At Virat's house, the evening had settled into a quiet, dimly lit hush. The living room was bathed in the soft amber glow of a single floor lamp, curtains drawn against the Mumbai night. He lounged on the dark leather sofa, one leg stretched out, the other bent, phone pressed to his ear. In his other hand, a half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the armrest, ice clinking faintly whenever he shifted.

On the other end, Ishani was in full flow—blabbering about something utterly random and inconsequential. Something about how the new office chai-wala made better cutting chai than the old one, but only on Tuesdays, and how she was convinced it was because he hummed old Kishore Kumar songs while brewing it on those days. Her voice tumbled through the speaker, bright, animated, jumping from one tangent to another without pause, punctuated by little self-deprecating laughs.