The Reunion
The notification lit up Diya's screen mid-conversation with her mother.
"Students can return to campus starting next week."
Her breath hitched. Finally. Months of grainy calls, pixelated smiles, and aching distance—over. She squealed, nearly tripping over her words as she spun to tell her mom. Her mother, ever the whirlwind, hugged her tight and started packing before Diya could finish, even tucking in a box of laddoos for Maddy.
For Maddy. The thought sent warmth curling through her chest.
The plan was simple: she and Maddy would take the train back to college together. A full-day journey—just them, a window seat, his head on her shoulder, shared earbuds, and the quiet comfort of presence.
But when she saw him at the station, his smile brightening the moment their eyes met, he dropped the bombshell casually—like it was nothing.
"Oh, by the way—Sandy's joining us. She's in the next coach."
Diya's fingers stilled on her suitcase handle. Sandy.
His girl best friend. The one who'd confessed feelings for him last year. The one he'd "let down gently." The one who still lingered in his periphery, all bright laughter and "remember when?" and "you know I'd date you if you weren't so stubborn, Maddy."
Harmless, he always said.
Diya wasn't so sure.
She forced a smile. "Cool."
But the air between them shifted, just slightly.
The Third Wheel
Sandy arrived in a whirlwind of perfume and familiarity, plopping into their compartment "just to say hi!"—and staying.
"Maddy, you still snore like a tractor, right?"
"Diya, you're so patient—I could never share him like you do."
A giggle. A hair flip. Then, the knife, velvet-coated:
"So… you two still aren't official, right?"
Diya's nails pressed half-moons into her palms.
Maddy just rolled his eyes. "Sandy, c'mon."
"What? Just asking!" Sandy grinned, all innocence.
Diya excused herself soon after, claiming fatigue. She retreated to the window seat, knees drawn up, watching the landscape blur into streaks of gold and green.
Her phone buzzed.
Harsh: "You alive?"
A lifeline. She exhaled, typing.
Diya: "Barely. Sandy's here."
Harsh: "Ah. The human loophole."
She snorted. Harsh always knew.
Harsh: "Want me to call? Fake emergency?"
Diya: "No. It's fine."
A lie. But she didn't want to make it a thing. Not yet.
Harsh's POV
Harsh stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the call button. He knew that tone—Diya's "it's fine" was never fine.
Across the room, Maddy's abandoned hoodie hung over a chair, the one he'd worn yesterday when he'd burst into their shared apartment, grinning like an idiot. "She said yes, man. Diya—we're doing this for real."
Harsh had clapped him on the back, forced a smile. "About time."
And now, less than 48 hours later, Sandy was already wedging herself between them.
Classic.
He typed again.
Harsh: "You know he's oblivious, right? Like a golden retriever with a concussion."
Diya: "I know."
Harsh: "Tell him."
She didn't reply.
Harsh sighed, tossing his phone onto the bed. He could picture her now—curled up by the train window, biting her lip the way she did when she was overthinking.
Part of him wanted to call Maddy himself. Open your damn eyes.
But this wasn't his fight.
(Even if, somewhere deep down, he wished it could be.)
The Unseen Ache
Maddy found Diya later, sliding into the seat beside her. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she murmured.
He nudged her shoulder. "Sandy's just… Sandy. You know that."
Diya hummed, noncommittal.
The truth? It wasn't jealousy. It was the quiet erosion of certainty—the way Sandy's presence made her feel like a guest in her own relationship. Like she was holding a space that might, at any moment, be reassigned.
And Maddy? Oblivious. Or choosing to be.
Her phone buzzed again.
Harsh: "For what it's worth… you deserve better than maybes."
She swallowed. Maybe she should say something.
But the train rattled onward, and the moment passed.
For now.