There are normal people.
And then there's me — saying questionable things without thinking, and Manav, decoding them like it's his part-time job.
It all started when he told me he was driving.
So obviously, I replied:
> "Toh chala le, maine kaunsa tera haath pakda hai?"
("So drive, it's not like I'm holding your hand.")
And without even breathing, he shot back:
> "Toh pakad le. Gaadi automatic hai, ek haath se chal jaayegi."
("Then hold it. The car is automatic, I can drive with one hand.")
Excuse me???
My brain rebooted. My soul filed a complaint. Google asked if I was still alive.
Sometimes I feel like his lines should come with ⚠️ Flirting Ahead, Proceed With Caution energy.
He always said things with this mischievous calm — like he knew what he was doing but would never admit it.
And me? I was the chaos generator. Dropping lines first, overthinking later. Every. Single. Time.
But he never made me regret it.
Maybe because he's weird too.
Maybe because somewhere between sarcasm, snack pics, and accidental innuendos… we'd built our own language.
A language that didn't need clarity.
Just timing, emojis, and the right amount of madness.
And if someone ever told me I'd be flirting through food? I would've laughed.
But that was before The Pakora Telepathy Incident™.
One rainy evening, I sent him a snap of the golden, crispy pakoras I'd just made. No caption. Just vibes and steam.
Next day?
HE sends his pakoras. Same plate style. Same angle. Same aesthetic.
Coincidence? Absolutely not.
So I replied:
> "Hey copycat 😏"
Instead of defending himself, he just texted:
> "Mtlb?"
("Meaning?")
I blinked.
Not again.
> "Arre yaar, why don't you just catch my vibe?" I wrote, already half-laughing, half-regretting being born.
After a few seconds, his reply popped up:
> "Samajh gaya. Pakoree."
("Got it. Pakoreee.")
Pakoree.
Not pakora.
Pak—o—ree.
I swear on all air fryers, I just stared at my phone like — this man is not real.
So I said:
> "Finally tu samajh gaya. Hence proved — you can catch my vibe."
("Finally you understood. Hence proved — you CAN catch my vibe.")
And then came the message. The one that didn't need a paragraph. Just five harmless words:
> "I can catch you as well. Toh bach ke reh mujhse."
("I can catch you too. So be careful around me.")
EXCUSE ME AGAIN??? 🚨
This was not flirting.
This was confident-casual, Netflix villain with dimples level teasing.
So I typed back, without thinking (classic me):
> "I wouldn't mind if you catch me 😉"
And he?
He sent just this:
> "Hmm😽😽"
That "hmm" was not innocent.
That "hmm" had luggage. Meaning. Oxygen supply. A smirk. And at least two unspoken scenarios.
And me? Sitting there like an idiot, phone in hand, face on fire, suddenly very aware that words are dangerous and so are boys who type "hmm."
It wasn't love.
It wasn't serious.
But it was something.
Something that made me grin at my screen like a clown.
Something that lived between jokes and almost-confessions.
Something that needed no label — just timing, teasing, and one perfectly placed "hmm."
You could call it flirting.
Or maybe…
it was just us.
Two textmates, catching each other's vibe —
one pakora, one comeback, one heartbeat at a time.