I hate Delhi boys.
Okay — not all of them. Just the ones who think a girl standing alone at a bus stop automatically wants their attention. Or worse, their number. Or their laughably bad idea of a romantic surprise.
"Bas ek coffee," he had said, grinning like I should feel lucky.
I don't even know his name.
And honestly, I don't get why he thought I'd say yes.
It's not like I'm that girl. You know — the kind with glowing skin, perfect eyeliner, that movie-scene hair flip. I'm just… me.
Normal.
Not ugly, sure. But not someone you stop and ask out like some filmy hero either.
And that's what made it uncomfortable.
I told him — very clearly — "Listen, I'm strong enough to say no. You seem nice, but I don't know you. And I really need to get home early."
He laughed. Like I was joking.
I wasn't.
So now I'm here — running.
Bag bouncing. Sandals slapping the sidewalk. My lungs doing their best to stay quiet while my thoughts scream, What even was that?
I slide into the bus stop crowd like I belong here. Hide in plain sight.
And then — I see him.
Rithvik Kandari.
Everything slows.
He's standing near the edge of the stop, looking down at his phone, headphones around his neck, wearing a plain white T-shirt that fits him… unfairly well.
I blink.
Seriously, brain? Now is not the time to notice that.
But I do. Of course, I do.
Because he is the kind of boy you don't forget, no matter how hard you try. And I've tried. I swear I have.
He hasn't seen me.
And I don't know whether I want to run or freeze.
Because all at once, every memory I locked away — everything I buried under strength and silence — comes rising, uninvited and loud.
And yet I stand still, like the world will notice if I move.
Not now.
Not here.
Not again.