Aamgaon was experiencing a warm, chaotic day—busy streets, people rushing to work, children going to school, women doing household chores. In the middle of all this was the Agrawal house, where Mrs. Sonu Agrawal was mumbling:

"Huh, meri hi aulaad aisi hai. Dekho sab uth kar kitna kuch kar rahe hain, aur ek meri aulaad hai jise sone se hi fursat nahi hai. Bola tha maine kal jaldi sone kAamgaono—train pakadni hai aaj. Magar nahi, maharani ji! Pata nahi din bhar mobile mein kya padhti rehti hai aur pagal hoti rehti hai."

"Shristi! Uth jaa, warna train chhoot jaayegi!" her mom shouted.

She mumbled, "Sirf 9 baje hain... aur railway station bhi saamne hi hai."

Tring tring. Phone rang.

"Ahh, poori duniya ko meri neend se kya dushmani hai?" she groaned, answering the call. "Haan yaar, bol."

"Tu aaj college ja rahi hai na?" Sakshi (the only person she barely talks to in the entire college) asked. "Sir test copies dikhane wale hain. Meri bhi dekh lena please."

"Uff... aaj toh jaana hi padega," Shristi sighed dramatically. "Theek hai, dekh lungi."

Shristi grabbed her phone and played some chatpate gaane on full volume—because yes, she was a certified music-paglu. Silence and Shristi were not on talking terms. She went to take a bath and get ready.

Ten minutes later, she came out of the bathroom dancing and singing, wearing a co-ord set cum night suit cum emotional support outfit.

Comfort > fashion > duniya.

Breakfast was already ready. Mrs. Sonu had done her part. Shristi did full nyay to the food, stuffed herself like she was preparing for a drought, and grabbed her luggage—hostel jaana tha.

"Jhoothe muh mat jaa!" Dadi announced from the background like an official warning system.

Shristi gulped down water, wore her shoes with one hand, chewed with the other, and sprinted out of the house like an Olympic runner whose destination was the railway station.

Miraculously, the train arrived instantly.

Shock.

She went inside and, as usual, there was no seat—and the train was late. Because obviously. (Indian Railways.)

Then she reached Wardha, where her college is.

Outside the station, she was doing the mandatory kit-kit with the autowale bhaiya about the price when a boy, almost 20, glared at her like she was some piece of meat. She got so angry she wanted to take his eyeballs out with her bare fingers and pour Dettol on his empty eye sockets to clean his bad gaze.

But she couldn't do it—she was a second-year law student and didn't want any drama for now. So she just gave him a glare that clearly said: lower your eyes, or you won't be able to use them.

Then she sat inside the auto and went to her hostel.

She reached, called her parents to confirm she was alive, and collapsed on the bed like a fallen soldier. She didn't tell her parents about the boy at the station because they would have just said, "You should have covered yourself more," or told her to ignore it—and she absolutely hated that. It wasn't her who needed to be covered; it was that boy who needed to be taught basic manners.

College was late. Oh—finally something good. So she slept for two hours straight.

She woke up, got ready, went to college—only to find Sakshi absent.

"Of course," Shristi muttered, plugging in her earphones. "Aaj main hi brave hoon."

Classes. Test papers. Mental self-lecture. Hostel.

Days were passing normally.

She pretended to study case laws but was actually addicted to Wattpad and lived in a carefully curated delusion where eye contact meant fate and every slow-burn romance was a personal attack. She was secretly busy romanticizing life like it was a literary sport.

But her heart felt thoda sa heavy.

She missed her brothers. A lot.

Those three people were her emotional support system—even though they were her maternal cousins, they were always with her. Not physically, not even always on call, but still... she felt like if she ever needed them, they would be there. Like if the whole world was against her, they would cradle her like a baby and say, "Our baby princess, don't worry. Just stay here with us—we'll handle the rest."

But for now, calling them felt wrong. They were busy with careers, responsibilities, adulting. So she stayed quiet, missing them like a good younger sister.

Finally, weekend.

Shristi lay on her hostel bed—hair messy, room messy, life slightly messy—scrolling mindlessly when her phone rang.

Harsh Bhaiya.