine."
The waiter arrived. Plates clinked. Normal life, aggressively normal.
Drishti picked up her lemonade, took a sip, then set it down untouched.
"You remember," she said quietly, "I told you there was something I needed to talk to you about?"
I tried to joke. "Is this before or after another Chanel origin story?"
She laughed—too loud, half a second too late.
"No," she said. "This is… different."
Her fingers tightened around the glass. They were shaking.
"Ishu," she said, not looking at me, "promise you won't interrupt."
My stomach dropped.
"Okay."
She inhaled. Exhaled.
"My father wants me to get married."
"And?" I asked gently.
She laughed—a short, brittle sound. "And it's arranged."
"To someone I don't know," she added. "Someone I've never met."
Her eyes had gone glossy now.
"They're acting like it's decided," she said faster. "Like I'll wake up one day, wear something expensive, smile for pictures, and suddenly this will be my life."
She finally looked at me.
"Ishu," she whispered, "I don't want this."
I reached for her hand. She held on immediately.
"I tried telling him," she said. "He said I'm being emotional. That I'll understand later."
Her voice cracked.
"What if later never comes?" she asked. "What if this is it?"
Tears followed—quiet at first, then real, messy, unstoppable.
And I sat there, holding her hand across a table scattered with pancakes and cooling coffee, thinking how cruel it was that life always waited for moments like this—ordinary mornings, casual cafés—to deliver its heaviest truths.
Because life doesn't ruin you suddenly.
It waits—politely—until you sit down to eat.