I woke up like I'd been slapped by reality.
Not gently.
Not romantically.
Full-force.
My alarm screamed at 6:30 a.m., and for half a second, I forgot who I was.
Then my phone lit up.
₹183.
Mall washroom.
His eyes.
His calm.
I groaned and shoved my face into the pillow.
"Please tell me that wasn't real," I muttered.
My bank app answered instead.
Balance: ₹0.27
I laughed.
Out loud.
The kind of laugh that means you're five seconds away from either a breakdown or a personality change.
"Nice," I told the ceiling fan. "Character development arc unlocked."
I dragged myself out of bed. The mirror didn't help. My skin looked like it had been through a long-term toxic relationship. Which, honestly, it had—with capitalism.
I spotted my resume on the table.
Folded.
Crisp.
Still embarrassing.
Effort, he'd called it.
I picked it up like it might explode.
Nothing had changed overnight.
No missed calls.
No miracle emails.
No billionaire sliding into my DMs.
Just me, my reflection, and a life that refused to romanticize itself.
I opened Instagram while brushing my teeth.
Worst decision of the day.
Someone was at a concert, screaming lyrics like pain was optional.
Someone else posted gym selfies with trust the process like the process didn't cost money.
A girl I knew soft-launched her boyfriend with a coffee cup and a wrist shot.
I stared at my foam-covered face.
"Today," I told myself, "we will not spiral."
Ten minutes later, I was spiraling.
The metro ride to work felt longer than usual. I stood crushed between strangers who smelled like ambition and perfume I couldn't afford. My mind kept betraying me.
What if I never see him again?
What if that was my once-in-a-lifetime meet-cute and I fumbled it with sarcasm?
What if he already forgot me?
Men like him didn't remember girls like me.
They remembered meetings.
Deals.
Numbers with too many zeros.
By the time I reached the café, my chest felt tight.
Work was the same—orders shouted, tables wiped, dignity negotiated. Customers called me beta while tapping cards that probably had higher limits than my entire future.
During my break, I checked my phone again.
Nothing.
Of course.
I was about to lock my screen when it buzzed.
Unknown number.
My heart did something stupid.
> You fold paper like you expect it to be unfolded again.
I froze.
Me: That's… weirdly specific.
Him: I notice details.
I swallowed.
Me: You stalking café girls now?
Him: Only the ones who make ₹183 unforgettable.
Me: Congratulations. You've traumatized me.
Him: I paid for that trauma.
I covered my face with my hands.
This man was a problem.
Me: What do you want?
Him: Coffee. Tonight.
Him: Not sponsored.
I stared at the message.
Coffee meant:
money I didn't have
effort I didn't feel
embarrassment I was tired of collecting
But it also meant him.
Me: I work late.
Him: I own time.
Me: Ew.
Him: Fair.
I typed before I could think.
Me: Fine. But I'm paying.
Him: I like your confidence.
Me: It's mostly delusion.
After work, I stood outside the café longer than necessary, fixing my eyeliner like it could fix my life.
Same fake Zara top.
Same anxiety.
Different kind of fear.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
Sitting casually, untouched coffee, like waiting wasn't a concept that applied to him.
"You're late," he said when he saw me.
I blinked.
"I came straight from work."
"I know," he replied.
That unsettled me more than it should have.
We ordered.
I paid.
The transaction went through.
Barely.
I exhaled like I'd just won a battle.
"Progress," he said.
"Don't," I warned.
We sat there, silence stretching—not awkward, just heavy.
"So," I said, "what do you do? Besides emotionally destabilizing strangers?"
"I invest."
"In what?"
"People."
I rolled my eyes. "You say that like it's normal."
"It is. If you're careful."
"Are you?"
He looked at me then. Really looked.
"No."
That answer stayed with me.
"Why me?" I asked quietly.
He didn't dodge it.
"Because you didn't pretend."
"I was broke," I said. "Not brave."
"Same thing sometimes," he replied.
My phone buzzed.
Rent reminder.
I flipped it face down.
Too late.
"You don't need to explain," he said.
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
He stood up.
"I have a meeting."
Of course he did.
Then he hesitated.
"Don't disappear," he added.
"I don't disappear," I said. "I just survive quietly."
He smiled—soft, unreadable.
"See you tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
Like it was already decided.
He walked away, leaving behind coffee cups, calm confidence, and a sense of impending disaster.
My life was still broke.
My bank balance still humiliating.
But for the first time—
Tomorrow felt expensive.
And somehow…
I already knew I'd pay the price.