Aanya Deshpande
Part 1 – Rooftop Strings
The city was heavy with heat that night, even though the monsoon had broken weeks ago. Ruhi Sen pushed open the creaky terrace door of their old two-storied house in Ballygunge, her guitar clutched tightly against her chest. Downstairs, her father’s voice still echoed from dinner, rising above the clatter of utensils: “Focus, Ruhi. No more distractions. IIT is not a joke.” Her mother had nodded in silent agreement.
But here, on the rooftop, she was free. The sky hung low, thick with stars blurred by smog, and the distant hum of traffic became her metronome. She sat cross-legged on the cracked concrete, adjusting the strap of her guitar. The strings felt warm beneath her fingers, like an old friend waiting patiently.
She played softly at first, a simple progression she had been humming all week. Her voice slipped into the night, quiet but insistent: “When the walls close in, I’ll find a window, even if it’s only in my mind…” The words weren’t polished; they never were. But they were hers.
After recording the take on her battered phone, she hesitated, thumb hovering over the “upload” button. Her alias—Firefly—was barely known on the indie student music forum she had joined two months ago. A handful of plays, a couple of comments, mostly silence. Still, she pressed upload. Somewhere, someone might hear her. That was enough.
She leaned back against the water tank, closing her eyes. The guitar buzzed faintly as the night wind moved over its strings. For a moment, she imagined herself on stage—bright lights, a faceless crowd swaying to her music. Then her father’s voice intruded again, stern and unyielding. The fantasy cracked.
The next morning, Ruhi almost forgot about the upload. School was chaos: math tests, the endless chatter of classmates about marks and coaching classes, and her best friend Simran pestering her about their band’s lack of practice. By the time she trudged home, exhausted and half-dreaming, she only opened the forum out of habit.
Her breath caught.
Someone had taken her song—the raw, imperfect version she uploaded—and added piano. Not just notes, but a dialogue: answering her chords, weaving around her melody, lifting her lyrics higher. It was tender, haunting, and strangely intimate, as if the unknown pianist had reached inside her head and known exactly what she wanted to say.
The track was posted under the name Anonymous. No bio, no profile picture, nothing. Just a username that meant nothing—and everything.
Ruhi played it again, and again. Her parents’ voices droned from the living room, her brother’s video game beeped in the background, but all she could hear was that piano, slipping between her chords like secret letters. She felt a jolt, not of fear, but of recognition. Whoever this was, they understood her better than anyone.
That night, she returned to the rooftop, the city a dark sprawl beneath her. She strummed deliberately, leaving pauses in the song, gaps that begged to be filled. She recorded it, uploaded it, and waited.
Two days later, she nearly dropped her phone when the reply came. The anonymous pianist had filled her pauses with fragile arpeggios, a conversation carved in sound. It was like he had been sitting beside her, listening, anticipating.
Simran noticed the glow on Ruhi’s face in class. “What’s up with you? Got a secret boyfriend?” she teased, twirling her pen.
Ruhi blushed and shook her head. “Just… music stuff.”
“Music stuff?” Simran rolled her eyes. “We have a gig at Café Mocha in two weeks, and you’re writing secret love songs? Come on, Ruhi, focus. The band needs you.”
But even as Simran complained, Ruhi’s mind drifted. She wasn’t in the noisy classroom anymore. She was on the rooftop, the city spread like an open score, waiting for her to play the next note.
That evening, her father found her sketching lyrics instead of revising physics. His voice rose, sharp as chalk on slate. “Enough of this nonsense. You want to waste your life with that guitar? Fine. But don’t expect us to support you when you fail.”
The words burned, but Ruhi didn’t answer. She went upstairs, slammed the terrace door behind her, and played until her fingers ached. Music was the only language that made sense, the only rebellion she could afford.
At midnight, she checked the forum. The duet had fifty plays now. Comments, too—students from Delhi, Bangalore, even as far as Pune: “Wow, this collab is magic.” “Who are Firefly and Anonymous? We need more.”
Her chest tightened. Someone out there cared. Someone out there was listening.
She whispered into the night, as though the anonymous pianist might hear her: “Who are you?”
The wind shifted. The city slept. And somewhere, maybe in the same city or a thousand miles away, someone was waiting with a piano, ready to answer.
Part 2 – Notes in the Dark
The bell rang for the last time that day, and Ruhi felt the weight of her schoolbag dragging her shoulder down as she stepped onto the crowded lane. The sun was still sharp, dust rising from the rickshaw wheels, the air heavy with honking cars and vendors shouting over each other. She clutched her phone tighter than usual, resisting the urge to check it right there in the chaos. She wanted to wait until she was back on the terrace, alone, where the music could breathe.
When she finally reached home, she ignored her mother’s questions about homework and tuition, dashed past her little brother sprawled with comic books, and climbed straight to the roof. The evening breeze smelt faintly of fried pakoras drifting from the neighbors’ kitchen. She sat cross-legged, pulled out her guitar, and opened the forum app.
There it was—another reply. Another duet. Her original chords had returned to her, clothed in layers of shimmering piano, like a conversation she hadn’t realized she was longing to have. The anonymous musician had not only filled her pauses but twisted them into questions, playful turns, echoes that felt almost like teasing. It was no longer just her song. It was theirs.
Ruhi’s heart drummed faster than her strumming fingers. She typed a message into the forum’s private chat: Who are you? Then she hesitated. Her thumb hovered, trembling. She deleted the words, closed the chat, and pressed record instead.
That night, she sang differently. The lyrics formed as though whispered into her ear by someone unseen: “If you’re out there, stay a while. Don’t disappear before the dawn…” She left whole stretches empty between verses, daring him to step inside. Upload. Send. Wait.
At school the next morning, Simran noticed Ruhi’s dreamy distraction immediately. “You’re glowing,” she said between bites of cafeteria samosa. “Either you’ve topped math, or you’re in love. And since I saw your test paper, it’s definitely not math.”
Ruhi rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make your cheeks look like a tomato,” Simran shot back. “Spill.”
Ruhi hesitated. If she told Simran about Firefly and Anonymous, the spell might break. The music was fragile, private—too precious for gossip. “Just… I’ve been working on new songs.”
“Good,” Simran said, leaning closer. “Because Café Mocha gig is coming. You’ve been slacking. Rohan’s already grumbling that you’re ditching band practice for your terrace concerts.”
The reminder stung. Their band—The Skylarks—wasn’t big, but it mattered. It was her first taste of performing beyond her bedroom walls. Yet, while Rohan obsessed over setlists and Simran fussed about harmonies, all Ruhi wanted was to check her phone again, to see if Anonymous had answered.
That evening, she found a new upload waiting. He had filled her empty verses with piano lines that answered her questions like riddles. One sequence rose, tentative, like a hand reaching out. Another dipped low, hesitant, as if hiding something. Ruhi’s chest tightened. Whoever this was, he wasn’t just adding notes—he was speaking to her.
She couldn’t stop herself this time. She opened the private chat window again and typed: Why me? Why my songs? She hit send before she could chicken out.
No reply came that night. None the next morning. By the time she reached physics tuition, she felt ridiculous. Maybe she had ruined it. Maybe he had found someone better. Her father’s voice rang in her head again, scolding her for chasing illusions. She scribbled formulas into her notebook until her wrist cramped, trying to drown the ache.
But late that night, just as she was about to fall asleep, her phone buzzed. A message blinked on the screen.
Because your music feels like silence finally found words.
Ruhi sat up, heart racing. She typed back before she could lose courage: Who are you?
Three dots appeared, then vanished. No reply followed. Instead, ten minutes later, a new track appeared on the forum—a short piano piece, quiet and tender, like footsteps fading into the dark.
Ruhi listened until her eyes burned with exhaustion. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know where he was. But she knew one thing: she wasn’t alone anymore.
By the weekend, their duets had gathered over a hundred plays. Comments poured in: “Pure magic.” “How do two strangers sound like they’ve known each other forever?” Some begged for a live performance. One even tagged the handle of a small café in Park Street, suggesting a gig.
Ruhi’s pulse spiked. The idea terrified her. Yet a tiny part of her wanted it—to meet him, to see his face, to know if the music would survive outside the safety of anonymity.
That Sunday, the Skylarks met to rehearse. Rohan strummed impatiently, glaring at Ruhi when she messed up a chord. “Where’s your head, Ruhi? We can’t afford mistakes. If you want to play solo rooftop goddess, fine, but don’t drag us down.”
Simran tried to lighten the tension. “Chill, yaar. She’s just tired.” But the look in Rohan’s eyes was sharper than his words.
Ruhi stared at her guitar, shame and defiance tangling inside her. The Skylarks had given her a voice, but Anonymous had given her something else—a mirror that reflected her deepest self.
That night, she climbed to the rooftop again. She whispered into the darkness: “If you’re listening… don’t stop.” Then she pressed record and let her music rise like a secret prayer, certain it would find its way to him.
Part 3 – The Band Cracks
The Skylarks’ practice room was nothing more than Rohan’s cluttered garage, stuffed with old cricket bats, plastic chairs, and a keyboard that hadn’t been tuned in months. The air was damp with the smell of sweat and wet monsoon shoes. Rohan banged on his guitar, muttering, “Again. From the top.”
Ruhi tightened her strap, fingers clumsy on the strings. She knew the chords, but her mind wasn’t here. It was on the terrace, on the forum, on the last piano phrase Anonymous had uploaded—so delicate it had felt like a secret whispered only for her.
“You’re off,” Rohan snapped when she fumbled. “You’re always off these days.” His sharp tone sliced through the dim garage.
Simran raised her hands. “Relax. It’s just practice.”
“It’s not just practice,” Rohan said, glaring at Ruhi. “The café gig is in ten days. If we bomb, that’s it. No more bookings. You think they’ll keep calling us if we sound like amateurs?”
Ruhi’s throat tightened. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t distracted, that she was giving what she could. But the truth was, the band’s songs felt heavy now, like hand-me-down clothes that didn’t fit anymore. With Anonymous, every note was alive, urgent. Here, under Rohan’s scowl, she felt small.
Simran nudged her gently. “Play your new song,” she whispered. “The one you’ve been humming.”
Ruhi froze. Sharing that song here felt wrong, like spilling a secret. “It’s not ready.”
Rohan rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s not. Nothing’s ever ready with you.” He strummed hard, the sound harsh, angry. “Let’s just skip her part and tighten the rest.”
The words stung. Skip her part. As though she were replaceable, background noise. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to play through the rest of practice, her hands mechanical, her heart elsewhere.
That night, Ruhi escaped to her rooftop as if it were the only place she could breathe. She played the song Rohan dismissed, raw and trembling, then uploaded it with deliberate pauses. A message in music.
By the time she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed, her phone buzzed. Anonymous had already answered. His piano folded into her gaps, not filling them but lifting them, like wings beneath her chords. Listening, Ruhi felt her chest expand, as though someone had reached across the dark and said, You’re not replaceable. You’re essential.
Her eyes prickled. She whispered into the pillow, “Thank you,” though she knew he couldn’t hear her.
The following week at school, tension coiled tighter. Simran tried to play mediator, cracking jokes during lunch, urging everyone to focus. But Rohan grew sharper, his words dripping with impatience.
“You’re hiding something,” he muttered one day, cornering Ruhi outside the music room. “New band? Solo project? What is it?”
Ruhi’s heart thudded. “Nothing. Just homework stress.”
“Don’t lie. I can see it. You’ve got that secret-smile face. Whatever you’re doing, remember this—you don’t get to ditch us when things get real.” His voice lowered, almost pleading beneath the anger. “We’ve built this band together.”
She wanted to tell him the truth, that it wasn’t betrayal, it was discovery. But how could she explain Anonymous without breaking the fragile magic? She walked away instead, guitar case bumping against her leg.
That evening, her parents noticed her slipping grades. Her father’s jaw tightened. “This is what comes from late nights and nonsense songs. Music won’t pay your bills, Ruhi. Do you want to throw away your future?”
Her mother’s softer voice chimed in: “She’s just distracted. She’ll catch up.”
But her father’s words burrowed deep. Throw away your future. Was that what she was doing?
Later, when she uploaded another duet with Anonymous, the comments section buzzed with strangers praising them, begging for more. One listener wrote: “This sounds like falling in love for the first time.”
Ruhi’s cheeks warmed. She closed her eyes and let the piano wash over her. If this was throwing away her future, maybe it was worth it.
Saturday arrived with a downpour that turned the city into a maze of puddles and honking cars. The Skylarks gathered again in the garage, dripping umbrellas and damp clothes.
“We’re not ready,” Rohan muttered, flipping through the setlist. “We’re going to embarrass ourselves.”
Simran sighed. “We just need one solid song to hold the crowd. Something different.”
All eyes turned to Ruhi. Her stomach twisted. She thought of her rooftop songs, of Anonymous, of the way their duets drew listeners like moths to flame. Could she risk sharing one here?
Before she could decide, Rohan cut in. “Forget it. We’ll stick to covers. At least those we won’t ruin.”
His dismissal was final. Ruhi tightened her grip on her guitar. She didn’t argue, didn’t protest. But inside, something cracked. She realized she wasn’t waiting for his approval anymore. She was waiting for the next piano note from Anonymous.
That night, when the rain finally slowed, Ruhi climbed to the rooftop again. The city glistened under streetlights, water dripping from wires. She strummed, letting her frustration spill into sound.
Her phone buzzed minutes later. Anonymous had uploaded a short piece—a fierce, stormy piano riff, urgent and wild. It was as if he had felt her anger across the distance and answered in kind.
Ruhi smiled through her damp hair. She whispered into the night, “You get it. You actually get it.”
The band might be cracking. Her parents might not understand. But somewhere out there was someone who played like he had been waiting his whole life to find her.
Part 4 – Spotlight Dreams
By midweek, the duets had crossed three hundred plays. For Ruhi, the number felt unreal. It wasn’t viral fame, not by internet standards, but to her it was a universe away from the silence she had known just a month ago. She scrolled through comments during class breaks, each one a secret flame she tucked into her chest.
Then came the message that made her pulse stop.
Café Eclipse invites Firefly & Anonymous to perform live at our Friday Open Mic Night. DM for details.
Café Eclipse. Park Street. A place she had passed countless times, its windows glowing with yellow light, the sound of guitars and voices spilling out into the humid evening. Real musicians played there. Not school bands fumbling through covers. Real ones.
Ruhi reread the message three times before showing it to Simran after school. “Look.”
Simran’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? This is huge! Say yes!”
Ruhi’s stomach knotted. “But… Anonymous. He won’t want to reveal himself.”
“Then ask him,” Simran said simply. “If he cares about the music, he’ll show up.”
That night, Ruhi typed out a shaky message: We’ve been invited to perform. Will you come?
For an hour, nothing. She paced her rooftop, strumming half-formed chords. Just as despair began to sink in, her phone buzzed.
I can’t.
Her heart sank. She typed back: Why not?
Three dots appeared, then vanished. Minutes later, a new track appeared on the forum instead. It was soft, almost mournful, with piano notes that hovered and retreated, like someone stepping forward only to slip back into the shadows.
Ruhi lay back against the water tank, headphones pressed tight. The music spoke clearly even without words: he wasn’t ready to be seen.
The Skylarks met for practice the next day. Ruhi hadn’t planned to mention the café invitation, but Simran couldn’t contain her excitement. “You won’t believe this—Ruhi’s collabs got noticed. They want her to play live!”
Rohan’s strum cut short. His glare was sharp enough to slice the damp air. “Excuse me? What collabs?”
Ruhi froze. Simran realized too late she had spilled the secret.
Rohan’s voice rose. “So that’s why you’ve been checked out? Running a side project behind our backs?”
“It’s not—” Ruhi began, but he cut her off.
“Save it. Do you have any idea how much we’ve put into this band? And you’re chasing some mystery pianist? Pathetic.”
Simran tried to intervene, but the damage was done. Rohan stormed out, his guitar strap swinging angrily. The garage door slammed.
Ruhi stared at the cracked cement floor, guilt burning her chest. She wanted to shout that it wasn’t betrayal, that it was something she couldn’t even explain. But her voice stayed locked in her throat.
At home, her mother found her hunched over her guitar. “You’re practicing again? Ruhi, your test scores—”
“Please, Ma, just five minutes,” Ruhi whispered.
Her mother sighed, torn between sympathy and duty. “Your father is worried. You know how hard he worked for your education. Don’t disappoint him.”
The word—disappoint—landed like a weight. Ruhi tightened her grip on her guitar. How could she explain that this wasn’t just practice, it was survival?
That night, she didn’t upload anything. She couldn’t.
But just past midnight, her phone buzzed. A new track from Anonymous. This one wasn’t hesitant. It was fierce, chords tumbling into crescendos, as though he were urging her to fight. To play. To keep going.
Ruhi pressed her forehead against the strings, whispering, “I wish I knew your face.”
Friday arrived heavy with rainclouds. Ruhi passed Café Eclipse on her way home from tuition, her umbrella barely shielding her from the drizzle. Through the misted windows, she glimpsed a boy on stage with a guitar, the small crowd swaying. For a second, she imagined herself there—her fingers steady, her voice sure, Anonymous beside her on piano.
Her phone buzzed with a new message from the café: Are you coming tonight?
Ruhi typed back: Not this time.
Her heart ached, but she knew. Until Anonymous was ready, there could be no stage. Their music wasn’t meant for bright lights yet. It belonged to shadows, to rooftops, to the fragile space between upload and reply.
Later, as thunder rolled across the city, Ruhi uploaded a new song. Her voice cracked with rain and longing: “Maybe we’re fireflies, meant to glow in the dark, unseen by the world, but burning bright for each other.”
Minutes later, Anonymous answered with a piano riff that sparked like lightning against her chords.
She smiled through her damp hair. The world could wait. Their playlist was infinite.
Part 5 – A Face in the Crowd
The rain had cleared by Monday, leaving the city damp and restless. Ruhi walked into school with her headphones still humming last night’s duet, Anonymous’s piano lingering in her chest like a heartbeat. She almost missed the sound of someone practicing inside the old auditorium—low, hesitant notes drifting through the open doors.
She stopped.
The melody was unmistakable. Those same halting arpeggios she had been listening to for weeks, the ones that always felt like half a question, half an answer.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, the auditorium was nearly empty, shadows stretching across cracked tiles. On stage, a boy sat at the old upright piano, head bent, fingers moving nervously over the keys.
Ruhi’s breath caught.
Arjun Malhotra.
He was in her class, though they had barely exchanged more than nods in the past two years. Always quiet, a little aloof, the type who sat at the back during lectures, sketching in the margins of his notebook. Nobody ever mentioned he could play piano.
She stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding.
The music faltered as if he sensed her. He looked up. Their eyes met. For a split second, Ruhi swore he recognized her too—that he knew she had been the voice behind those chords.
But then he shut the piano lid with a soft thud, grabbed his bag, and walked past her without a word.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. The door closed behind him, leaving the silence screaming louder than any song.
That night, Ruhi recorded with trembling hands. Her voice wavered on the lyrics, almost breaking: “If I saw you, would you turn away? If I called you by name, would you stay?” She uploaded the track and waited, restless, scrolling the forum every ten minutes.
For hours, nothing. No reply. She fell asleep against the guitar, strings pressing faint lines into her cheek.
The next morning, a new track appeared. Piano again—softer, cautious, almost apologetic. It wasn’t an answer so much as a retreat.
Ruhi listened on repeat. Her suspicions grew heavier, circling like crows. Was it really Arjun? Or was she imagining things? Could someone else play like that?
In class, she found herself watching him. The way his fingers tapped rhythms on the desk when he thought nobody noticed. The way he slipped out quietly after lessons, avoiding groups. The way he never raised his voice, but carried an invisible heaviness around him.
Once, during chemistry, his pen fell and rolled near her feet. When she handed it back, their fingers brushed for a second. Just a second—but enough for her pulse to quicken.
Arjun’s eyes flicked up to hers, startled, then quickly away. He muttered thanks and buried himself in his notes.
Ruhi’s heart thudded. It had to be him.
After school, Simran caught Ruhi staring at Arjun’s retreating figure. “What is that about? Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on Mr. Invisible.”
Ruhi flushed. “No. I was just… thinking.”
“Thinking looks a lot like swooning,” Simran teased. Then her expression softened. “Hey, if you like him, just say. He’s quiet, but kinda cute.”
Ruhi shook her head, but her thoughts whirled. If it really was Arjun, why hadn’t he said anything? Why hide behind Anonymous?
That evening, Ruhi uploaded another track—half a dare, half a confession. “I saw you today. Do you know me too?”
Her phone buzzed at midnight. A reply.
This time, the piano was uneasy, stumbling through the melody, never quite settling. Like someone caught between denial and truth. At the very end, a single high note lingered—sharp, unfinished.
Ruhi pressed replay, her chest tight. It wasn’t confirmation, but it wasn’t denial either.
She whispered into the dark: “It’s you, isn’t it?”
The Skylarks met again midweek, but Ruhi’s head was elsewhere. Rohan noticed. “You’ve got that distracted face again. If you’re gonna ditch us, at least say it.”
Simran elbowed him. “Shut up, Rohan. She’s fine.”
But Ruhi wasn’t fine. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Arjun’s bowed head at the piano, heard the trembling notes that mirrored her own heart.
By the end of practice, she packed up quickly, ignoring Rohan’s glare. She needed air. She needed music. She needed answers.
That night, on her rooftop, Ruhi played fiercely, fingers blistering against the strings. Her lyrics spilled out unguarded: “I know your shadow, I know your sound. Why hide when the world’s already found us?”
Her phone buzzed before she even finished uploading. Another duet appeared almost instantly. The piano was different this time—not hesitant, not fearful. Bold, loud, a storm crashing against her chords. It was as if he were shouting through the keys: Not yet. Don’t force me.
Ruhi’s chest ached. She whispered into the humid night, “Then when? When will you let me in?”
The city offered no answer. Only the echo of piano notes still ringing in her head, and the image of Arjun Malhotra walking past her without a word.
Part 6 – Family Faultlines
Ruhi should have known it was only a matter of time before her secret spilled. For weeks she had been balancing on a thin rope—schoolwork, the Skylarks, midnight rooftop sessions with Anonymous. But ropes always snap.
It happened on a Tuesday evening. She had just come home from tuition, rain still clinging to her hair, when her father’s voice boomed from the living room.
“Ruhi. Come here.”
Her stomach dropped. He held her phone in his hand. Unlocked. The forum app glowing on the screen.
“What is this?” His voice was low, dangerous.
Ruhi’s mouth went dry. “It’s just… music.”
“Music?” His jaw tightened. “Uploading songs in secret? Talking to strangers? Do you know how unsafe this is?”
Her mother hovered nearby, worry creasing her forehead. “She’s only experimenting,” she said softly. “It’s not serious.”
“Not serious?” Her father’s glare burned into Ruhi. “You’ve been wasting nights on this nonsense while your grades sink. Physics test—thirty-five. Math—barely passing. And this is why.” He shook the phone as if it were evidence of a crime.
Ruhi’s throat ached, but the words tumbled out anyway. “It’s not nonsense! People listen. They care. They say our songs matter.”
“Our songs,” he repeated, the word dripping with scorn. “You think these strangers will feed you? Pay your bills? IIT will. A stable job will. Not this… fantasy.”
Her mother reached for his arm. “Let her explain—”
But Ruhi couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t understand! This isn’t just a hobby. It’s the only thing that feels real.”
Her father’s face hardened. “Then maybe you should decide what matters more—music, or this family’s trust.”
The silence that followed was heavier than thunder.
That night, Ruhi didn’t touch her guitar. She sat on the rooftop staring at the dark city, her phone clenched in her fist. The urge to delete her account gnawed at her. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was all foolishness.
Her fingers hovered over the “delete” option.
Then, as if on cue, a notification buzzed. A new track.
She pressed play. Anonymous had uploaded something unlike anything before. The piano began quietly, like someone tiptoeing into a room, then swelled into a fierce, defiant melody—stormy, unstoppable. At the very end, four sharp chords landed like a challenge.
Her eyes blurred with tears. It was as though he knew. As though he had been sitting in her living room, hearing every word.
She whispered into the wind, “Don’t stop playing.”
The thought of quitting vanished. She couldn’t. Not while someone out there believed in her music enough to fight for it with keys and chords.
At school the next day, Ruhi avoided Arjun, though her eyes kept drifting toward him. He seemed quieter than usual, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed. When the bell rang, she lingered by the corridor.
As he passed, she caught his sleeve. “Hey.”
He stiffened. For a second, his gaze flicked to her guitar case. Then away.
Ruhi’s voice wavered. “I… I liked your last piece.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Fear? Recognition? He muttered, “You’ve got the wrong person,” and walked off.
But Ruhi knew. The denial only confirmed what her heart had already decided.
That weekend, the Skylarks met again. The air in the garage was thick with resentment. Rohan barely looked at her.
“You missed practice yesterday,” he said flatly.
“I had… stuff,” Ruhi muttered.
“Yeah. Secret piano-boy stuff?” His voice was mocking, but his eyes were sharp. “You think you’re too good for us now?”
Simran stepped in. “Rohan, stop.”
But Ruhi was done shrinking. “I’m not too good. I just… I can’t ignore what makes me feel alive.”
Rohan’s laugh was bitter. “Alive? You’ll kill this band, that’s what you’ll do.”
The words hit hard, but Ruhi didn’t back down. Not this time. She slung her guitar case over her shoulder and walked out.
That night, on her rooftop, she poured everything into a new upload—her anger, her hurt, her stubborn heartbeat. Her lyrics cracked but didn’t break: “They tell me to be silent, but silence is a cage. I’ll sing until the walls fall down.”
Minutes later, Anonymous replied with piano—wild, relentless, echoing her rage.
Ruhi closed her eyes, tears cutting through the monsoon humidity. The world downstairs might never understand. But up here, in the dark, she wasn’t alone.
Part 7 – The National Stage
The email came on a muggy Thursday evening, sandwiched between tuition homework and her mother’s sharp reminders about unfinished assignments. Ruhi almost deleted it, assuming it was spam. But the subject line stopped her cold:
“National Youth Music Festival — Invitation to Audition: Firefly & Anonymous.”
Her breath caught. She clicked. The words blurred as she read: their duets had been noticed by festival scouts. They wanted them on stage in Delhi. One condition: both musicians had to reveal their identities and audition live.
Ruhi’s heart thundered. The biggest youth competition in the country. A real stage. A real chance.
But there was also a real problem. Anonymous.
She typed out a message, fingers trembling: We’ve been invited. National Youth Music Festival. Will you come?
For hours, nothing. She stared at her phone through dinner, her father’s lectures on exam schedules sliding past unheard. When the reply finally came, it was only two words.
Not possible.
Her chest caved. She typed back quickly: Why not? This is everything. We can do this.
Again, silence. Then, hours later, a new upload.
The piano was conflicted—rising triumphantly one moment, collapsing into broken notes the next. By the end, the melody stopped abruptly, unfinished.
Ruhi clutched her guitar, whispering into the night, “Please. Don’t leave me now.”
At school the next day, the announcement buzzed across social media. Other students were already talking about the festival, some boasting of cousins or friends who had auditioned in past years.
Simran cornered Ruhi during lunch. “Tell me it’s true. Firefly got invited?”
Ruhi hesitated, then nodded.
Simran squealed. “Oh my God! Ruhi, this is huge! Why didn’t you tell us?”
Rohan overheard. His eyes narrowed. “Of course. I knew it. Running off to Delhi with mystery-boy while we rot in this garage.”
Ruhi’s temper flared. “This isn’t about ditching the band. It’s about a chance.”
“A chance for what? To embarrass yourself? To betray us?” Rohan’s voice dripped with contempt. “Good luck with your fantasy, Ruhi. Don’t expect me to clap when you fall.”
The cafeteria grew quiet around them. Ruhi grabbed her tray and stormed out, cheeks burning.
That night, she recorded a track alone, her voice breaking through tears: “You say not possible, but I hear maybe. Don’t you see? This isn’t just mine—it’s ours.”
Hours later, Anonymous replied. This time, the piano didn’t hesitate. It soared, defiant, as though answering her challenge. At the end, four steady chords repeated like a vow.
Her heart leapt. She typed into the chat: So you’ll come?
The reply came minutes later: Yes. But only if you’re beside me.
Ruhi’s hands shook. She typed back: Always.
Preparing for the audition consumed her. Between classes, tuition, and parental suspicion, she rehearsed in secret, her rooftop becoming both sanctuary and stage. She imagined the Delhi lights, the crowd, her father’s stunned silence if he saw her there.
But with every day, the pressure mounted. Simran noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “You’re burning out,” she said gently.
“I can’t stop now,” Ruhi whispered.
“What about your parents?”
Ruhi looked away. “They’ll find out when they have to.”
Two nights before the festival, she finally confronted Arjun. She found him leaving school late, piano books tucked under his arm.
“It’s you,” she said softly. “Isn’t it?”
His shoulders stiffened. He didn’t meet her eyes. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Stop,” Ruhi whispered. “I’ve heard you. I know.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of streetlights. At last, Arjun’s voice cracked. “If I say yes, everything changes.”
Ruhi stepped closer. “Then let it change.”
For the first time, he looked at her—really looked. And in his eyes, she saw the music they had made together, all the unspoken words that filled the spaces between notes.
He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.
On the train to Delhi, her guitar case lay across her knees. The city lights of Kolkata blurred past the window. Her parents thought she was at Simran’s house for a group study weekend. The lie sat heavy, but the hope was heavier.
Across the aisle, Arjun sat with headphones, sketchbook open. His fingers tapped a rhythm on his knee, steady, certain.
Ruhi watched him, her chest tight. For the first time, they weren’t just Firefly and Anonymous. They were Ruhi and Arjun, side by side, heading toward a stage that could either shatter them or set them free.
Part 8 – Breaking the Silence
The train swayed gently as it thundered through the night, lights from small towns flickering past like half-formed notes on a dark sheet of music. Ruhi sat curled by the window, her guitar balanced across her lap. She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the stage waiting in Delhi, felt the invisible weight of expectation pressing on her chest.
Across the aisle, Arjun sat slouched in his seat, sketchbook open on his lap. His pencil traced aimless lines, shapes of keys and chords, then scratched them out. His headphones weren’t plugged in. He was listening to the rhythm of the wheels, tapping it against his thigh.
Ruhi whispered, “Why me?”
Arjun looked up, startled.
“Why did you choose my songs? Out of all the voices online, why mine?”
For a moment, his gaze dropped back to the sketchbook. Then he shut it. His voice was low, almost drowned by the train’s rattle. “Because yours didn’t sound like noise. Everyone else was trying to impress. You were just… honest.”
The words tightened Ruhi’s throat. She wanted to tell him she had suspected from the start, that the piano had always carried a shadow of his silence. Instead, she only said, “You could’ve told me.”
His jaw clenched. “I couldn’t. Not until now.”
“Why?”
Arjun’s eyes stayed fixed on the dark outside. “Because I’m not supposed to be here. Music isn’t… safe for me. My father calls it a waste. My mother barely notices. They think the piano is just noise that gets in the way of engineering prep.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Guess we’re not that different.”
Ruhi’s chest tightened. The loneliness in his words was the same weight she carried. Different houses, same silence.
She reached across the aisle, her fingers brushing his sketchbook. “We don’t have to be silent anymore.”
For a heartbeat, the train roared between them. Then Arjun’s hand shifted, almost meeting hers, before pulling back. His voice cracked. “On that stage… if I mess up, if I freeze—”
“You won’t,” Ruhi said firmly. “And even if you do, I’ll be there. We’ll play through it.”
For the first time, he looked at her with something like hope, fragile and flickering. And in that moment, Ruhi knew: whatever happened in Delhi, they wouldn’t face it alone.
The festival grounds were chaos. Banners stretched high, listing sponsors and flashing neon logos. Musicians swarmed everywhere—guitarists with battered cases, singers practicing scales under their breath, drummers tapping sticks on their knees. The air buzzed with nerves and caffeine.
Ruhi clutched her guitar case tighter, her palms clammy. Arjun walked beside her, shoulders hunched, as though trying to disappear into the crowd.
They found their names on the roster: “Firefly & Anonymous – 3:40 PM.” Seeing it printed, real, made Ruhi’s stomach flip.
Backstage was a blur of cables and stage lights. A volunteer handed them badges. “Good luck,” she said, smiling.
Arjun muttered something under his breath Ruhi couldn’t catch. His fingers drummed against his thigh again, faster this time, almost frantic.
She touched his arm. “Hey. Breathe.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Ruhi leaned close, her voice steady even though her heart hammered. “Yes, you can. You’ve already done it a hundred times—with me. The only difference is now they get to hear it too.”
When their names were called, Ruhi’s legs nearly gave out. She forced herself onto the stage, lights blinding, the crowd a dark blur. Arjun followed, stiff as stone.
They sat—her with her guitar, him at the piano. For a moment, the silence was unbearable. Ruhi’s father’s voice echoed in her skull: Music won’t feed you. Rohan’s sneer: You’ll embarrass yourself.
Then she strummed the opening chord.
The sound steadied her.
Arjun’s hands hovered above the keys. She glanced at him. He met her eyes, just for a second. Then he played.
The first notes were hesitant, fragile. But as the melody grew, Ruhi’s voice wrapped around it, lifting it higher. Together, they found the same current they had always had online—unspoken, invisible, but undeniable.
By the second verse, Arjun was no longer the boy hiding in shadows. His fingers moved with surety, answering her chords, daring her to push harder. Ruhi’s voice soared, trembling but fierce.
And when the final chorus came, the crowd began clapping in rhythm, voices rising, hands swaying. The stage lights blurred into stars.
For a few minutes, there was no father, no Rohan, no fear. There was only Ruhi and Arjun, Firefly and Anonymous, their music spilling into the world like a secret finally shouted out loud.
The applause thundered. Ruhi’s chest heaved. She looked at Arjun, smiling through the sweat and shaking. He gave a small, almost disbelieving nod, like he couldn’t quite accept that it had happened.
Backstage, he leaned against the wall, pale but glowing. “I didn’t freeze,” he whispered.
Ruhi laughed, breathless. “I told you.”
For the first time since she had known him, Arjun smiled—small, crooked, but real.
Something shifted between them then. Not just music. Not just survival. Something larger, brighter, waiting to be named.
That night in the hostel where participants stayed, Ruhi couldn’t sleep. She slipped her headphones on, replaying their performance in her mind.
Her phone buzzed. A new track.
She opened it, startled. Arjun—Anonymous—had uploaded something raw, unpolished. A piano piece that was hesitant but tender, almost like a confession. And at the end, a faint hum—his voice, unsteady, barely audible.
Ruhi pressed her hand to her chest. He wasn’t hiding anymore.
She whispered into the dark, “I hear you.”
And for the first time, she believed the silence between them had truly broken.
Part 9 – The Showdown
The afternoon sun in Delhi burned white, heavy on the festival grounds. Tents flapped in the hot breeze, amplifiers buzzed with last-minute checks, and the crowd surged restlessly. By the time Ruhi and Arjun were called for the finals, her throat was dry, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped her pick.
They walked on stage together—her guitar slung across her chest, his shoulders taut, eyes down. The audience was massive now, not a dim café crowd or anonymous commenters online, but hundreds of faces, judges with clipped expressions, and cameras flashing. Ruhi’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She strummed the first chord. The sound cracked faintly through the speakers. Panic shot through her—technical glitch. Arjun froze at the piano, his fingers hovering.
For a split second, silence threatened to swallow them. The crowd stirred.
Then Ruhi did the only thing she could—she kept playing. No mic, no amp, just raw strings ringing into the hot air. She raised her voice, shaky but loud: “When the walls close in, I’ll find a window…”
Arjun looked at her, eyes wide. Then something in his face shifted—fear breaking into resolve. He struck the keys. The piano boomed, weaving around her unamplified guitar, filling the gaps, lifting her higher.
The glitch didn’t matter anymore. The audience leaned forward, drawn in by the rawness, the risk. This wasn’t polished pop—it was two teenagers fighting to be heard, fighting to stay alive in sound.
By the second chorus, the sound crew scrambled, fixing the feed. The guitar roared back through the speakers, her voice amplified now, soaring over the piano. The crowd erupted in applause, clapping in rhythm, voices rising.
Ruhi felt it—the shift. Fear burned away, replaced by fire. She sang with everything she had, every rooftop night, every stolen practice, every argument with her father, every bruise from Rohan’s words.
And Arjun matched her, his fingers flying across the keys with fury and grace, his face lit with something she had never seen before: freedom.
When the song ended, the silence that followed was electric. Then came the roar—cheers, whistles, the thunder of applause that shook the stage.
Ruhi’s chest heaved. She turned to Arjun. His hands were trembling on the piano, but his smile was real, unguarded. She reached out and squeezed his arm. They had done it.
Backstage, chaos swirled—other performers rushing to congratulate them, volunteers guiding them to interviews, judges scribbling notes. Ruhi barely heard it. Her ears still rang with their song.
She glanced at Arjun. He was pale, leaning against the wall, but his eyes glowed with something close to disbelief.
“You were brilliant,” she whispered.
“So were you,” he muttered. His voice cracked. “I thought I’d choke.”
“You didn’t,” Ruhi said firmly. “You flew.”
For a moment, their eyes held. Everything unspoken hummed between them.
Later, when the finalists gathered for results, Ruhi’s heart pounded. The announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd. “Second runner-up—The Northern Lights!” Applause. “First runner-up—Soulscape Collective!”
She gripped Arjun’s sleeve, breathless.
“And the winners of this year’s National Youth Music Festival…” The pause stretched, unbearable. “…Firefly and Anonymous!”
The roar of the crowd blurred into white noise. Ruhi blinked, stunned. They had won.
Arjun stood frozen, as though he couldn’t believe it. Ruhi grabbed his hand and raised it high. The audience cheered louder, chanting their names.
Firefly and Anonymous no longer belonged to the shadows. They belonged here, in the light.
After the ceremony, Ruhi spotted two familiar figures near the back of the crowd—her parents. Her father’s stern face was unreadable, arms folded. Her mother’s eyes glistened with something softer.
Ruhi’s chest tightened. She walked toward them, Arjun hovering uncertainly at her side.
Her father spoke first. “You lied to us.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“I had to,” Ruhi whispered. “Because you wouldn’t have let me try.”
Her mother touched her father’s arm. “She was… extraordinary.”
For the first time, his expression cracked. Not approval, not yet. But something less rigid. “We’ll talk when we get home.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t rejection either.
Ruhi nodded, tears stinging her eyes. For now, it was enough.
That night, under the Delhi sky, she and Arjun sat on the hostel roof, exhausted, medals heavy around their necks.
“We did it,” she whispered.
Arjun leaned back, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. “We did.”
Silence stretched, comfortable this time. Then Ruhi strummed a quiet chord on her guitar.
Arjun opened his eyes, fingers drifting to an imaginary keyboard. “One more?”
She nodded. Together, they played softly into the night, no crowd, no cameras, no pressure. Just them—two kids who had found each other in the dark, now glowing brighter than they had ever dared to dream.
Part 10 – Fireflies Forever
The return train to Kolkata felt different from the one that had carried them to Delhi. This time, Ruhi’s guitar case was not just a burden on her lap—it was a trophy, a witness. The medal from the festival clinked softly against its strap every time the train swayed. She turned it over in her palm again and again, as though afraid it might vanish if she stopped touching it.
Arjun sat beside her, sketchbook closed for once. He stared out the window, his reflection faint against the blur of fields rushing past. For hours, neither spoke, but the silence was not heavy anymore. It was alive, brimming.
Finally, Ruhi whispered, “Do you realize? We’re not Firefly and Anonymous anymore. We’re just… us.”
Arjun glanced at her, a faint smile tugging his lips. “And is that enough?”
Ruhi nodded, her throat tight. “It’s everything.”
Back in Ballygunge, the world didn’t pause to celebrate her victory. Homework still piled on her desk, tuition teachers still droned, her father still frowned at report cards. But something had shifted.
The night after she returned, her parents called her into the living room. The medal lay on the table.
Her father’s voice was low. “We’re proud. But we’re also worried. You’re not thinking of abandoning your studies, are you?”
Ruhi’s chest ached. “I’m not abandoning anything. I just… I need music. The way you need air.”
Her mother’s eyes softened. Her father’s face stayed stern, but less rigid than before. “One year,” he said finally. “You get one year. Balance both. If you fail, no more distractions.”
It wasn’t the dream acceptance Ruhi had hoped for, but it was a crack in the wall. Enough for light to seep through. She nodded, whispering, “Thank you.”
The Skylarks fractured and mended in uneven ways. Rohan refused to speak to her at first, bitterness sharp in every look. But at the next café gig, when Ruhi and Arjun turned up to watch, Simran pulled them backstage.
“Play one with us,” she begged.
Ruhi hesitated, but the crowd was small, friendly. She strapped on her guitar. Arjun slid onto the café’s keyboard. When they played—her chords, his piano, Simran’s harmonies—something loosened. Even Rohan couldn’t deny the pull.
Afterward, he muttered gruffly, “Not bad.” It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a beginning.
On quiet evenings, Ruhi and Arjun returned to their rooftops—sometimes hers, sometimes his. They still recorded duets, though now their names appeared side by side: Ruhi Sen & Arjun Malhotra. The plays kept rising. But more than numbers, it was the feeling of sitting under the same sky, sharing chords that had once been hidden, now open, now fearless.
One night, as the city buzzed below, Ruhi looked at him and said softly, “When we started, I thought you were just a shadow.”
“And I thought you were just a voice in the dark,” Arjun replied.
“And now?” she asked.
He smiled, small and sure. “Now you’re the reason I’m not afraid of the light anymore.”
Her chest swelled. She didn’t answer with words. She strummed a chord instead—gentle, glowing. Arjun joined on piano. Their music rose, threading into the night like fireflies, flickering but unextinguished.
The comments on their uploads turned into letters from strangers who found courage in their songs—students hiding sketchbooks, singers silenced by parents, dreamers afraid to speak. “You remind me I’m not alone.” “Thank you for playing what I couldn’t say.”
Ruhi read each one with tears prickling. This was what it meant, she thought—not fame, not medals, but connection. Two voices weaving a bridge for others to walk across.
Months later, during a mild December evening, Café Eclipse called again. This time, Ruhi didn’t hesitate. She and Arjun walked onto the stage together, no aliases, no shadows. The crowd cheered, some even holding small cardboard fireflies with their names scrawled on the wings.
Ruhi’s parents sat near the back. Her father still looked uncertain, but her mother’s smile was wide and proud.
When Ruhi began to play, the café hushed. Arjun’s piano answered, steady and sure. Their voices rose together, not anonymous anymore, not hidden.
The applause was warm, close, familiar. And for the first time, Ruhi felt not like she was escaping home, but carrying it with her—reshaped, redefined.
Later that night, as they sat on the empty rooftop above the café, the city glowing around them, Arjun whispered, “Do you think this lasts? Or is it just a moment?”
Ruhi leaned her guitar against her knee. “Moments make forever.” She smiled. “And fireflies only glow in the dark. That doesn’t mean their light is any less real.”
Arjun looked at her, eyes steady, and nodded.
Together, they began a new melody, soft and unhurried. No deadline, no competition, no fear. Just two kids, two instruments, and an infinite playlist that belonged to them.
The rooftop door still creaked. The water tank was still chipped. The city still hummed with traffic and heat. But when Ruhi picked up her guitar now, she didn’t feel alone.
Somewhere beside her—whether on a rooftop, in a café, or on a stage—Arjun’s piano would always answer.
And the fireflies would keep glowing. Forever.
