Sunday Morning — Rakshita's Room
Saharsh opened his eyes slowly. Lavender sheets. Familiar red-tinted sky through the window. The scent of incense in the air.
He was here.
Again.
But this time, his heartbeat wasn't calm.
Because the mist... had shown him something.
That floating silhouette — a girl, suspended in the shadows, glowing faintly. Not clearly visible. Not identifiable. But it had felt like her.
Rakshita.
And he had no proof.
No logic.
Just the strange certainty that he'd seen her in that in-between place.
He got out of bed slowly and walked to her desk. There were no new notes from her this time. Just silence.
So he grabbed a fresh sticky note, breathed in slowly, and wrote:
"Did you see them?
In the mist — the silhouette?
It looked like you.
Or maybe it was just the mist teasing us again.
But if you saw me too… say nothing.
Just leave a doodle.
Thanks for the Cash"
He didn't add a joke. No samosa doodle this time.
He folded it carefully and placed it near her mirror.
Then sat down and waited.
Sunday Morning — Saharsh's Room
Rakshita woke up slowly, eyes half-lidded, the dull hum of Saharsh's ceiling fan spinning overhead like a soft lullaby trying to pull her back to sleep.
But sleep couldn't hide the image.
That shadowy silhouette.
Floating. Watching. Familiar — in a way that made her heart twist.
She sat up, blinking the memory away, clutching the blanket tighter around her. Her head buzzed with questions, but her heart whispered a single word: enough.
Not today.
Today was supposed to be simple. He promised.
A normal Sunday.
That thought gave her something to hold onto.
She slid off the bed and shuffled to his desk. There it was — the sticky note from Saharsh.
"Let's make tomorrow simple.
Just a normal Sunday. Just us.
P.S. I stocked the wallet. Also checked the fridge.
You'll find paneer, fresh herbs, and zero regrets."
Her lips curved into a small, thankful smile.
Wallet: stocked.
Fridge: loaded.
Her anxiety? Slightly dulled.
She opened the wardrobe, pulled on the oversized hoodie she always wore in his world, and tied her hair up in a messy bun.
No notes today.
No fears.
Just... a hungry girl, in a half-familiar world, ready to eat feelings away.
She slung his satchel over her shoulder, grabbed the wallet like a ritual, and muttered with a grin:
"Let the street food therapy begin."
And just like that, she stepped outside — leaving her shadows behind, at least for now.
Sunday Afternoon — Saharsh's world
The streets were buzzing with life as Rakshita strolled through the lanes of Saharsh's world — a strange hybrid of old-world chaos and new-world warmth. She found her way to a stall selling spicy momos, a vendor shouting about jaljeera ice, and a corner chai shop playing classic Hindi songs on an old radio.
She let the flavors distract her — one bite at a time.
By the third stall, she was happily sipping mango soda when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
"Back to looting the wallet again, I see."
She turned around to find Deepak leaning casually against a lamppost, holding a samosa in one hand and grinning like a detective catching a suspect mid-crime.
Rakshita smirked. "It's called compensation. His fridge is stocked, but sometimes the heart craves street chaos."
Deepak took a dramatic bite of his samosa. "You know, for someone claiming to be his girlfriend, you two have very suspicious timing."
She raised an eyebrow. "Suspicious how?"
He shrugged. "Well… you're always here. He's never around. Last time I saw you, you kicked me out. This time, he's MIA again."
Rakshita gave a noncommittal smile and sipped her soda. "Maybe we're just efficient. Divide and conquer — he cooks, I eat."
Deepak narrowed his eyes playfully. "Uh-huh. Either that, or you two are running a time-share arrangement on his house."
Rakshita chuckled, then leaned in mock-seriously. "Or maybe we're part of an interdimensional relationship with strict Sunday visitation rights."
Deepak blinked. "...I knew it. I KNEW Saharsh was into weird sci-fi stuff."
She laughed and walked ahead. "You worry too much, Mr. Samosa."
Deepak called out behind her, "Tell him I said hi. Or you know, just text him — like normal couples do."
She didn't reply — just smiled to herself.
Sunday Afternoon — Rakshita's Room
Saharsh sat cross-legged on Rakshita's rug, a book open in his lap — something about parallel timelines and butterfly effects. He wasn't really reading.
He was just... being.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't building or fixing or snooping. He didn't touch her gadgets. Didn't even enter the kitchen, though the temptation was real.
He watered her plant again.
Opened her window.
Let the wind in.
And then came the sound of a door creaking — followed by familiar footsteps.
Anaya.
She entered, scanning the room like a detective searching for hidden snacks — or secrets.
"Okay, weird question," she said, arms crossed. "Are you two even dating?"
Saharsh blinked. "What?"
Anaya walked in fully, motioning at the desk, the untouched bed, the vibe. "You claim to be Rakshita's boyfriend — she calls you her 'Otherworldly Chef' or whatever — but every time I show up, it's either just her, or just you."
Saharsh hesitated. "We... have a complicated schedule."
Anaya narrowed her eyes. "You're like ghosts. Ships passing in the night. Mythical creatures. I'm starting to think you two are part of a prank show."
Saharsh chuckled nervously. "We like our... privacy."
Anaya raised an eyebrow. "Privacy or plot twist?"
Before he could reply, she leaned in with a smirk. "For what it's worth, I'm rooting for you. But if this turns out to be some 'social experiment', I'm reporting both of you to reality TV."
She turned to leave but paused in the doorway. "Oh — and she's been smiling more. Which is annoying. So... thanks."
Then she was gone.
Saharsh sat there for a long moment.
Then whispered, "She's been smiling more?"
Sunday Night — Rakshita's Room
Saharsh sat on the edge of her bed, twirling a pen between his fingers. The day had passed quietly. Peaceful, yes — but still wrapped in the haze of that vision in the mist.
Who had he seen?
Was it really her?
He grabbed a fresh sticky note, leaned over her desk, and wrote slowly, deliberately — a proposal:
"Okay, next idea.
What if we sleep outside our rooms next Saturday night?
You at a friend's place. Me at Deepak's.
Let's test if the room is part of the swap trigger."
"Also... I've been thinking about the silhouette in the mist.
If we both saw each other — or thought we did — maybe we should confirm it.
Let's share real photos.
Nothing fancy — just something honest.
Might help us figure out if it was really 'us' we saw... or something else pretending to be."
He paused, added a small sketch of two stick figures reaching out to each other through mist, then ended it with:
"You don't have to if you're not ready.
But I want to know who I'm talking to. Really."
He folded it and placed it carefully under her sketchbook, where he knew she'd look first.
Sunday Night — Saharsh's Room
Rakshita sat cross-legged on his bed, her mind still circling back to the mist — to the vision. That hovering silhouette. That feeling in her chest that refused to settle.
She hadn't told anyone.
She couldn't.
But she knew what she saw.
And something inside her — the part that used to be afraid — had begun to change.
She grabbed a sticky note and wrote, slower than usual, choosing every word.
"There's something about that mist.
The silhouette. The space between us.
I need to know what — who — I saw."
"And I don't want to be scared anymore."
She paused, then continued:
"I'm ready now.
Mentally. Emotionally.
To test whatever this is — properly.
Next Sunday… let's do something different."
"Let's start learning. Let's stop guessing."
She tapped the pen to her chin, thinking.
Then she added:
"Also… I want to know more about you.
Not just through your mess or your notes.
I want to see you.
Not in the mist. Not maybe."
She drew a foggy swirl in the corner of the note, with two faint dots on either side — like distant stars trying to meet.
And wrote under it:
"If you ever want to show me who you are… I'll be ready."
She placed the note right on his desk, above one of his doodles.
Then whispered softly, with no one around to hear:
"Let's stop being mysteries."