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.

Virat didn't interrupt. He just held the phone a fraction closer, as if proximity alone could pull her voice deeper into him. He let her words wash over him like background music—chaotic, endearing, endless.

Inside his head, a different monologue ran parallel.

Yeh kis ladki ke peeche mere bhai ne apni jaan de di...

He pictured Vishisht—the real one—quiet, hesitant, always fading into corners whenever emotions got too loud. And then this girl: loud, unfiltered, a walking burst of opinions and half-finished stories. How had his brother fallen so completely? How had someone so... contained... let himself drown in someone so uncontainable?

Kaisi hai yeh...
Kitni pagal hai yeh...

The thought made something twist in his chest—not quite amusement, not quite irritation. Something warmer, reluctant. He huffed a silent laugh into the empty room, shaking his head slightly. Pagalpan mein bhi kuch aisa tha jo addictive lag raha tha. Like watching a storm from behind glass—beautiful, chaotic, impossible to look away from.

On the phone, she was still going.

“…aur phir maine socha ki agar chai itni achhi hai toh maybe main bhi try karun uss tareeke se ghar pe, lekin kal banaya toh bilkul bakwas ho gaya! Vee, seriously, yeh insaan ka talent hota hai ya luck?”

He let the silence stretch for just a beat—long enough for her to notice, long enough for that tiny insecure hitch to creep into her next breath.

Then, soft, indulgent, he murmured into the receiver:

“Haan jaana… tum sahi ho.”

The words came out smoother than he expected. Warm. Familiar. Like he’d said them a thousand times before.

There was a tiny pause on her end.

Then her voice softened, laced with that shy, pleased smile he could hear even through the phone.

“Vish, tum bhi na…”

She laughed—light, breathy, the kind of laugh that made his grip on the glass tighten just a fraction.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the sound settle somewhere deep in his ribs.

His plan was unfolding exactly as intended.

Step by step.

Word by word.

Touch by touch.

He’d slipped into his brother’s life like a shadow slipping into clothes still warm from the body. And now—now—she was calling him Vee again. Not with suspicion. Not with distance. With affection. With trust.

With something dangerously close to love.

He opened his eyes, staring at the city lights bleeding through the gaps in the curtains. A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips—not the gentle one he wore for her, but the sharper, private one he saved for when no one was watching.

“Bolo na, jaana,” he said quietly, voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Aur kya hua aaj?”

She launched right back in, oblivious, happy, safe in the illusion he’d so carefully built.

And Virat listened.

Not because he cared about the chai-wala or the Kishore Kumar songs.

But because every word she spoke was another knot tying her closer.

Another piece of evidence that his brother’s ghost was fading.

And that Ishani—sweet, chaotic, impossible Ishani—was slowly, surely, becoming his.

He took a slow sip of whiskey, the burn pleasant against the cool satisfaction blooming in his chest.

Plan on track.

Very much on track.
.......................
Then one humid, moonless night, Ishani waited.

She had chosen the same secluded stretch of road behind the old warehouse complex—the one with cracked asphalt, flickering streetlights that died every few minutes, and walls overgrown with thorny creepers. He had texted earlier: Raat 10 baje wahi milte hain. Wait karna, jaana. Important baat hai. She had replied with a simple Okay and a heart emoji, even though something in her stomach had twisted uneasily.

Now she stood under the weak orange glow of the only working lamp, arms wrapped around herself against the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. She wore a simple black oversized hoodie over a fitted white tank and dark jeans—comfort clothes, nothing fancy, because she hadn’t planned to impress tonight. Just to see him. Just to talk. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to stick to her damp neck.

Minutes dragged into twenty. Then thirty.

No footsteps. No shadow emerging from the dark. Just the distant bark of a stray dog and the occasional whoosh of a car on the main road far away.

Inside, fear crawled up her spine like cold fingers. The road felt longer, emptier, more dangerous with every passing second. She kept glancing over her shoulder, heart thudding too loud in her ears. But on the outside? She stayed rooted. Chin up. Shoulders straight. Refusing to let the darkness win.

He’ll come, she told herself. He always comes.

From a distance—hidden behind the rusted gate of an abandoned plot—Virat watched.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, phone in hand. The screen lit his face in cold blue every time it vibrated.

“Ishani🩷” flashing again. And again.

He let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound swallowed by the night.

Kitni dheet hai yeh ladki.

Most women would have left by now. Called a cab. Texted a friend. Run. But Ishani? She stood there like she was daring the dark to touch her. Stubborn. Fierce. Foolish.

He had expected her to break after fifteen minutes. Twenty at most.

But she waited.

His thumb hovered over the silent button. Another call came in. The screen glowed brighter.

He laughed again—quiet, evil, satisfied—and flicked the phone to silent. The name “Ishani🩷” kept pulsing like a heartbeat he could ignore.

After forty-five minutes, when her silhouette finally began to shift—small, reluctant steps backward—he straightened.

Bas itna hi.

He slipped away into the shadows, footsteps soundless, leaving her alone with the night.

Next morning.

Ishani’s phone rang at 8:17 AM.

She stared at the screen for four rings. “Vish❤️” with that stupid heart she still hadn’t removed.

She almost didn’t pick up.

But on the fifth ring, she swiped.

A clipped “Hello.”

Her voice was ice. Flat. Guarded.

On the other end, Virat softened his tone instantly—weak, almost broken.

“Jaana…”

He let the word hang, laced with just the right amount of worry, the right tremor.

Silence stretched. Then her voice—sharper, but cracking at the edges.

“Vish, thik ho na? Awaaz aisi kyun hai??”

He could hear it: the anger warring with concern. The fear she’d carried all night bleeding into protectiveness now that he sounded hurt.

Perfect.

He exhaled shakily into the phone, like a man who’d barely slept.

“Mujhe… raat ko kuch emergency aa gaya tha. Phone bhi network nahi tha wahan. Main socha tha subah bataunga… par tumse baat nahi hui toh dil nahi maan raha tha. Sorry, jaana. Sach mein sorry.”

He let his voice drop lower, more vulnerable.

“Tum… theek ho? Raat bhar wait kiya na?”

He knew the answer. He’d seen her standing there.

There was a long pause on her end.

When she spoke again, the ice had thawed—just a fraction.

“Haan… wait kiya.”

Her voice was quieter now. Smaller.

“Par tum nahi aaye.”

The hurt in those four words was so raw it almost made him pause.

Almost.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, a slow smile curling his lips even as he kept his tone soft, apologetic.

“Main aa jata, jaana. Bas… ek baar aur mauka do. Aaj shaam. Wahi jagah. Promise. Is baar main khud aaunga. Tum bas aa jana.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, softly, reluctantly:

“Thik hai.”

He closed his eyes, satisfaction spreading warm and dark through his chest.

She was still his.

Angry. Hurt. Worried.

But still waiting.

Still his.