Boutique
The boutique had officially gone to war.
Bolts of fabric shot through the air like cannon fire. Sequins sparkled mid-fall like festive confetti after a battlefield victory—or loss. A tailor crouched beneath a table whispering sweet nothings to a misbehaving sewing machine, while another argued with a mannequin's arm.
And at the eye of this beautifully chaotic storm?
Khushi Kumari Gupta.
Hair twisted into a messy bun held together with a pencil. Bangles clinking like warning bells. Dupatta flying over her shoulder like a cape—if superheroes had thread-count anxiety.
> Khushi (barking): "No! That dupatta was for the Lakshmi lehenga, not the Fusion Firecracker! Who pinned it here?!"
> Tailor (timidly): "I thought it matched, madam…"
> Khushi: "Matched?! That's like serving rasgulla with ketchup!"
The tailor blinked, nodded rapidly, and retreated before she could throw a safety pin.
Payal darted in with a half-stitched choli.
> Payal: "Khushi, you told me to make the backless one—"
> Khushi (groaning): "For the modern theme! Not for Auntie Sunita's conservative daughter-in-law! She'll faint!"
> Buaji (waving a ladle from the chai corner): "At this rate, I'll faint! Who moved my masala dabba to the embellishment tray?!"
> Lavanya (sauntering in, wearing glitter leggings and a crop tee that read Chaos Queen): "Mood check: How many hearts have we broken today, and how many sleeves?"
> Khushi (not looking up): "At least four of each."
> Lavanya (tapping on her phone): "Updating the playlist to Karma is a Choli and Stitch Don't Kill My Vibe."
A spool of thread rolled across the floor, hitting the boutique door just as it swung open with a soft ding-ling.
Time slowed.
Because, of course, he had arrived.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
Charcoal black shirt. Rolled-up sleeves. That familiar brooding aura that made perfectly normal people forget their words and feel over-dressed at the same time. His steps were calm, controlled. He walked like a man who'd never had a thread out of place in his life.
He paused at the threshold.
Took in the pandemonium.
The chaos.
Her.
> Arnav (dry as desert air): "I see the apocalypse is... well-accessorized."
Khushi turned, pinning a dupatta to a mannequin's shoulder. The sunlight caught her face—there were threads in her hair and a tiny ink blot on her cheek.
She didn't even try to hide the way her heart skipped.
> Khushi (coolly): "You're early."
> Arnav (shrugging slightly): "You're... on fire."
> Khushi (arching a brow): "I'm managing."
> Arnav (stepping inside): "That's not what I meant."
Something in his voice caught her mid-breath.
And just like that—
Rabba Ve.
Soft.
Subtle.
The kind of moment where everything blurred—the shouting tailors, the flickering lights, Lavanya humming tunelessly to herself.
He looked at her like he could see past the fabric and the fury.
She looked away too fast.
He didn't.
---
Later
The boutique's back room smelled faintly of talcum powder and old boxes of glitter. The mirror was streaked with handprints. A pile of rejected tassels sat like a soft grave of discarded dreams.
Khushi was adjusting the neckline of a mannequin when she sensed someone behind her. She didn't turn.
> Khushi: "If you're here to judge the stitch, I already fixed it."
> Arnav (quietly): "You missed this one."
He held up a dupatta.
Not just any dupatta. Midnight blue. Fine net. Embroidered with tiny gold stars and a single stitched button motif—off-center, delicate, unmistakably personal.
Her breath caught in her throat.
> Khushi (softly): "That's... from my sketchbook."
> Arnav (nodding): "From that night in Laxmi Nagar. You were ranting about colours. And buttons."
> Khushi (blinking): "You remembered?"
> Arnav: "You stitched it into fabric. I just... followed the thread."
She turned then.
They were close.
Too close.
And neither moved.
> Khushi (carefully): "This isn't a game, Arnav."
> Arnav: "I know. It's a gamble."
> Khushi: "With what at stake?"
> Arnav (gently): "Everything. My name. My brand. My... peace."
He didn't reach for her.
He just lifted a hand slowly—tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
The brush of fingers.
The weight of silence.
Even the light seemed to pause.
> Arnav: "You've always had fire. I just want to stand close enough to feel it."
> Khushi (voice shaking): "You're the storm, remember?"
> Arnav (half-smile): "Storms fade. You… don't."
And Rabba Ve returned, soft and golden, like the sound of forgotten bells.
Interrupted of course
> Lavanya (bursting in): "Okay who left the glue gun on the table—whoa, did I interrupt something soft-focus and forbidden?"
> Khushi (jumping away): "Nothing! I was adjusting the hem!"
> Arnav (calmly): "Apparently, with telepathy."
> Buaji (shouting from the front): "KHUSHI! The chai is boiling like your temper—GET OUT HERE BEFORE WE NEED A NEW SAUCEPAN!"
> Khushi (rushing out): "Coming, Buaji!"
She fled like a guilty teenager.
> Arnav (still standing there): "She never listens."
> Lavanya (chewing muffin): "Oh, she listens. She just likes pretending she doesn't.
Arnav leaned against the trial room doorway, the embroidered dupatta still in his hand.
His eyes followed her chaotic trail back into the boutique.
Behind him, on the table, her sketchbook lay half-open. Doodles danced across the page—little stars, faint swirls, and—tucked into the corner—a sketch of him.
Silent. Observing. With a broken button stitched to his chest.
And deep in his coat pocket?
That same button still lived.
Just like hope.
Small.
Unsaid.
Unshakable.
---
The rooftop had emptied. The laughter had drifted downstairs with the clink of used chai glasses. Only silence remained now—gentle, golden, and draped in fairy light.
Khushi stood barefoot on the cold cement, her dupatta fluttering in the wind like a flag that didn't know which side it belonged to.
She was staring at the sky.
Not because she wanted to count stars.
But because she didn't trust herself to look at the man beside her.
> Arnav (softly): "You always watch the moon like it owes you answers."
> Khushi (not looking at him): "Maybe it does."
> Arnav: "Then ask."
> Khushi: "What if I don't like what it says back?"
> Arnav (stepping closer): "Then I'll argue with it. I win arguments, remember?"
She smiled. Just a small curve of the lips.
It still made his chest twist.
> Khushi: "You don't always win with me."
> Arnav: "That's why I come back."
The wind rustled a marigold garland strung across the railing. The flame of a diya flickered but held steady. Somewhere, a distant song played from another rooftop. Something old. Something romantic.
> Arnav: "Why didn't you light that diya?"
He pointed at the lone clay lamp near her feet—unlit, surrounded by glowing cousins.
> Khushi: "It's cracked."
> Arnav: "So?"
> Khushi: "So it won't hold the flame. It'll go out too quickly."
> Arnav: "And you think that makes it useless?"
> Khushi: "It makes it... too fragile."
> Arnav (quiet): "Or brave. For even trying."
She finally turned to him.
Eyes dark, wide, unreadable in the fairy light glow.
> Arnav: "I've broken too. Hurt things. People. Dreams."
> Khushi: "I know."
> Arnav: "But I still want to be the kind of diya that holds the flame. For you."
There it was.
Not a confession.
A revelation.
He stepped closer.
And knelt.
Not with grandeur.
Not to propose.
Just... to strike a match.
He lit the diya.
The cracked one.
The "too fragile" one.
And it glowed. Steady.
> Arnav (not looking up): "Sometimes what's cracked... just needs someone to light it gently."
Her breath caught.
She didn't speak.
Instead, she sat down beside him. Quiet. Cross-legged. The way she used to sit at her amma's feet during prayer.
They both stared at the light.
> Khushi (after a pause): "You never say what I expect."
> Arnav: "And you always say what I didn't know I needed to hear."
They didn't touch.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
But their shoulders brushed—warmth over wool. Shared silence. A closeness that didn't need names.
> Khushi (murmuring): "This Diwali feels... different."
> Arnav (turning to her): "It is."
> Khushi: "Why?"
> Arnav: "Because this time, you're not in my past. Or future. You're here."
She didn't reply.
Just leaned her head gently onto his shoulder.
And that, for him, was more than any "I love you" could ever be.
Diwali lights twinkling around them like constellations reborn.
Two people.
One diya.
One moment that would burn gently—long after the fireworks faded.