THE DRUNK CALL
The dorm room spun lazily around Maddy as he pressed his phone to his ear, the sharp tang of cheap whiskey burning his throat. He'd lost count of how many shots he'd downed—enough to blur the edges of his restraint, but not enough to drown out the image that had been haunting him all night.
Diya and Harsh.
Laughing in the library, heads bent close over a shared notebook.
Harsh's hand brushing her wrist.
Diya's smile—real and unguarded—the kind she hadn't given him in weeks.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then—
"Hello?" Her voice was soft, cautious.
"Diya," he breathed, her name slurring slightly.
A pause. "Are you drunk?"
"Maybe." He slumped against the wall, the cool plaster grounding him. "I saw you today. With Harsh."
Another beat of silence. "Okay…?"
"You looked happy," he said, the words bitter on his tongue. "Really happy."
"Maddy—"
"I don't like it." The admission tore out of him, raw and unfiltered. "I don't like how close you two are. How he looks at you. How you let him."
The line went so quiet he thought she'd hung up. Then—
"You don't get to do this." Her voice trembled, but not with sadness. With anger. "You don't get to push me away and then get jealous when I find someone who actually wants me there."
Maddy's breath hitched. "That's not—"
"You told me to move on!" The words were a whip-crack in the dark. "You said don't wait for me. So what the hell do you want from me now?"
He closed his eyes, the alcohol making his thoughts slippery. "I want you to wait anyway."
A sharp, disbelieving laugh. "That's not fair."
"I know," he whispered. "But I'm asking."
DIYA'S POV
Her hands shook as she gripped the phone.
This wasn't the Maddy she knew—the one who bottled up his emotions until they choked him. This version was reckless, achingly honest, and it terrified her.
Because she'd spent weeks stitching herself back together.
And now here he was, unraveling her with a single plea.
Wait for me.
The words she'd once prayed to hear.
But now?
Now they felt like a shackle.
HARSH'S POV (Overhearing)
He stood frozen outside Diya's door, two cups of chai in hand—one with extra ginger, just how she liked it.
Every word from inside the room lanced through him.
"You don't get to push me away and then get jealous—"
Harsh's jaw clenched.
He shouldn't be listening.
But he couldn't make himself walk away.
THE AFTERMATH
Diya's voice broke. "I can't do this, Maddy. Not when you won't even try to figure yourself out."
A long silence. Then—
"What if I did?" Maddy's voice was rough, vulnerable. "What if I tried right now?"
Diya squeezed her eyes shut. "It's too late for drunk calls and maybes."
She hung up before he could respond.
The second the call ended, a soft knock came at her door.
Harsh stood there, face unreadable, holding out her chai.
"Heard you might need this," he said lightly.
Diya took the cup, their fingers brushing—and for the first time, Harsh didn't pull away.