March 15th. Chennai.
The city pulsed with its usual noise—autos honking in protest, vendors yelling over each other, the air sticky with humidity and ambition. But the sky was strange that day—clouded, heavy, like it was holding back tears.
Aaravi stood on the metro platform, her sketchbook pressed tightly to her chest, her fingers smudged with charcoal. She always carried it like a secret. It wasn't just a book of art; it was how she processed grief, joy, and the aching spaces in between.
She drew people she didn't know—faces that caught her eye, expressions that spoke louder than words. Strangers were safer. They didn't ask questions.
Vihaan was five steps away. White shirt, sleeves rolled, a tie that looked like it gave up halfway. His phone buzzed, but he ignored it. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry, the kind of dry that comes after you've cried too much and nothing's left.
Their eyes met. Not a glance—a moment. Still. Charged.
And in that second, the sky seemed to hold its breath.