Boutique Rooftop
The night hung low and sweet. The rooftop was quiet, dimly lit by swaying paper lanterns. Below, the boutique pulsed with energy, but here...
It was just the sky and whoever dared speak to it.
Khushi stepped out to check the lantern ropes—and paused.
Arnav was already there. Alone. Leaning against the edge. Looking skyward.
> Khushi: "You hiding from Buaji's second round of ladoos?"
> Arnav: "Not hiding. Waiting."
> Khushi (smirking): "For what? A shooting star?"
> Arnav: "No. You."
Silence.
A soft breeze tugged at her dupatta. She didn't move. Just walked over, settling beside him with a sigh.
> Khushi: "It's beautiful tonight."
> Arnav: "It's always beautiful. But tonight you noticed."
That startled her.
She looked at him. He didn't look away.
> Arnav (quietly): "Khushi, I know this collaboration was chaos. I know I'm... difficult."
> Khushi (soft): "Like a riddle written in Helvetica."
> Arnav (laughing softly): "Exactly."
Pause.
> Khushi (glancing away): "Why are you being like this?"
> Arnav: "Like what?"
> Khushi: "Kind. Present. Almost... sweet."
> Arnav: "Because it's Diwali. Because I've already lost years pretending I didn't care. I don't want to waste another night."
Her heart stumbled.
> Arnav (stepping closer): "And because when you smile at your sketches, I wonder if you'll ever look at me that way."
> Khushi: "You... you're not supposed to say that."
> Arnav: "Why not?"
> Khushi (whispering): "Because I might believe you."
> Arnav (barely audible): "Then believe me."
He reached up—carefully. Tucked a curl behind her ear.
> Arnav: "You stitched stars into fabric, Khushi. But you've stitched yourself into me."
She couldn't answer.
So she didn't.
Instead, she leaned her shoulder against his. Let it rest. Let the silence carry the confession.
Above them, a paper lantern broke free.
And floated upward into the night.
From the street below, the boutique glowed.
And on the rooftop, two silhouettes stood framed by light and stars.
Not talking. Not kissing.
Just being.
And sometimes, that's the loudest love story of all.
---
Three minutes to curtain.
The boutique was humming like a diya about to catch flame. Guests had started to arrive—bloggers, buyers, the Raizada clan in their elegant best. Even Buaji had traded her rolling pin for a string of pearls.
Backstage—if you could call the backroom with sewing kits and open bobby pin boxes that—was a war zone.
Khushi paced near the mirror, dupatta half-pinned, cheeks flushed. Her jhumkas swayed dangerously every time she turned.
> Khushi (to no one in particular): "Who put the mehendi model in the bridal outfit?! That's the finale piece!"
> Lavanya (from behind a curtain, mouth full of laddoo): "She said she wanted to manifest marriage energy."
> Payal (trying to tame a rebellious ghagra): "Well tell her to manifest off the runway."
> Model (peeking out): "I can hear you."
> Buaji (with a smirk): "Good. Maybe then you'll stop walking like a confused peacock."
A sharp knock.
The chaos froze for a second.
Enter: Arnav Singh Raizada.
Wearing charcoal grey. Crisp. Regal. A gold pocket square like a flash of fire. And that look—that look—of a man who knew he owned the room, but still paused at its threshold for her.
Khushi turned. Jhumkas swayed. Lips parted. She blinked once.
> Khushi (tight-lipped): "You're not allowed in here. Backstage is sacred space."
> Arnav (cool): "Then excommunicate me after the show. I brought the final program list."
> Khushi (taking it): "You couldn't have sent Aman?"
> Arnav: "I did. But he's currently hiding behind the dessert table."
> Khushi (smirking): "Smart man."
He stepped forward. Closer than necessary. Close enough that the jasmine in her hair almost reached him.
> Arnav (quieter now): "Are you okay?"
> Khushi (avoiding his gaze): "I'm fine."
> Arnav: "Khushi—"
> Khushi (snapping): "I said I'm fine."
Pause.
Her voice had cracked a little.
She hated that.
She looked away, trying to breathe. But her fingers were trembling, and her heart was thudding so loud it might've been mistaken for dhol beats.
He noticed. Of course he did.
> Arnav (soft): "Hey."
She looked up.
He reached out. Gently cupped her elbow. The touch wasn't firm. It was there—like an anchor in a storm.
> Arnav: "You don't have to prove anything. Not to them. Not to me."
> Khushi: "This is everything I've ever worked for, Arnav."
> Arnav: "And you've already earned it. Tonight's just the celebration."
He handed her something small.
A folded note.
> Khushi (frowning): "What is this?"
> Arnav: "A surprise. For after the final walk. If you still like me by then."
> Khushi (laughs, almost chokes): "I never said I like you."
> Arnav: "You didn't have to. You sketched it."
She went silent.
He smirked, eyes dancing with mischief—for once not ASR, but Arnav, the man who'd learned that some battles are won not with power—but with presence.
> Arnav: "I'll see you after the spotlight. Don't trip."
> Khushi (mutters): "I hope you trip on your own ego."
> Arnav: "You'd catch me."
> Khushi: "...Shut up."
He left.
And she turned to her reflection.
Suddenly, she wasn't trembling anymore.
---
The courtyard had fallen quiet.
Not silent—never that. But the kind of quiet that hums. Like the breath the universe takes before fireworks.
String lights glowed overhead like sleepy stars. Soft flute music trickled through the speakers, building up slowly. And behind a curtain of pale silk, Khushi Kumari Gupta stood frozen.
Not from fear.
But from the weight of it all.
Of dreams wrapped in thread.
Of sleepless nights turned into sequins.
Of memories stitched into every pleat.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her midnight dupatta—the one stitched with tiny golden stars. The same one she'd drawn after that night in Laxmi Nagar. The one he'd remembered.
She was dressed not as a model, not as a performer—but as a storyteller.
And tonight? The story was hers.
> Payal (whispering behind her): "Khushi. It's time."
> Lavanya (adjusting the hem): "Do not fall. Unless it's dramatically."
> Buaji (from the back, softly): "Jai Siya Ram. You were born for this, bitiya."
Khushi exhaled slowly. Her eyes flickered toward the parted curtain.
She could hear the murmurs now—the crowd settling into their seats. Camera clicks. The low chatter of guests, bloggers, buyers, and dignitaries.
And among them?
She knew he was there.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
Not just the investor. Or the storm.
But the man who handed her confidence when hers faltered. The man who stitched silence into safety. The one who—without saying it—had always believed.
Even when she didn't.
---
Front Row
Arnav sat on the aisle seat. Arms folded. Jaw sharp. Eyes scanning the crowd—and then the stage.
Next to him, Anjali whispered something about chandeliers. He didn't hear.
Because in his inner coat pocket?
A folded note.
Her first sketch.
And a button.
That damned broken button.
He smiled—barely. Just enough to betray something softer than steel behind those eyes.
> Arnav (muttering to himself): "Come on, Khushi. Show them."
> Aman (beside him, sweating): "If this crashes, I swear I'm becoming a monk."
> Arnav: "It won't."
He didn't need assurance. He saw it in her eyes last night—on the rooftop, under those flickering Diwali lights.
The fire was lit.
Now, it was just a matter of time before the world saw her burn bright.