Aisha Roy
Plus-One Problems
Tara Sen hated weddings. Not because she was bitter about love, not even because she couldn’t tolerate rasgullas anymore—she just couldn’t stand the interrogation squad that arrived with the haldi. Her mother’s sisters. Her father’s cousins. The “So-when-are-you-next-beta?” brigade.
This time, it was her cousin Sia’s wedding in Jaipur. Three days. One palace hotel. Four aunties with sharp questions and sharper judgment. Tara had already survived two of these family extravaganzas this year, but her luck was running out. She had overheard her mother whispering to Mausi on speakerphone just last week, “This time I think we’ll seriously start looking. She’s already 21.”
The horror.
So, one late night, driven by caffeine, dread, and Instagram doomscrolling, Tara did something stupid.
She signed up for a website.
No, not a dating one. Worse.
RentAPlusOne.com.
A fake date for real family events. Professionally vetted, discreet, NDA-bound “plus-ones” who played your doting partner for hire. Profiles included smiling boys in tuxedos with tags like “Charming”, “Family Approved”, and disturbingly, “Fluent in Bhajan”.
It was ridiculous. It was desperate. It was also, she figured, her only way out.
Tara selected the “Gold” package. Three days of full-on boyfriend experience: mehendi, sangeet, wedding. She specified a fake name—”Ayaan”. No ex-boyfriend tropes, no cringey PDA. Just someone who could banter with aunties, wear a sherwani like he meant it, and maybe—just maybe—deflect rishta questions.
She clicked confirm.
The next morning, she regretted everything.
Three weeks later, Tara stood in the grand lobby of the Royal Udai Mahal Palace in Jaipur, her suitcase by her side, her mother shouting into a phone about flowers, and her grandmother already asking why she hadn’t worn earrings.
And then he walked in.
Brown linen shirt, black sunglasses, jeans far too cool for the heat. Rolling a duffel bag behind him like he owned the place. She looked at his face—and her stomach plummeted.
“Oh hell no,” she muttered.
Because it wasn’t Ayaan. It was Arjun Malhotra.
As in, her college rival Arjun Malhotra. The student council president. Mr. I-quote-Shakespeare-in-debates. Mr. First-bencher-who-actually-reads-the-syllabus. The boy who once told her during fresher’s week that her logic in the debate round was “cute”.
He took off his sunglasses, smiled at her, and said, “Well, this is awkward.”
Tara gawked. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m your plus-one,” he said, grinning like he enjoyed her suffering. “Apparently you chose the premium package.”
“No, no, no,” she whispered. “There has to be a mistake.”
He pulled out his phone and showed her the booking confirmation, her name, and his client code. “Nope. No mistake. Though I’m flattered you wanted me in your wedding photos.”
“You work for RentAPlusOne?!”
“Technically freelance. They found me through theatre club. Apparently, I’m great with aunties.”
Tara blinked. This was karma, she thought. This was the universe making fun of her with full dramatic flair.
Arjun looked around, eyes glinting. “So. Shall we meet the family?”
Before she could protest, her mother returned. “Tara! Why are you just standing—oh! Hello?”
Arjun slipped into role like a seasoned actor. He held out his hand. “Mrs. Sen, I’m Ayaan. Tara’s… friend.”
Her mother blinked. “Oh! Oh! You’re the one coming to all the functions?”
Tara opened her mouth to explain but Arjun—no, Ayaan—was already nodding. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. And… your daughter’s told me so much.”
Lies. All lies.
But her mother looked delighted. “Such nice manners. And look at this face. So sanskaari!”
Tara watched, horrified, as Arjun charmed his way through her entire family in ten minutes. Nani offered him laddoos. Her cousin squealed over his “cute dimples.” Her chachi whispered to Tara that he looked very stable.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Tara muttered under her breath.
“Too late,” Arjun said, leaning close. “I’m already booked and non-refundable.”
She glared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Absolutely.”
By the time the mehendi started that evening, Tara was seriously reconsidering every life decision she had ever made.
Arjun showed up in a bottle green kurta that matched her lehenga too perfectly—like a Bollywood stylist had orchestrated it. Everyone assumed they were the couple of the season. He smiled at photographers, held her hand in front of relatives, and even told Mausi that their “first date” was in a bookstore.
Tara hissed, “If you invent one more lie about me, I swear I’ll dip your phone in mehendi.”
“Relax,” Arjun said, waving to an uncle. “This is just good theatre.”
“It’s my reputation.”
“I’m helping it, not ruining it.”
“You called me ‘my jaan’ in front of my grandfather.”
“He laughed!”
She huffed and turned away.
Later, when she sat with mehendi on her hands and couldn’t even itch her nose, Arjun brought her a glass of lemonade without being asked.
“Don’t spill it,” she said, annoyed.
He held the straw to her lips like a pro. “Madam, I am the five-star package.”
She snorted. Against her better judgment, she laughed.
And for a second, they weren’t enemies. Just two college kids, sitting under fairy lights, pretending—but also… not.
Something shifted.
She shook it off. Just acting. Just a contract.
Only three days.
What could possibly go wrong?
The Sangeet Situation
Tara was not a dancer. She was the girl who conveniently disappeared during flash mobs, always stood behind someone taller during school choreography, and considered enthusiastic clapping her highest form of participation. So naturally, at Sia’s sangeet, she was dragged to the center of the crowd—right next to him.
“I’m not dancing,” she hissed.
Arjun leaned in, his voice low and infuriatingly calm. “Your nani is watching. And she just told my mother that we make a beautiful couple. So, unless you want to disappoint the nation’s grandmothers—”
“I will stab you with this bindi stick.”
He grinned. “Threats of violence. You really are warming up to me.”
The music changed. Someone yelled “Couple performance!” And before Tara could run, Arjun pulled her into a twirl like he was auditioning for So You Think You Can Ruin My Life.
“Stop spinning me!” she whispered, as guests cheered.
He caught her mid-twirl and leaned in, eyes sparkling. “But you’re smiling.”
She was. A little. Maybe. Damn it.
He took her hands and moved in slow, exaggerated steps, almost mocking the idea of dancing. She matched him, partly out of instinct, partly because they looked too coordinated for people who claimed not to rehearse.
Someone threw rose petals. Someone else recorded. Tara groaned internally.
When the song ended, applause rang out. Arjun took a comically deep bow. Tara rolled her eyes and curtsied sarcastically.
They were a hit.
Of course they were.
An hour later, Tara sat sulking near the dessert table, stabbing her gulab jamun with a toothpick like it had ruined her childhood.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Arjun said, appearing beside her with two kulfis.
“What thing?”
“Pouting like you’re in a French film about heartbreak and existential dread.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You’re definitely pouting.”
She ignored him.
He offered her a kulfi. “Truce?”
She eyed it suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
“Love. Betrayal. Pistachios.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
He sat beside her, unusually quiet for once.
“I didn’t know you did this kind of work,” she said after a moment.
“Honestly? Me neither,” Arjun said. “A friend asked me to fill in once, and it paid well. Turns out, I’m great at pretending to be charming.”
Tara smirked. “Pretending is right.”
He gave her a look. “You’re not exactly a delight either, Miss Judgmental Journalism Club.”
“That was one time! I corrected your quote because you misattributed Orwell!”
“It was a joke!”
“It was a wrong joke!”
They both burst into laughter, to the confusion of a passing uncle who muttered something about “modern couples.”
Tara licked her kulfi. “You’re different outside campus.”
He shrugged. “You’re different when you’re not holding a mic and challenging the patriarchy.”
“Touché.”
A beat passed.
“I mean,” Arjun continued, “this is kind of weird, right? Us. Doing this. Together.”
She nodded. “Very.”
Another pause. A little too long. A little too aware.
Then Arjun stood up suddenly. “Come on. I need you for something.”
“What now?”
“Trust exercise.”
“Oh no. I don’t trust you even when you bring dessert.”
But she followed anyway.
He took her to the rooftop garden of the hotel. It was quiet, warm, scented faintly with jasmine and marigold. From up here, the party below looked like a film set—music, lights, sparkles. A photographer stood waiting, adjusting a vintage-looking film camera.
“You planned this?” she asked warily.
“I said I was freelance. I do acting, photography, all sorts of things. This guy’s my friend. I told him we needed fake couple shots for the weekend.”
Tara blinked. “We already have twenty selfies from your fan club down there.”
“Those are blurry. These are for memory.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Whose memory?”
He smirked. “Yours.”
Before she could reply, the photographer motioned. “Closer. Laugh like he just told you the dumbest joke.”
“I don’t laugh at his jokes.”
“You do,” Arjun said, taking her hand.
The photographer clicked again. “Good. Now look at him like you’re falling in love.”
Tara froze.
Arjun didn’t.
He looked at her like he had been waiting for this shot all night.
“Perfect,” the photographer said.
She looked away.
Back in her room, hours later, Tara sat staring at her phone. Her family group was blowing up with photos from the night. She scrolled past cousins, aunties, even her dad dancing with a rickshaw prop.
Then she saw one photo.
Her and Arjun. Rooftop. Fairy lights behind them. Her eyes mid-laughter. His face—soft, unreadable.
She didn’t save it.
But she didn’t delete it either.
The next morning, Tara woke to a sticky note on her door.
Today: poolside brunch. Wear blue. “Ayaan” has matching sunglasses. – Management
She groaned.
And blushed.
And maybe—just maybe—smiled.
The Poolside Pact
The Royal Udai Mahal’s poolside brunch was something straight out of a travel influencer’s reel. Gauzy white canopies, pastel bunting, a mango mimosa bar, and a floating buffet shaped like a swan. Tara, however, was focused on one thing only—not tripping in her wedges.
“Blue suits you,” a voice said from behind.
She turned to find Arjun—or Ayaan, as her family still believed—wearing a pale blue linen shirt, white chinos, and those annoyingly perfect sunglasses. Of course he matched her dress. Of course he looked like a walking Zara ad. Of course this would be a problem.
“You’re late,” she said, half-biting into a croissant.
He held up a bottle of sunscreen. “Had to defend my nose from becoming a tomato. Priorities.”
She rolled her eyes and walked toward the fruit bar. Arjun caught up, offering a plate like a butler on a royal mission.
“Strawberries?”
“I don’t eat strawberries.”
“Right. You strike me more as a… guava person. Spicy masala and judgment.”
“You really want to test me this early in the day?”
“Hey, I’m just earning my gold-tier boyfriend badge.”
She took the plate, annoyed and vaguely flattered. Arjun had this way of being so casually charming, it was infuriating. And dangerous.
They sat by the edge of the pool, their feet in the water. The wedding planner floated by, assigning couples to participate in the newlywed game. Of course, someone signed them up.
“No. Absolutely not,” Tara muttered.
“Come on. It’s just for fun,” Arjun said, sipping orange juice.
“I don’t do cheesy questions like ‘What’s her favorite color’ and ‘What’s his first pet’s name.’ This is how perfectly good lies unravel.”
“We’ve already committed to pretending we’re dating. Might as well be good at it.”
“You enjoy this too much.”
“I’m a theatre kid. Fake emotions are my thing.”
She sighed. “Fine. But if they ask what my middle name is, I’m saying it’s ‘Vengeance.’”
The game began with other couples answering with dramatic flair. A real couple from Bangalore was clearly overcompensating for something; another pair from the groom’s side kept whispering the answers.
When Tara and Arjun were called up, she felt her stomach knot. She looked at him once—cool, relaxed, smiling.
He gave her the tiniest nod.
“Ready?” the emcee grinned. “First question—what’s her favorite movie?”
Tara raised her board. “Little Women.”
Arjun smiled and showed his answer: “Little Women.”
Murmurs of approval from the crowd.
“Favorite dessert?”
“Mishti Doi,” she wrote.
He held up the same.
“Good boy,” she muttered under her breath.
Third question: “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had a fight?”
They looked at each other.
Then both raised their boards: The College Library.
The crowd laughed. Her grandmother clapped.
By the time the last question came—“What’s the one word she uses too much?”—Arjun didn’t even hesitate. He scribbled fast and turned the board.
Tara wrote hers and then looked.
Both answers: “Clearly.”
She laughed out loud, surprised at herself.
They won the round.
As they walked back, Tara elbowed him lightly. “You’ve been spying on me.”
He leaned close. “Or maybe I just pay attention.”
Later, after lunch and a series of family photos, Tara pulled Arjun aside near the pool cabanas.
“Okay, time for a real talk.”
He blinked. “That sounds serious.”
“I’m setting boundaries.”
“Even better.”
She folded her arms. “We’re doing this whole fake dating thing too well. People are starting to ask me how long we’ve been together. And if we’re moving in after college.”
He chuckled. “That’s good, right? Means we’re convincing.”
“It also means I’m two steps away from having to fake-breakup with you in front of a crying Mausi.”
He winced. “Fair point.”
“So,” she said, “we need a pact.”
“Lay it on me.”
“No real emotions. No flirting unless absolutely necessary for the audience. No stealing glances or forehead kisses or any of that stuff.”
“You want forehead kisses?” he teased.
She glared. “Focus.”
“Fine,” he said, mock-serious. “No feelings. No flirty improvisations. Strictly professional. Agreed.”
He held out his hand.
She shook it.
And for a second too long, neither of them let go.
He looked down. She looked away. Somewhere, a tabla player started warming up for the evening event.
Tara pulled her hand back quickly. “Good. Pact made. No unnecessary romance.”
“Right,” he said. “Just necessary romance.”
“Arjun!”
He grinned. “Kidding. Kidding.”
That evening, they dressed for the sangeet. Tara wore a deep wine-colored lehenga with a subtle gold threadwork blouse. She had gone all in. Maybe too in. Her cousin squealed, “You look like a heroine!”
She rolled her eyes but smiled secretly.
Arjun appeared just as she was adjusting her earrings. This time in a matching wine kurta with a Nehru jacket that somehow made him look… responsible. Like someone who wouldn’t ghost you after four dates.
“Wow,” he said.
“What?”
“You look… dangerous.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes. Because now I know exactly how doomed I am.”
She shook her head, biting back a grin. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Says the girl in bridal-level lehenga at her cousin’s sangeet.”
As they walked into the courtyard, lit with hanging lanterns and fairy lights, Tara noticed how their steps had synced. Their hands brushed. She didn’t pull away immediately.
“Just for tonight,” she said softly. “Let’s make it believable. For Sia. For the videos. For the album. And then we go back to boundaries.”
“Believable,” Arjun echoed. “Copy that.”
They posed for photos.
They sat through dance performances.
They danced again.
But this time, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt… like a memory being made.
And somewhere, in the middle of a slow song, Arjun whispered something.
She didn’t hear it clearly.
Or maybe she just wasn’t ready to.
Ladkiwale vs. Emotions
Weddings, Tara realized, are built like battlegrounds. There were the bride’s side and the groom’s side, the ladkiwale and ladkewale, each fighting passive-aggressively over dhol volume, mithai quality, and who got more rooms near the elevator.
And right now, Tara was stuck in the middle of it—between her mother who was panicking about missing flower garlands, and her cousin who couldn’t find her fake eyelashes.
“I can’t believe you booked someone from Delhi!” Sia shrieked, throwing dupattas like weapons across the room. “Jaipur boys would’ve been easier!”
“I didn’t book him for you!” Tara snapped, then blinked, realizing what she just admitted.
Sia stopped mid-sob. “Wait. What do you mean booked?”
Tara cursed under her breath. “Nothing. I mean—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s a joke. He’s… he’s just my plus-one.”
But Sia, suddenly intrigued, narrowed her eyes. “Oh. My. God. Are you guys dating for real?”
“No!” Tara said quickly, then softer, “I mean… it’s complicated.”
Sia smiled like she’d just discovered the plot twist to her own wedding. “Girl. I need all the tea later.”
There was no time to argue. The baraat music was growing louder. Sia’s mother burst into the room, ordering everyone to line up, grab rose petals, and get their smiles ready for the photographer.
Tara adjusted her blouse, took a breath, and prayed that Arjun—her fake boyfriend turned family favorite—wouldn’t do something ridiculous today.
She found him near the entry gate, talking to her grandfather.
Not just talking. Bonding.
“See, sir,” Arjun was saying, “Tara and I don’t always agree on things. She’s very opinionated, and I—well, I listen more. But that’s what makes it interesting.”
Her grandfather chuckled. “Arguments are good. Your grandmother threw a spoon at me the night before our wedding. Still married.”
Tara pulled Arjun aside as soon as she could. “You’re talking about me now?”
“It’s called character development,” he said.
She exhaled. “This whole fake dating thing is spiraling.”
“Not my fault I’m excellent at this.”
“You called me opinionated in front of my grandfather.”
“You are! It’s a compliment. And he loves you for it.”
She looked at him. Really looked. He was glowing with confidence, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from too many people patting his head like a lucky charm.
“You need to tone it down.”
“You mean stop being the perfect boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
He leaned closer. “You’re worried I’m being too convincing.”
Tara said nothing.
Because yes, she was.
The pheras began. Everyone gathered near the mandap under a canopy of yellow marigolds and soft bells. Tara and Arjun stood a little to the side, watching the rituals, the fire crackling between the couple, the quiet promises spoken in Sanskrit.
Tara surprised herself by feeling emotional.
“Hey,” Arjun said gently. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just… weird. Seeing someone commit to forever in a room full of people who’ll forget what the seventh vow even meant.”
“That’s… cynical.”
She shrugged. “Just practical.”
Arjun looked at her for a long second. “You don’t believe in love?”
“I believe in effort. Love’s just the word people throw around when they don’t want to admit they’re scared to be alone.”
He let the silence settle.
Then said softly, “Maybe. Or maybe love is the word people say when they find someone who makes the silence feel like music.”
She blinked.
“Did you rehearse that?” she asked.
“I improvise,” he said with a crooked smile.
She hated how it made her chest flutter.
Later that night, as fireworks exploded above the palace and the bride’s farewell grew closer, Tara leaned against the balcony railing of her room, lost in the noise and glitter.
Arjun walked up beside her, holding two glasses of thandai. “Thought you might need a detox from emotions.”
“Is that why you spiked this with almonds instead of whiskey?”
“Responsible boyfriend things.”
She took a sip, then another.
“Tomorrow’s the last day,” he said after a moment.
“I know.”
“Our contract ends after breakfast.”
“I know that too.”
He nodded. “You still want to end it? Go back to hating me in the college auditorium?”
She hesitated. “That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
He watched her carefully. “Deals can change.”
She didn’t respond right away.
Because her mind was too loud, too full of pictures from the past three days: his hand on hers during the game, his laughter in the pool, the way he looked at her when she wasn’t watching.
And the photo. The rooftop one. It was now her wallpaper.
Not because she meant to.
Just because she couldn’t stop looking at it.
She placed the glass down and turned to him. “What if we didn’t fake-break up in front of my family?”
Arjun raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… what if we just… let it fade. Quietly. Let them assume things didn’t work out.”
He looked slightly disappointed. But he nodded.
“Sure. If that’s what you want.”
Tara tried to sound firm. “No mess. No emotions. Just… clean exit.”
Arjun smiled politely. “Of course. Clean exit.”
But there was something in his eyes that felt like the opposite of clean.
It felt like goodbye with a lump in your throat.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She kept thinking about all the fake moments that didn’t feel fake anymore. His quiet glances. The jokes only she laughed at. The way he always waited until she walked ahead first.
Was this how people fell? Through lies that started tasting like truths?
At 3:15 AM, she opened her phone and found the photo again.
This time, she didn’t just stare.
She tapped “Send” and forwarded it to him.
With one word:
“Us?”
No emoji. No punctuation. Just a soft, unsure question.
He didn’t reply that night.
But he saw it.
And sometimes, seen is enough to ruin you.
The Morning After Magic
Tara woke up to the sound of laughter echoing through the hallway and the scent of cardamom drifting in from the palace kitchen. The wedding was officially over. The mandap had been dismantled. The marigolds, once golden and proud, now wilted in silver buckets beside the stairs.
And her inbox? Still no reply.
The photo had been “seen” at 3:17 AM.
Now it was 9:40.
She sat cross-legged on the edge of the plush hotel bed, staring at her screen like it owed her closure. She hadn’t sent a follow-up. She wouldn’t. She had already crossed the line once.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself.
She had meant to keep it clean, controlled, detached. But when had anything involving Arjun Malhotra ever been controllable? He was chaos wrapped in confidence, the boy who once handed her a tissue during a student debate just to say, “You’re sweating from stress, not victory.”
And now, he was the boy who had smiled too genuinely during fake couple photos. Who had learned her favorite dessert without asking. Who had let his hand linger just a second too long at the poolside.
A knock came at the door. She jumped.
Please let it be him, she thought, before scolding herself for hoping.
It was her mother.
“Tara, breakfast in fifteen minutes. Your boyfriend’s already downstairs helping uncle with luggage.”
“Not my boyfriend,” she mumbled.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because he just told Chachaji that he’s looking forward to visiting again in the summer.”
Tara blinked. “He what?”
Her mother left, humming a wedding tune.
Downstairs, Tara found Arjun exactly where she didn’t want to—surrounded by uncles and luggage and laughter. He was wearing that same maddening smile. The one that made it hard to tell whether he was being polite or playing her like a perfectly tuned violin.
She didn’t approach immediately. Instead, she walked slowly toward the breakfast buffet, keeping him in her periphery.
And then—
“Morning,” he said, appearing beside her like a summoned wish she never made out loud.
“You didn’t reply,” she said, not turning.
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
“Wasn’t sure what to say,” he added.
“You could’ve said anything. Even just… ‘nice picture.’”
“It wasn’t just a picture,” he said quietly.
She turned now, looking straight at him. “Then what was it?”
He held her gaze. “It was a maybe.”
“A maybe?”
“A maybe I didn’t expect.”
Tara looked away. Her voice was small. “Me neither.”
He sighed. “Listen, I didn’t want to complicate this. You made it clear we needed boundaries.”
“You’re the one who kept crossing them.”
“I wasn’t pretending during that rooftop photo.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t pretending during the dance either.”
“I know that too.”
He stepped closer. “Then why does it feel like we’re saying goodbye before we’ve even said anything?”
Tara swallowed the lump in her throat. “Because we’re scared. Or maybe I am. I don’t trust… romance. Not when it’s this perfect. It’s supposed to be flawed. Messy. Not wrapped in hotel breakfasts and flower petals.”
Arjun chuckled softly. “It was messy. You threw a napkin at me on day one.”
She smiled despite herself.
“I don’t have a neat answer,” he said. “But I want to see where this goes. Off-script. No contract. No performance.”
She stared at him. “That would mean real feelings.”
“Already there,” he said simply.
She took a breath. A slow, careful one. The kind you take before stepping into water that might be deeper than it looks.
“I want that too,” she whispered.
He smiled.
A real one.
No theatre.
No mischief.
Just Arjun.
They walked to the garden as the sun grew warmer. Most of the family was busy checking out or taking group photos with leftover flower tiaras. Tara and Arjun found an empty bench near the jasmine trellis.
“No one knows we’re not fake anymore,” she said.
“We don’t owe them an announcement,” he replied.
“But we should… I don’t know… define what this is?”
He nodded. “Let’s not rush it. Let’s just start.”
She blinked. “Start?”
“Yeah. Not from college. Not from this wedding. But from now.”
She nodded, heart thudding.
They sat there, in companionable silence. Somewhere behind them, a toddler cried, a bell rang, and a photographer begged someone’s grandmother to look at the lens.
Tara looked down at her fingers, nervously twisting a ring.
“I was really scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“Scared you’d break character. Scared you wouldn’t.”
He reached out and gently touched her hand. “I was scared too. That you’d stop looking at me the way you did on the roof.”
She blushed.
He added, “By the way, I saved that photo too. It’s my lock screen.”
“You liar.”
“Cross my overly sincere theatre heart.”
They laughed.
And just like that, something eased.
—
That afternoon, the cars lined up outside the palace gates. Goodbyes flowed with warm hugs, teary-eyed aunties, and leftover laddoos packed in foil boxes. Tara and Arjun stood by the fountain, waving as relatives left in waves.
“You’re still headed back to Delhi tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah. Got some plays to rehearse. You?”
“Semester starts Monday. Journalism bootcamp.”
He nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will?”
He took her hand, this time not for show. “We’re not under contract anymore, remember?”
She squeezed it. “Right. Now you’re just voluntarily in my life.”
“Best unpaid role I’ve ever taken.”
“You’re still annoying.”
“You’re still pretending you don’t like that.”
She smiled. “Okay, Ayaan. I guess I’ll keep you around.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Arjun, Tara. You can stop calling me by my fake name now.”
“Hmm. I think I like Ayaan better.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s payback.”
They laughed.
And somewhere between a rented romance and a real one, they began something unplanned. Something off-script. Something theirs.
Post-Wedding Hangovers
If there’s one thing worse than a Monday morning class, it’s a Monday morning class after you’ve just faked—and sort of accidentally fallen into—a relationship at a wedding. Especially when that person is sitting two rows behind you, sending smirks like heat-seeking missiles.
Tara hadn’t expected it to be this weird.
She thought coming back to Delhi, to the concrete of the college auditorium, to the caffeine-stained seminar rooms and 11 a.m. attendance calls, would reset things.
Instead, everything was louder.
And not because of Arjun.
But because of everyone else.
“OMG Tara, are you and Arjun, like… actually dating?” one classmate whispered.
“Did you really hire him for your cousin’s wedding? Or was that some weird roleplay thing?” asked another.
“You guys looked good in the photos,” said someone from the media club, scrolling through Instagram.
The picture had somehow leaked. That picture. The rooftop one with fairy lights in the background and just a little too much intimacy in her eyes.
Tara wanted to disappear into a nearby recycle bin.
Arjun, on the other hand, seemed unfazed.
When they passed each other between classes, he gave her the smallest, most deliberate smile.
No wink. No wave. Just enough to make her skin hum.
Later that afternoon, they found themselves alone on the terrace of the literature block. Tara had dragged him there under the pretense of needing help with a presentation. Which was a lie. She just needed ten minutes away from the stares and the noise.
“Okay,” she said, folding her arms. “We need to talk.”
Arjun sat on the ledge, legs swinging. “Why does that sound like a breakup line already?”
“Because this feels like a media circus,” she snapped. “Everyone knows. Everyone’s talking.”
He tilted his head. “And what exactly are they saying?”
“That we’re dating.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we?”
She paused. “I mean… yes. No. Kind of? We never actually defined it.”
“You told me you wanted to see where it goes.”
“I did. But now it’s out in the open, and I don’t know what it is anymore.”
Arjun looked at her quietly, then said, “Do you not want this? Not publicly?”
Tara hesitated. Her instinct was to say no—to protect herself, to stay in control. But the image of him handing her kulfi, dancing like an idiot under the sangeet lights, and whispering, ‘I wasn’t pretending’—those memories tugged harder than her fear.
“I do,” she said. “I just don’t want to be someone’s story.”
Arjun stood and walked up to her, slow and steady. “Then let’s write our own.”
She looked up at him.
He added, “If people are going to talk anyway, let’s give them something worth gossiping about.”
She snorted. “Like what? A dramatic kiss in the cafeteria?”
He shrugged. “Too cliché.”
“Handwritten letters?”
“Too vintage.”
She smiled. “So what’s your plan, Mr. Improviser?”
He held out his hand. “Coffee. Outside campus. Just you, me, and no wedding guests.”
She eyed the hand. “You asking me on a real date now?”
“I believe that’s what boyfriends do.”
“Boyfriend?” she echoed, arching an eyebrow.
He stepped closer, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Unless you’ve got another fake one hidden somewhere.”
Tara’s heart did a somersault. She placed her hand in his.
“Fine. One coffee. No fireworks. No fairy lights. Just reality.”
He grinned. “Finally. My scene.”
That Friday, they met at a tiny café tucked into a lane near Connaught Place. No one stared at them. No one knew their story. There were no aunties or cousins or photographers, just the clink of spoons, the smell of cinnamon, and the low hum of Hindi jazz from the speaker.
Tara stirred her cappuccino thoughtfully. “So… tell me something real about you.”
“Everything I told you was real,” he said.
“You told my nani we met at a bookstore while reaching for the same copy of Wuthering Heights.”
“Well, that should’ve been real. It was poetic.”
“Okay, but for real—for real—what was your worst date ever?”
Arjun thought for a second. “Second year. This girl kept checking her ex’s location on Snap Map throughout dinner. I spent the night watching a blue dot move closer to her PG.”
Tara laughed. “That’s terrible.”
“Your turn.”
She sipped her coffee. “Freshers’ week. I agreed to a date with a guy who took me to a ‘secret spot’ behind the library. Turned out it was where he went to vape. Said it ‘calmed his creative process.’”
They both burst out laughing.
For the first time since Jaipur, it didn’t feel like something borrowed.
It felt like something beginning.
As they walked back, Delhi’s evening lights blinking through the metro lines, Arjun slipped his hand into hers.
She let him.
No pact this time.
No contract.
Just fingers intertwining.
When they reached her street, he stopped.
“Do I get a second date?” he asked.
“Hmm,” she said. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether or not you’re free next weekend. I have another wedding.”
He stared at her. “Are you serious?”
“No. But admit it. You were ready to pack a sherwani again.”
He grinned. “I’d go. For you, I’d go anywhere.”
She smiled. “Then yes. You get your second date.”
Arjun leaned in, paused an inch from her face, and whispered, “Still not pretending.”
And this time, she didn’t need to whisper back.
Because she wasn’t pretending either.
Rumors, Reels & Reality
By Monday, their relationship had a fanbase.
It started small—an anonymous Instagram page titled @CampusCoupleGoals posted a candid shot of Tara and Arjun holding hands outside the café, captioned “From fake date to real fate?” A few curious likes. Then shares. Then DMs. Then chaos.
By lunch break, the image had migrated to a meme page.
By evening, it had been turned into a trending reel.
“Signs he’s not faking it 😍 #campuscrush #ArTa”
Tara stared at the screen in disbelief. “They made us a hashtag.”
Arjun leaned over the bench beside her. “I kind of like ArTa. It sounds like a high-end tea brand.”
“This isn’t funny,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “I didn’t sign up to be a social media case study.”
“You did hire me from a website once,” he offered, not helping.
She glared.
“Okay, okay. I get it,” he said, raising his hands. “You feel invaded. Makes sense.”
Tara buried her face in her palms. “Why can’t we just exist quietly? Why do people need to turn everything into content?”
“Because love stories are addictive,” he said gently. “Especially when they look like yours.”
She peeked through her fingers. “Mine?”
“Ours,” he corrected with a smile.
She let herself smile too. But it didn’t last long.
Because just as she reached for her phone to mute the page, another post popped up—this one far less romantic.
A video.
From the Jaipur wedding.
Taken without their knowledge.
Arjun was feeding her kulfi during the mehendi night, leaning close, laughing at something she whispered.
The caption read:
“Tell me again this was just acting 👀💔 #CampusGossip #ContractLove?”
The comments were worse.
“This was all for clout?”
“Plot twist: he’s a paid boyfriend!”
“No wonder she looked too perfect. It was scripted.”
Tara froze.
“They know,” she said, staring at the screen.
Arjun sat up straighter. “What?”
She turned it toward him. “Someone leaked the truth. About RentAPlusOne. About everything.”
His jaw tightened. “That wasn’t supposed to get out.”
“No kidding,” she snapped.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then she stood. “I knew this was a mistake.”
Arjun looked up at her, confused. “Tara—”
“I knew it. The moment we left that wedding, I should’ve ended it clean. But no—I had to send you a photo. I had to want more. I had to think—” She stopped herself.
He stood too, quietly. “You had to think what?”
She looked at him, eyes burning. “That maybe it was real.”
“It is real.”
She shook her head. “Not to them. Not anymore. They’ll say you were acting the whole time. That I was desperate. That we built a love story from lies.”
“We didn’t lie,” Arjun said. “We started as a lie. That doesn’t mean the rest wasn’t true.”
But Tara was already walking away, her voice quiet and shaking. “I don’t want to explain myself to the internet. Or to anyone. I just… I want out.”
The next day, she skipped classes.
She stayed curled in her blanket, phone on airplane mode, head pounding from overthinking. The voices in her head were louder than any reel’s audio.
Was it love?
Or just performance?
Did she fall for Arjun?
Or for the idea of being adored?
Was she heartbroken?
Or just embarrassed?
She hated that she didn’t know anymore.
Meanwhile, Arjun wasn’t doing much better.
He didn’t show up to theatre practice.
He turned down a podcast interview someone offered after the gossip page tagged him.
Instead, he sat on the empty stairs near the college auditorium, playing with his phone, staring at the one message he hadn’t opened.
Tara’s photo.
The rooftop one.
He finally tapped it.
Below it, the word she’d sent still stared back:
“Us?”
He whispered the answer into the air: “Yes.”
But air didn’t deliver answers.
And the person who needed to hear it had logged off.
Two days passed.
Then three.
By Thursday, the gossip page had moved on to a new couple caught kissing near the media lab. The hashtags changed. The buzz faded.
And in the quiet that followed, Tara felt strange.
Not relieved.
Not vindicated.
Just… empty.
She missed the way Arjun looked at her like she was worth a monologue.
She missed their debates over breakfast, their silent games of hand-squeezing during long lectures, their whispered nonsense that made sense only to them.
She missed the story they were writing.
Even if it had started as a script.
Friday morning, Tara found a note taped to her locker.
It wasn’t signed.
It was handwritten, on the back of a RentAPlusOne brochure.
In Arjun’s unmistakable handwriting, it read:
Chapter One: Boy meets girl at wedding.
Chapter Two: They lie to everyone, including themselves.
Chapter Three: The world finds out. Things fall apart.
But you know what I think, Tara Sen?
This story isn’t over yet.
You write the next chapter.
I’ll be at the bookstore. Same time as our fake meet-cute.
Let’s make it real.
She held the paper for a long time.
Then checked the time.
4:52 PM.
She ran.
At exactly 5:05 PM, she found him in the aisle between fiction and poetry, holding a worn-out copy of Wuthering Heights.
He looked up as the bell above the door chimed.
“Late,” he said.
“Contract expired,” she replied, breathless.
He smiled.
She stepped forward. “You still want to do this? Off-script? In full public view?”
He nodded. “No more pretending. Just us.”
She took the book from his hand, placed it between them like an anchor, and whispered, “Then let’s start again.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against hers.
And this time, when they kissed—
There were no flower petals, no fairy lights, no cameras.
Just two people,
writing
the next chapter.
Together.
Lattes & Long-Term Plans
Tara had always imagined that being in love would feel like fireworks. Loud. Sudden. Uncontrollable.
But real love, she was learning, was quieter.
Like the way Arjun always ordered her coffee exactly right—less sugar, extra foam—without needing to ask.
Like the way his texts arrived every night at 11:57 PM, three minutes before she usually overthought her entire day.
Like how he never tried to fix her mood when she was grumpy—he just waited beside her, patient and warm, until the storm passed.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
And that made it better.
Three weeks had passed since the bookstore kiss.
Their first official date, no longer hidden behind cousins or contracts, had been a mess of nerves and laughter. They went bowling, lost terribly, and spent most of it eating overpriced fries and arguing about which Disney villain was the most misunderstood.
(She said Maleficent. He said Scar. The debate got intense.)
By the fourth date, they stopped calling them dates.
It just became… them.
One Tuesday afternoon, they were seated at their favorite café—The Yellow Cup—sharing a cinnamon bun and ignoring the mountain of assignments waiting in both their bags.
Arjun nudged her foot under the table. “You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“That this isn’t weird anymore.”
Tara smiled. “You mean us?”
“Yeah. Like… we were pretending for so long that this would fade. That it was situational. But here we are.”
“Eating the same cinnamon bun we once fake-argued over.”
“Exactly.”
They were silent for a moment, just sipping coffee, watching people walk by through the glass.
Then Arjun added, “Have you thought about… after?”
“After what?”
“College. Graduation. Placement. Where this goes.”
Tara’s heart skipped.
Not from fear, but because no one had asked her that before—at least not like this.
She stirred her coffee slowly. “Honestly? I’ve avoided thinking about it. Everything feels so… now.”
“That’s fair,” Arjun said. “But I think about it sometimes.”
She looked up.
He wasn’t being dramatic. He wasn’t even smiling.
He was just being honest.
“Like?” she asked.
“Like whether we’d be in the same city. Or if we’d have to figure out long-distance. Whether you’d still want to get random 2AM voice notes from me ranting about my monologue drafts.”
“I don’t mind your voice notes.”
“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I keep sending them.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I want to be in the same city.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He grinned. “Good. Because I just applied for an internship in Delhi Theatre Lab for the summer.”
“Arjun,” she gasped, “that’s huge!”
“I figured I should stay close to my favorite co-lead.”
She laughed. “So dramatic.”
He leaned back smugly. “What can I say? Once a theatre kid…”
“Always emotionally exhausting,” she finished.
They both laughed.
Later that evening, Tara walked him to the metro station. The streets were glowing with pre-summer light, and Delhi’s golden hour wrapped everything in a dream-like haze.
They stood near the entrance for a few seconds, letting silence stretch between them comfortably.
“Hey,” Arjun said. “Want to come meet my mom this weekend?”
Tara blinked. “Wait—seriously?”
He shrugged, casual. “She keeps asking if I’m still seeing ‘the fierce girl from the wedding who eats mishti doi like a competitive sport.’ I figured it’s time.”
Tara bit her lip. “I’ve never done that before. Like… meet someone’s actual mom.”
“She’s chill. Way less judgmental than your Mausi.”
“That’s not hard.”
He chuckled. “No pressure. Just come over for lunch. We’ll eat, chat, show her our rooftop photo. She loves that one.”
“She’s seen it?”
“It’s her wallpaper.”
Tara covered her face. “I hate everything.”
He pulled her hands away, gently. “No you don’t. You love this. You love me.”
She blinked.
The words hung in the air like a kite suspended in wind.
He didn’t backtrack.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t fill the silence with a joke.
Just stood there, waiting.
Tara looked at him.
Really looked.
At the boy who once faked his way into her family, only to end up stealing her heart for real.
She exhaled.
“I do,” she whispered. “I love you.”
And the moment wasn’t dramatic or cinematic.
No music. No audience.
Just them.
And that was enough.
That Sunday, Tara arrived at Arjun’s house wearing a simple blue kurti and too much perfume. She brought flowers. His mother hugged her like they were long-lost friends.
Over lunch, they talked about books and bad Netflix adaptations and what kind of sarees go best with sneakers.
At one point, Arjun’s mother said, “You know, he talks about you like you’re his co-author. Not just girlfriend. Like… someone who writes alongside him.”
Tara smiled. “That’s how it feels.”
On the way home, she and Arjun didn’t speak much.
But their hands stayed locked together the whole ride.
By the time summer rolled around, they had their rhythm.
Study dates. Theatre rehearsals. Long walks on Tuesday evenings. Coffee on Thursdays.
They fought sometimes—about little things.
Like Arjun forgetting her seminar timings.
Or Tara canceling dinner because she needed space.
But the fights never lasted more than a day.
Because they’d learned the most important thing of all:
Love isn’t just fireworks.
It’s showing up the next morning.
With coffee.
And a cinnamon bun.
And eyes that say, “Still here.”
Stage Lights & Second Chances
The stage smelled like sweat and sawdust. That’s how Arjun knew it was real.
Three months into his internship at the Delhi Theatre Lab, and he’d gone from coffee-fetching intern to backup actor to—finally—lead role. The upcoming play, “Rama’s Exile”, was a modern retelling of the Ramayana through fragmented monologues. Arjun was playing Rama. A confused, disillusioned Rama who spoke in broken poetry and didn’t know whether exile was punishment or freedom.
He loved it.
But it terrified him.
Because this wasn’t a college production. This was being reviewed. This was real critics. This was a stage with consequences.
Tara watched him rehearse one night from the shadows of the second row, her notebook balanced on her knee, untouched.
She’d meant to work on her editorial draft for the campus magazine’s upcoming issue. Instead, she had spent the last hour scribbling one sentence over and over again:
“What if loving someone means letting them go?”
It wasn’t poetic.
It was terrifying.
The next morning, her phone buzzed.
Subject: Final Round Confirmation — The Lighthouse Fellowship, Mumbai
Body:
Dear Ms. Tara Sen,
We’re pleased to invite you to the final interview round of our National Journalism Fellowship…
Please report to Mumbai HQ on [date].
Shortlisted fellows will be posted across major cities for a 1-year mentorship-led placement.
She read it three times before she looked up.
She was in.
The thing she’d wanted for two years.
But her first thought wasn’t excitement.
It was: What about Arjun?
That evening, they met at the café. Their usual booth. Same cinnamon bun. Same clinking spoons.
She hadn’t told him yet.
He hadn’t told her either.
Because Arjun had news too.
An offer from the theatre’s director after a closed-door rehearsal. A role. Not just in Delhi. In Kolkata. A month-long touring play. Eight shows. One chance to be seen.
They both sat in that booth, stirring drinks and dodging truth.
“Rehearsal went well?” Tara asked, sipping too fast.
“Yeah. I got the monologue to land better. Still botched the pacing, but… better.”
“You’ll nail it by opening night,” she said. “You always do.”
He smiled at her, but something about it was dimmer.
“And you?” he asked. “How’s the magazine deadline?”
She shrugged. “I submitted early. For once.”
“Wow. Overachiever.”
“Don’t act surprised. You used to compete with me over footnotes, remember?”
“That’s because your citations were too dramatic.”
She laughed. He didn’t.
She noticed.
They both fell silent.
Then, like timed missiles, they spoke at the same time:
“I have to tell you something.”
They froze.
“You first,” Tara said.
“No, you.”
“Fine,” she said, exhaling. “I got into Lighthouse.”
He blinked.
“Mumbai?”
She nodded. “Final round. If I get through, I’ll be gone for a year. Maybe more.”
He stared into his cup.
“Your turn,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it now.
He looked up. “Theatre Lab offered me a touring gig. Starts next month. Kolkata.”
“Oh.”
“Three weeks on the road. Might extend if it goes well.”
Silence.
Not hostile.
Just… uncertain.
Tara picked at the edge of her napkin.
“So what does this mean?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
Because neither of them knew.
Not really.
Back in her room that night, Tara stared at her own reflection.
She looked the same.
But everything felt like it was cracking.
For the first time, she wasn’t questioning whether their love was real.
She was questioning whether it could survive being apart.
Not fake-apart like at a wedding.
Real-world apart.
Schedules.
Cities.
Lonely nights.
Unsent texts.
Would it unravel?
Would it dull?
Or would it prove itself?
The next morning, she did something bold.
She called him.
“Meet me at the auditorium,” she said.
Arjun was already there when she arrived, sitting on the edge of the stage in his rehearsal clothes.
“Hi,” she said, climbing up beside him.
He didn’t say anything.
Just waited.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly. “We’ve always been this… whirlwind. Fast. Loud. Emotional. But maybe we need to learn to be quiet too. To be apart.”
He nodded. “To grow.”
“Without growing away.”
He smiled a little.
“I want us to try,” she said. “Even if I get in. Even if you leave.”
He took her hand. “You will get in.”
“You will leave.”
They both laughed softly.
“I want to cheer for you,” she said. “Even if it’s from 1,400 kilometers away.”
He looked at her, eyes gentle. “And I want to write letters again. Like in Jaipur.”
“Real ones?”
“Stamped and everything.”
“Even if the pigeons eat them?”
“Especially then.”
They leaned their foreheads together, like they had before all of this.
Before the internet.
Before the rooftop photo.
Before pretending.
And now, without pretending, they kissed.
Not like goodbye.
But like: We’ll find our way back.
Two weeks later, Arjun stood backstage at the packed Delhi show.
Spotlight waiting.
Crowd murmuring.
In the third row, Tara sat, notebook open, pen in hand, heart full.
She would leave for Mumbai in five days.
He would leave for Kolkata in seven.
But right now—
He was Rama.
And she was every page that held his story together.
Epilogue in Progress
One year later, Tara’s life had become a blur of deadlines, subway stations, chai in paper cups, and interviews that ran longer than her sleep cycles.
Mumbai moved fast. Too fast, some days.
But she kept up.
She had to.
She was one of the youngest fellows in the Lighthouse program, already tagged as “the sharp one” by editors who read her field reports and nodded approvingly. She had covered a garbage segregation protest in Thane, profiled a young female rickshaw driver in Andheri, and somehow managed to stay alive on five hours of sleep and six cups of cutting chai a day.
But every Sunday morning, like clockwork, she slowed down.
Because that was letter day.
Real letters. With stamps, smudged ink, and uneven margins. Sometimes the envelope carried Kolkata postmarks. Sometimes Delhi. Once, even from Siliguri.
Arjun’s handwriting had become something of a ritual.
He never signed them with “Love, Arjun.”
Always something ridiculous, like—
Yours in theatre and terrible choreography,
A.
Or
Not crying during Rama’s third exile (okay, maybe a little),
—Your ex-plus-one.
She saved every one of them in a tin biscuit box.
Some smelled faintly of sandalwood. Others had smudges of stage makeup.
They were never too long. Never dramatic.
But always… enough.
And Tara?
She wrote back.
On paper napkins, notebook margins, even once on a train ticket.
It wasn’t texting. It wasn’t constant.
But it was real.
And it kept them stitched together.
Even when miles tried to stretch the thread.
Now, standing on the cracked platform of Delhi’s Nizamuddin station with a duffel bag and a heartbeat louder than the announcements, Tara felt like she was sixteen again. Nervous. Excited. Drenched in maybe.
She hadn’t seen him in six months.
The last time had been at a theatre festival in Pune, where he was playing a mad poet and she was covering a panel on gender in Indian folk plays. Their time together had been short—stolen glances during chai breaks, one long walk under too many fairy lights, and a kiss that still sat quietly at the back of her mind.
But today wasn’t a conference.
Today was for them.
The platform grew crowded as the Kolkata Rajdhani slid in, all steel and sighs.
And then—
There he was.
Longer hair.
Tanned.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder like always.
Looking like every monologue she’d ever loved.
“Tara Sen,” he called, smiling wide.
“Mr. Freelance Tragedy Hero,” she shot back, grinning.
He dropped his bag and hugged her.
Not quickly.
Not politely.
But like someone who had waited for this.
Her breath caught in his shoulder.
She murmured, “You’re taller.”
“You’re shorter.”
“Liar.”
He pulled back, held her face for a second too long.
“You’re here,” she whispered.
“I never left,” he said softly.
They didn’t need to talk about what came next.
Not immediately.
Today wasn’t for logistics.
Today was for them.
They took a rickshaw straight to their old café—The Yellow Cup.
The owner still remembered them.
“Cinnamon bun and two flat whites?” he asked.
“You know us,” Arjun smiled.
Tara laughed. “He never changes.”
They found their booth. The cushions were newer. The wall art had changed. But the warmth was the same.
“So?” she asked, tearing her bun in half. “What now?”
Arjun looked at her.
“Now,” he said, “we stop being chapters in someone else’s story.”
“We write our own?”
“Exactly.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a while.
Tara broke it. “I have a job offer.”
Arjun nodded. “Let me guess. Delhi?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled. “I have one too.”
“Let me guess. Mumbai?”
He shook his head. “Here. With the new independent theatre collective. They’re starting a social outreach project. Script-based workshops with school kids.”
She leaned in. “That’s amazing.”
“We’d get to stay,” he added.
“In one city.”
“In one house, maybe.”
She blinked.
He didn’t laugh this time. Didn’t make a joke.
“I mean it,” he said. “I don’t know where this ends. I don’t want to. But I want the next part to start here. With you.”
She swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
“I was pretending to love you once,” he said. “Now I’m not pretending. I just do.”
She smiled, slow and sure. “Me too.”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small box.
“No, not a ring,” he said quickly, laughing at her expression. “Calm down.”
She opened it.
Inside was a tiny replica of a rooftop—their rooftop. Complete with mini fairy lights, two stick figures, and a tiny paper photo glued to one corner.
Underneath, a note read:
Chapter Eleven: “Where We Begin Again.”
Tara held it like something precious.
Because it was.
Not the object.
The promise.
Later, they walked back to his place—tired, full of caffeine, and brimming with too many plans to say out loud all at once.
When they entered the gate, she turned to him.
“Arjun?”
“Yeah?”
“If anyone ever asks how we met…”
He grinned. “We lie?”
She shook her head. “No. We tell them the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
She smiled. “That I hired a fake boyfriend… and accidentally fell in love with the real boy behind the role.”
He kissed her then.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just real.
Like waking up on a Monday morning next to someone who brings you coffee.
Like cinnamon buns on Thursdays.
Like rooftop photos you never delete.
Like love that isn’t rented.
But returned to, again and again.
THE END.
