Saharsh woke up to lavender sheets and the scent of incense.
The room around him was still — too still. Neat. Feminine. Curtains gently swayed to a rhythm not his own. The desk near the window was lined with poetry books, framed photos of strangers, and a tiny glass jar filled with folded paper stars.
He sat up slowly, heartbeat quickening. This wasn't his room. This wasn't even his kind of vibe.
He rushed to the window and flung it open. The sky outside gleamed a faint red — almost pastel — with a sun he couldn't place. Not yellow. Not familiar. Too large, too silent. His breath hitched.
"Where the hell...?"
His head spun. His body moved on instinct, rushing through the corridor of a house he'd never seen, past walls adorned with paintings of flowers, dreamcatchers, and motivational quotes in cursive.
His bare feet met warm tiled floors as he stumbled outside. The neighborhood looked like his — but different. Buildings were taller, more angular. There were self-moving scooters on the streets and kids using wristbands that projected holographic games.
Am I isekaied? His eyes lit up, part panic, part... excitement. (Too much anime, clearly.)
Still, this wasn't fantasy. Not elves and dragons. This was... alternate.
On a distant, parallel Earth — Rakshita sat up, startled, staring at a cracked ceiling fan and breathing in the scent of... old books and burnt toast?
"What the..."
The walls were plastered with anime posters — most of them frayed. A shelf in the corner was a chaotic mess of wires, toolkits, and an oddly dignified-looking cricket ball, cleanly split in half and glued back together like a science project.
"Am I... kidnapped?" she whispered.
The thought barely settled when she noticed the front door was wide open. She dashed to it and stepped outside, greeted by a sky so vividly blue it looked filtered. The air was hotter. The scent of petrol lingered. A dog barked in the distance, and far away, a billboard read "NEW SMART CITY INITIATIVE" in oddly stylized Hindi.
"This is... wrong," she muttered, holding back panic.
The clocks ticked the same. The calendar said Sunday. But everything else was just off.
The cities — both of them — felt almost like home. Almost. Familiar buildings, but mirrored streets. Known brand logos, but in alternate fonts. It was as if their worlds had been rebuilt by someone working off half a memory.
Back in the girl's room, Saharsh paced. Hours passed in waves of overthinking.
"What do I do? Wait? Sleep again? Scream?" he mumbled.
Eventually, hunger won. In the kitchen — a spotless, gleaming space with color-coded containers — he felt mildly guilty disturbing the aesthetic. But survival called.
His hands moved automatically, raiding the fridge and spice cabinet. Something in this environment awakened the inner chef. Aloo parathas. Sweet tomato curry. He cooked passionately — then panicked at the mess he'd created.
He tried to clean up.
He made it worse.
After a while, he gave up and hoped forgiveness would come in the form of good food.
Meanwhile, in his room, Rakshita gagged.
Dust. Socks. A sock with a hole. Her expression morphed between horror and "why does this boy own 9 screwdrivers and 0 cleaning products?"
She got to work. Rearranged the desk. Aligned the books. Picked up three chip wrappers from under the bed and — jackpot — found a wallet and a worn-out leather diary.
Temptation won.
She read the diary. She lost track of time. The pages were filled with poems — raw, angsty, surprisingly poetic. Some verses about heartbreak. Others about food. A few... about spaceships?
This boy was weird. But interesting.
Then her stomach growled. She looked at the wallet. A devilish grin.
Gol gappas on an alien Earth? Worth it.
After food, both of them — thousands of miles and one reality apart — sat silently, absorbing everything. Wondering the same things.
Was this a dream?
What if it wasn't?
Would they go back?
Would they be stuck?
Could someone really fall into another world... and return?
The sun dipped low. Shadows stretched long. And sleep eventually claimed them both.
But just before sleep...
A thought struck them both.
A note. Just in case.
Rakshita scribbled hers on a sticky pad from the desk.
Saharsh tore a page from a notepad lying near the window.
They didn't know who the other was.
They didn't even know if their notes would be seen.
But still, they wrote.
The next morning
Saharsh was back in his own room.
He jolted up, looked around. His mess. His fan. His stale socks.
"So I wasn't isekaied. Shit!"
And there — on his desk — a note. Folded. Handwritten. Clearly not his.
"I don't know who are you, where are you I am not sure if I will go back but if you are reading alone then it means I got back to my world and if I you were also in another world we swapped for a day, By The Way Thankyou for the money for food and sorry for taking it without asking, your house was a mess I did some make over but I hope you didn't make over mine in your style. BYE! Don't know if I will come here again."
— R
He stared at it for a long time.
Then picked up a pen and replied.
"Same here. Name's Saharsh. What's Yours if you read it and we swapped again and Sorry for the mess in your kitchen but I had left some parathas for you to eat as apology I hope you like them."
— S
He folded it neatly. Left it in the same spot.
Meanwhile in Rakshita's room...
She screamed.
"SO IT WAS A SWAP!" After Seeing her Kitchen..
There — on her desk — a note.
"I don't know if I will go back but just in case Sorry! for the kitchen there's some my hand made cooking there as apology Please don't be angry, I liked your room and If we are swapped wait for next Sunday I have seen in animes these things happen periodically"
Rakshita sighed, ate the parathas (delicious), and smirked as she replied:
"Hey your cooking was delicious but Please don't use my kitchen next time we swap as you think we will on Sundays, And live like a human Please in your house"
She said it with sass — but secretly hoped for more parathas next week.
And both of them — across the invisible thread of dimensions —
waited for next Sunday.