DIYA'S POV
Dubai glittered beneath the plane like scattered stars as Diya pressed her forehead to the cool window. The city pulsed with familiar rhythms—the scent of cardamom coffee drifting from airport cafes, the melodic lilt of Arabic announcements, her mother's arms wrapping around her the moment she stepped through arrivals.
"You've lost weight," her mother murmured, thumbs brushing the shadows beneath Diya's eyes. "And gained a few new ghosts in here." She tapped Diya's temple gently.
Diya laughed, the sound startling even to herself. "College," she said, as if that explained everything.
Home smelled of turmeric and jasmine—warm and safe and achingly unchanged. But as she trailed her fingers over her old desk, her childhood books, the polaroids pinned to her corkboard, she felt the shift in her bones. She'd left as a girl chasing dreams. She'd returned as someone who'd learned dreams could bruise.
Her mother held up a wrapped package. "For Maddy."
Diya froze.
"I saw it last month," her mother continued, unfolding a midnight blue shirt—the exact shade Diya had once said matched his eyes. "He's part of your story, isn't he?"
Diya clutched the fabric, the cotton soft as a half-remembered touch.
Yes.
But what chapter are we in now?
MADDY'S POV
His childhood bedroom felt too small, the walls pressing in with memories of a boy who hadn't yet learned how love could split you open.
Maddy stared at the black water bottle on his nightstand—the one Diya had given him, the one he'd lost and she'd replaced—and the folded blue shirt beside it. He lifted the fabric to his face, inhaling the faint trace of her perfume still clinging to the fibers.
Floral. Sharp. Unmistakably hers.
His new phone sat untouched on the bed, screen dark. He'd blocked her in a moment of wounded pride, then unblocked her just as quickly.
Cowardice.
Hope.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
I miss you.
Deleted.
Are you home safe?
Deleted.
I'm sorry.
The words lodged in his throat, bitter as the truth he couldn't outrun:
He'd told her not to wait.
But the thought of her actually moving on?
It felt like freefall.
HARSH'S POV
Harsh's apartment was too quiet without the usual chaos of hostel life.
He scrolled through his camera roll—candid shots of Diya mid-laugh, her nose scrunched, sunlight catching the gold in her eyes. Photos he'd taken without thinking, only realizing now how many there were.
His phone buzzed. Nivi: How's Dubai treating you?
He typed quickly. Harsh: Not there yet. Flight's tomorrow.
A lie.
He'd changed his ticket last-minute, unable to stomach the thought of being in the same city as Diya while she was still tangled up in Maddy's maybes.
Pathetic.
He chucked his phone onto the bed, running a hand through his hair.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
He'd been the steady one. The pragmatic one. The one who pushed her toward her flight because it was the right thing to do.
So why did it feel like he'd failed her?
His fingers itched to text her. To ask if she'd made it home. To hear her voice, even just for a second.
But that wasn't his role.
Not when her heart was still whispering another name.