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The train jolts forward, picking up speed as it pulls away from the platform, blending into the hum of the summer afternoon. Shubman leans lazily against the open door, one hand loosely gripping the metal railing, his gaze unfocused as he stares at the landscape blurring past him.

The warm breeze tangles his hair, carrying the faint scent of dust and chai—familiar, unremarkable—yet something about the moment feels restless, like the universe is holding its breath. It is the kind of pause where the ordinary world stands still for just a fraction of a second, waiting for something—or someone—to happen.

And then it does.

The voice, sharp and frantic, tears through the air like an alarm. "RUKO! Train roko! Ruk jao!" [STOP! Stop the train! Stop!] It isn't the usual background noise of a busy station—it is urgent, panicked, and unmistakably feminine.

Shubman's head snaps toward the sound, his brow furrowing as he scans the platform. His first instinct is to dismiss it—kaun itna late hota hai yaar?—but his curiosity betrays him, his eyes narrowing as they land on the source of the commotion.

And there she is.

At first glance, she is a blur of color—a mix of white and red and an explosion of florals—as if a monsoon storm has come alive in human form and decided to chase down a moving train.

She is running full tilt, jutti smacking the concrete, her hands clutching the handle of a pastel blue suitcase that looks moments away from flipping over and rolling into oblivion.

A bright yellow dupatta trails behind her like a banner—fluttering wildly, tangled in its own chaos—her every movement teetering on the edge of calamity.

There is an urgency in the way she moves, as if the train isn't just her ticket to a destination but her lifeline, and missing it isn't an option.

Her white chikankari kurta—simple, delicate, yet carrying an air of effortless grace—billows around her like it belongs to someone untouchable, someone ethereal.

The hem is piped in crimson, the thread catching the moonlight as she runs, every flicker adding to the drama she unintentionally creates. The floral salwar—loud and unapologetically bold—seems at odds with the simplicity of her kurta, but somehow, it works.

A riot of red and pink blossoms splattered across cream fabric, as if she's stepped straight out of an artist's dream, untouched by the grays and browns of the platform around her.

And her feet—adorned with jutti sandals that have no business being practical for running—seem to glide as much as stumble, refusing to give up no matter how ridiculous the odds look.

It should be comical. Should be. But it isn't.

Shubman blinks once, slowly, his mouth falling slightly open before he manages to recover himself. He's seen beautiful girls before—countless times, at matches, at events, in the places his profession takes him—but this... this is something else entirely.

She isn't just beautiful in the conventional, polished sense. There is something raw and alive about her beauty, something real.

Her long hair—glossy and untamed—spills around her shoulders in dark waves, lifting and falling with the rhythm of her desperate sprint, a few strands plastered to her forehead where her sweat has gathered.

It should look disheveled, imperfect even, but instead, it looks impossibly right—as if the wind has conspired with the moment to frame her face just so.

And that face.

It is a canvas painted with chaos and grace, her round cheeks flushed a deep pink—whether from the heat, the exertion, or the sheer indignity of running after a train, Shubman can't tell.

Her full lips—slightly parted, trembling with exertion—are a perfect shade of crimson, smudged in a way that suggests she hasn't reapplied her lipstick all day but doesn't need to.

Her nose crinkles adorably with every frustrated breath she takes, like she's already cursing the universe for conspiring against her, while her large eyes—wide and kohl-rimmed—flash with equal parts panic, determination, and something unmistakably stubborn.

They aren't just beautiful eyes; they are the kind of eyes that tell stories—stories of mischief, of late-night secrets, of laughter that lingers long after the joke has ended.

Gold jhumkas sway furiously from her ears, catching the moonlight with every bounce, their jingling almost lost to the noise of the moving train.

Bangles—red and gold—clink against her wrists as if protesting her reckless sprint, but she ignores them, focused only on the narrowing distance between her and the train.

Her Dior bag—an ill-fated accessory for this madness—thumps against her hip as she runs, while the yellow dupatta dances behind her like a stubborn child refusing to be tamed.

Every detail about her—right down to the stubborn twist of her lips as she mutters under her breath—feels alive, unfiltered, and magnetic.

And in that moment, Shubman can't look away.

He stands frozen, the world around him blurring as if it no longer matters. The train rumbles louder, the platform shrinking with every second, but all he can focus on is her.

"Tujhe dekha to yeh jana sanam

Pyar hota hai deewana sanam"

The words echo faintly, like a teasing whisper from somewhere deep in his memory, and his heart stumbles over itself in agreement.

He doesn't know how or why, but somehow, the image of this girl—this stranger—rushing toward him as though she is chasing the horizon, feels like a moment he isn't supposed to miss.

The sheer absurdity of it all should break the spell—the chaos of her movements, the stubborn suitcase dragging along behind her, the dupatta that refuses to obey the wind—but instead, it pulls him deeper.

She is a contradiction, all soft edges and sharp defiance, a blend of elegance and utter chaos that should clash but doesn't.

Shubman's heart thuds in his chest as his hand lifts on its own, fingers splayed and reaching into the rushing air, as though drawn to her by some invisible, magnetic pull.

It is instinct, pure and uncontrollable. He doesn't realize he's moved forward, one step closer to the edge of the doorframe, until he feels the wind hit him harder.

For a moment, Shubman feels something unfamiliar—a jolt somewhere deep in his chest, sharp enough to make him take a step forward without even realizing it.

His hand lifts instinctively, his fingers reaching out into the rushing wind, as if drawn to her by an invisible thread.

And then, in the space of a single, frozen breath, her eyes lock with his.

"Pyar hota hai hai deewana sanam..."

Wide, frantic, and unguarded—her gaze catches him mid-motion, as though she hadn't expected him to be there at all, as though he's materialized out of thin air, a lifeline she hadn't dared hope for.

Her dark lashes quiver ever so slightly as she stares back at him, breathless and uncertain, like she's standing at the very edge of a precipice. For a fleeting second, the sheer disbelief in her eyes slows her down, her panic halting like a restless tide finally meeting a dam.

And in that moment, something passes between them—weightless, wordless, and impossible to name—as if time itself has conspired to hold its breath.

For Shubman, there is no hesitation. None.

The wind howls around them, tugging at the loose ends of her kurta and his t-shirt, their surroundings a blurred flurry of movement—train wheels screaming against the tracks, voices echoing in the distance—but it all melts away, leaving only her outstretched hand and his instinct to reach for it.

He lunges forward, leaning dangerously close to the train's edge, his fingers outstretched and straining until—finally—her hand meets his.

"Tujhe dekha to yeh jana sanam

Pyar hota hai deewana sanam..."

It is small, her fingers soft but firm in his grip, trembling slightly, as if she can't believe she's managed to grab hold of him.

But it isn't just the contact of their skin that jolts him—it is the weight of her trust, the unspoken plea in the way her fingers cling to his as though he's the last thread keeping her from being swallowed whole by the chaos.

With a strength born of urgency, Shubman tightens his hold around her wrist and pulls. Hard. The sudden force of it knocks the air out of both of them, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she's yanked upward with a jolt.

Her body, propelled by the speed of his tug and the momentum of her run, leaves the ground entirely, her feet skimming the platform before she's lifted aboard.

The world tilts.

Shubman staggers back, caught off guard by her weight—not heavy, but solid enough to pull him off balance.

She isn't featherlight like some damsel out of an old-school fairytale; there is something real about the way she moves, her curves of her waist anchoring her to the earth even as he tries to stabilize them.

It happens too fast for him to process—her weight shifts, her bag and suitcase trailing behind her, and before he knows it, his back hits the floor of the train with a dull, resounding thud.

He grunts, the force of the fall knocking the breath from his lungs, but before he can comprehend anything else, she lands on top of him.

"Ab yahan se kahan jaayein hum...

Teri baahon mein mar jaayein hum."

It isn't graceful—not even close. Her body collides with his chest, the softness of her form crashing into the solidity of his. He hears the faintest whoosh of air leave her lips as the shock of the landing ripples through both of them.

For a second, they remain motionless—he's flat on his back, sprawled across the cold metal floor of the compartment, while she's sprawled against him, her hands braced instinctively on his chest, as though trying to steady herself.

The suitcase and bag tumble beside them, landing with an indignant thump, but neither of them pays attention. The entire world seems to hold its breath again—time freezing in place—as Shubman's senses register everything at once.

Her hair is the first thing he notices. Loose strands have fallen across her face in a dark, disheveled mess, the silken waves tickling his jawline where they graze him.

It smells faintly of something sweet—jasmine, maybe, or the faintest hint of rosewater—and he's struck by how alive it feels, not like the artificial fragrances he's grown used to, but something earthy and real.

Then his eyes travel to hers—wide and startled, dark pools reflecting the shiny moonlight streaming through the window behind them. Her cheeks, flushed and impossibly round, carry a rosy hue that looks almost painted, a natural bloom of warmth against her ivory skin.

The proximity is dizzying, every tiny detail of her face magnified to startling clarity: the faint freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose, the trembling curve of her lips as she tries to catch her breath, the way her lashes fan out like black silk against her skin.

One embroidered Punjabi jutti, a soft ivory with delicate floral threadwork, lies in perfect view where it rested mid-air before collapsing softly against the floor, the little jhangroo bells stitched on its edge chiming faintly.

It's too much—too chaotic, too absurd, too beautiful.

Shubman doesn't know how long they stay like that, her heartbeat thrumming faintly against his chest, their breathing a mismatched, uneven rhythm.

It feels as if the entire train has gone silent around them, the shouts of passengers and the clatter of movement fading into a distant hum.

She's so close he can see the faint glimmer of smell the faint vanilla, jasmine warmth radiating off her body, so close he suddenly forgets how to think.

A sharp exhale escapes her, the soft puff of breath brushing against his throat as she struggles to regain her composure. Shubman freezes, his body rigid beneath her.

The moment feels impossible—like something out of a scene he's accidentally wandered into, one he hasn't been prepared for.

And then, as if realizing where she is—how close she is—her eyes flicker, startled, and she scrambles to move. Her fingers fumble against his chest for balance, the press of her palms lingering far longer than reasonable, before she pushes herself off with a mix of embarrassment and urgency.

The movement sends another faint jingle from her jutti's bells echoing in the otherwise quiet compartment, and Shubman swears he can feel the phantom weight of her presence against him even after she's gone.

She sits back slightly, her hands smoothing the creases of her kameez, her cheeks burning redder than before, as though the entire ordeal has stolen the words right from her.

And Shubman, still flat on his back, still breathless, can only stare at her in stunned silence.

For the first time in his life, Shubman Gill doesn't know what to say.

But, of course, she does.

"Aap..." [You...] she starts, her voice sharp and incredulous, though the flush across her face betrays the embarrassment she's trying to mask.

She pauses, taking in a steadying breath as though preparing for battle, and then, as though he's committed some grave crime, she points an accusing finger right at him.

"Seriously? Aap humesha yeh karte ho kya? Filmon ke hero banne ka try?" [Seriously? Do you always do this? Trying to act like a movie hero?]

Shubman blinks at her. The words barely register, but the tone—half outrage, half exasperation—rings loud and clear.

He pushes himself into a sitting position, one hand combing through his disheveled hair, his movements slow and deliberate as he tries to process the fact that this girl—this storm—is actually scolding him.

"Main kya kar raha tha?" [What was I doing?] he manages finally, his voice somewhere between confusion and amusement.

Isha's eyes widen, as if she can't believe what she is hearing. "Arre waah! Ab toh pooch bhi rahe ho? Aapka dhyaan kahaan tha, mister? Haath badhake mujhe hero ki tarah pakadne ki zaroorat kya thi?" [Wow! Now you're asking? Where was your attention, mister? Why did you need to stretch out your hand and catch me like a hero?]

"Maine tumhe bachaaya," [I saved you,] Shubman argues back, his brow furrowing in mild disbelief. "Aur tum mujhe hi daant rahi ho?" [And you're scolding me instead?]

"Haan, kyunki bachane ke liye pehle common sense hona chahiye," [Yes, because saving someone requires common sense first,] she shoots back, throwing her hands up in frustration. Her bangles clink noisily with the motion, the sound cutting through the soft hum of the train wheels against the tracks.

"Aur aapke paas toh woh bilkul nahi hai! Aapko samajh nahi aata kya—aisa jab train platform se jaa rahi ho, toh aise raaste mein nahi khade hote, taki baki log bhi chad sake? Mujhe toh aapka haath pakadna bhi nahi tha, lekin aapke hero-giri ke chakkar mein main girte-girte bach gayi! Agar neeche gir jaati toh?" [And you don't have that at all! Don't you understand that when the train is leaving the platform, you shouldn't stand in the way so others can get on too? I didn't even want to grab your hand, but because of your hero antics, I barely avoided falling! What if I had fallen down?]

Shubman stares at her, incredulous. "Toh main aur fast react karta." [Then I would've reacted even faster.]

Her mouth falls open in horror and disbelief, her hands flying dramatically to her temples as though his words had physically pained her. "Fast react karte? Oh, toh ab aap Superman bhi ho gaye? Wah!" [React faster? Oh, so now you're Superman? Wow!]

She shakes her head vehemently, her curls bouncing with the movement. "Main toh keh rahi hoon aapke upar case karna chahiye. Mental stress ka case!" [I'm telling you, someone should file a case against you. A mental stress case!

He can't help it—a laugh escapes him. Short, sharp, and entirely unbidden. It reverberates through the stillness of the free stand area, a sound that seemed both out of place and far too fitting at the same time. He bites the inside of his cheek almost immediately, but it is too late—she's heard it.

Her head snaps toward him so quickly he almost flinches, and there, in the dim light of the train, he sees it—that glare. The kind that can reduce a lesser man to dust. If looks could kill, Shubman Gill would already be a distant memory.

"Hasi kyun aa rahi hai aapko?" [Why are you laughing?] she demands, voice sharp and clipped as her hands clutch tightly at the fabric of her kurta, her knuckles whitening with the firmness of her grip.

It's as if she needs something to anchor herself—to keep from, perhaps, launching at him in indignation.

Her tone carries that telltale edge of irritation, but underneath it all, there's something else too—something frayed and embarrassed, as though she's still reeling from the sheer absurdity of what just happened.

"Main serious hoon, okay?" [I'm serious, okay?] she adds, huffing out a breath as though trying to calm herself down, but her cheeks betray her, still faintly pink against her otherwise perfectly composed face.

"Ek toh pehle hi jaan pe bani thi—upar se aap..." [My life was already in danger—and on top of that, you...] She trails off, her words faltering as the memory catches up with her, and her eyes dart away, too restless to hold his gaze for long.

They land somewhere beyond him, toward the streaks of darkness flashing past the window, as if it can somehow spare her from reliving it all over again.

When she finally speaks again, her voice is quieter but no less pointed. "Aur yeh sab aapki wajah se hua." [And all this happened because of you.]

Shubman, who has been leaning up on one elbow by now, blinks at her, stunned by the audacity of it all. His brows shoot up as he processes her accusation, and for a moment, he wonders if he's heard her wrong.

"Meri wajah se?" [Because of me?] he repeats, incredulity bleeding into every syllable as he sits up properly, turning fully to face her now. "Maine toh tumhara saaman pakda. Tumhe bhi pakda. Tumhare liye train chhodni chahiye thi kya?" [I grabbed your luggage. Grabbed you too. Should I have missed the train for you?]

The disbelief in his voice only seems to fuel her. She turns to him again, this time fully—her face scrunching up in frustration as her hands fly into the air, gesturing wildly to emphasize her point.

"Waise ek baat bataiye," [So, tell me one thing,] she begins, her tone bordering on incredulous herself, as though she can't quite wrap her head around the situation. "Train ke darwaze pe kaun khade rehta hai? Haan?" [Who stands at the train door? Huh?] She doesn't even wait for him to answer, shaking her head at him like she can't believe he exists.

"Koi sense hai? Log train ke andar baithte hain. Darwaze pe khade hone ka kya matlab tha? Aapka koi special mission tha kya? 'Platform ke logon ko poori tarah dekhna hai—ek bhi miss nahi hona chahiye?'" [Does it make any sense? People sit inside the train. What was the point of standing at the door? Did you have a special mission? 'I must see all the people on the platform—can't miss even one?']

He stares at her for half a second, his mouth opening as if to respond, but she's on a roll now, and there's no stopping her.

"Matlab seriously," [I mean, seriously,] she goes on, her voice rising a pitch higher with every word. "Pehle mujhe laga aapko koi aur kaam-dhanda nahi hoga. Lekin ab lag raha hai—yeh sab toh aapki purani aadat hai. Kya socha tha? Hero banenge? Mujhe pakad ke train mein chadha diya aur phir main..." [At first, I thought you might not have any other work. But now it feels like—this is just an old habit of yours. What did you think? You'd become a hero? You grabbed me, pulled me into the train, and then I...] She pauses, suddenly registering the absurdity of her own words, and that blush creeps up her face again, a fierce crimson blooming from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

She clamps her mouth shut for half a beat, suddenly embarrassed that her own rant has taken such a dramatic turn.

Shubman can't hold back this time. The corners of his mouth quirk upward in an annoyance he doesn't bother hiding, and he leans back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at her. "Arey, toh chalti train pe aise bhaag-bhaag ke kaun chadta hai?" [Oh really, so who runs and jumps onto a moving train like that?] he shoots back, unable to resist the urge to counter her.

His tone is full of agitation, but it only earns him a fresh glare as she stiffens, clearly unwilling to lose ground. "Mujhe kya pata tha ki aap darwaze pe statue ban ke khade rahe honge?" [How was I supposed to know you'd be standing there like a statue at the door?] she retorts sharply, her eyes narrowing even further.

"Aur agar aapne ek second ke liye side de diya hota na, toh main khud chadh jaati. Mujhe aapki madad ki bilkul zarurat nahi thi, thank you very much." [And if you had moved aside for just a second, I would have climbed on myself. I didn't need your help at all, thank you very much.]

Her words are accompanied by an expressive roll of her eyes, but even as she speaks, her hands fuss with the hem of her now slightly torn white kameez, as if fixing it will somehow repair her pride. There's no denying the faint pink flush rising to her cheeks, a telltale sign of embarrassment poorly disguised as anger.

Shubman tilts his head, regarding her with the kind of half-interested amusement one might reserve for an overly dramatic monologue. "Main statue tha? Main toh tumhari jaan bacha raha tha, madam,"  [I was standing like a statue? I was saving your life, madam,] his tone now bordering on exasperation, though his eyes glint with the faintest hint of a challenge.

"Aur waise bhi, agar ek second ke liye sambhal ke chadh jaati, toh ye saara drama zarurat hi nahi hota." [And anyway, if you'd climbed carefully for just a second, all this drama wouldn't have been necessary.]

For a fleeting moment, she falters, her hand pausing mid-air as she reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

The image of her hands pressed against his chest flashes unbidden in her mind, and for a moment, her voice catches in her throat. But she is quick to recover, her chin lifting in defiance as she levels him with another glare.

"Drama?" [Drama?] she echoes incredulously. "Aap mujhe keh rahe ho drama? Main toh bas chadh rahi thi train pe. Aapko na unnecessarily hero ban'ne ka shauk hai." [You're calling me drama? I was just getting on the train. You have an unnecessary obsession with playing the hero.]

Shubman can't help the dry laugh that escapes him, shaking his head in disbelief. "Hero ban'ne ka?" [Playing the hero?] he repeats, his voice tinged with mockery as he gestures vaguely toward her feet. "Tumhare balance dekh ke toh mujhe laga tha ki bas do second aur, aur tum seedha neeche platform pe milti." [Looking at your balance, I thought, just two more seconds, and you'd be flat on the platform below.]

Her eyes flare at the jab, but she can hardly argue the point. The memory of her near fall, her feet skidding slightly on the edge of the compartment, is still fresh, though she refuses to let it show.

Instead, she juts her chin out defiantly, her hands now clenched into fists in her lap as though sheer willpower will erase the redness creeping across her face.

"Main sambhal jaati," [I'd have managed,] she retorts firmly, though there's a slight tremor in her voice that betrays her uncertainty.

Shubman arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Haan, sambhal jaati," [Yeah, you would've managed,] he says, his words slow and deliberate, as though testing their weight. "Wahi sambhalne ka tareeqa jo abhi train ke darwaze pe dikha tha?" [The same managing technique you showed at the train door just now?]

His eyes flicker pointedly to her elbow, where a fresh scrape is slowly staining her pristine white sleeve red.

Her gaze follows his, and for a moment, she freezes, staring at the deep crimson blooming across the fabric. With an audible huff, she twists away from him, clutching her arm as if shielding it from further humiliation.

"Point yeh hai," [The point is,] she mutters, more to herself now, her tone faltering but still laced with irritation, "ki mujhe aapki help ki zarurat nahi thi." [I didn't need your help.]

Shubman leans back further, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that speaks volumes of his growing impatience. "Haan, woh toh main dekh hi raha tha," [Yeah, I could clearly see that,] he mutters under his breath, his words just loud enough to reach her ears.

There's a tense silence that settles between them, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels and the occasional creak of the compartment.

Isha sits stiffly, her hands fumbling with the edges of her dupatta as though it holds the answers to her wounded pride. Her jaw tightens, her lips press into a thin line, but the faint quiver in her fingers betrays her nerves.

"Poy thula!" [Get lost!] she mumbles suddenly, the words slipping out before she can stop them, the phrase escaping with a lilting sharpness.

She slams her hands onto her lap in a gesture of frustration, her entire frame practically vibrating with pent-up annoyance as she turns away from him, pointedly inspecting her scraped elbow with exaggerated focus.

Shubman's brows knit together, the sharp crease between them deepening as he straightens his posture.

The faint trace of amusement that had been lingering on his face earlier dissolves, replaced by something sharper—offense flickering like a shadow across his expression.

His hand drops from where it had been running through his hair, and he leans forward slightly, planting his elbows firmly on his knees.

His gaze is unwavering, his dark eyes narrowing as they lock onto her, heavy with unspoken accusation. When he speaks, his voice is measured, the deliberate slowness of each word laced with irritation.

"Oh, hello, madam," [Oh, hello, madam,] he begins, the faintest edge of sarcasm curling his tone. "Bolna hai toh seedha bolo. Yeh gaali-waali dene ki zaroorat nahi hai, samjhi?" [If you want to say something, say it directly. There's no need to use cuss words, understood?]

There is no aggression in his tone—Shubman isn't the kind of man to lose his temper outright. But there is a firmness, a weight to his words, that makes it clear he isn't someone who takes slights lightly.

His voice carries an authority that doesn't demand attention so much as it commands it, even if his irritation is barely concealed beneath the veneer of restraint.

For a moment, the only sound that follows is the faint, rhythmic hum of the train beneath them, punctuating the charged silence that has settled between them like static electricity.

Isha's head snaps around at his accusation, her dark eyes widening slightly, though the look of surprise that crosses her face is fleeting. In its place comes something harder, sharper—a stubborn narrowing of her gaze that is quickly followed by the subtle tightening of her lips.

She doesn't speak, nor does she bother to defend herself, though the faint flare of her nostrils betrays the effort it takes to hold back whatever biting retort has sprung to the tip of her tongue.

Instead, she exhales sharply through her nose, turning away from him with a dismissive tilt of her chin. Her hands move with purpose as she dabs at the scrape on her elbow, the motion almost deliberately forceful, as though the sharp sting of pain will anchor her rising frustration.

Her silence, however, only seems to fuel Shubman's irritation. He sits up straighter, his movements precise, like someone trying very hard not to lose control.

His voice rises slightly—not enough to be considered shouting, but just enough to let her know he isn't in the mood for games. "Acha, ab chup bhi rahogi?" [Okay, so now you're just going to stay silent?] he asks, his tone carrying the faintest edge of incredulity.

"Ek toh main yahan tumhari help kar raha tha, aur upar se tum mujhe hi gaali de rahi ho? Kya mazak hai." [First, I was helping you, and now you're swearing at me? What kind of joke is this?]

The train gives a gentle jolt, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels momentarily shifting as it rounds a slight curve. Neither of them seems to notice. Shubman's words hang in the air, unanswered, and though he is staring directly at her, Isha refuses to meet his gaze.

Her lips twitch, as though she is on the verge of saying something, but she quickly catches herself. Instead, she pushes herself up from her seat, her focus remaining resolutely fixed on her injured elbow even as her jaw tightens imperceptibly.

"Main tumse baat kar raha hoon," [I'm talking to you,] Shubman presses, his patience visibly fraying now. He gestures toward her with an open hand, palm up, as though he is demanding—not asking—for an explanation.

His voice, though controlled, carries an undercurrent of exasperation. "Tumhe lagta hai ki main yahan tumhari complaints sunane aya hoon?" [Do you think I came here to listen to your complaints?]

Still, she doesn't respond. Her fingers still briefly against the reddened skin of her elbow before resuming their motions, but the rigidity in her shoulders is impossible to miss. Her silence isn't accidental, nor is it meant to avoid confrontation. It is deliberate—pointed, even.

She has no intention of explaining herself, especially not to this man, who clearly doesn't care to listen in the first place. And yet, the air around her seems charged, as if her unspoken thoughts are practically vibrating, just waiting to spill out.

The compartment sways again, the subtle motion throwing the light above them into a faint flicker. Shubman huffs, a sharp exhalation of air that is almost more audible than his words.

Rising to his feet with an abrupt motion, he mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to the confined space of the compartment. "Bas, ab bohat gaya," [ENOUGH IS he grumbles, the irritation clear in his tone.

He isn't entirely sure why this is getting under his skin so much. It isn't like he has anything to prove to her. She is just a stranger—a frustrating, stubborn, inexplicably infuriating stranger.

And yet, there is something about her silence that gnaws at him, digging beneath his skin in a way that he can't quite explain. It isn't just the fact that she is ignoring him.

It is the way she carries herself—the way her defiance is so palpable, so deliberate, as though she is daring him to push further.

Without thinking, Shubman reaches out, his fingers wrapping firmly but not harshly around her biceps. The suddenness of the motion startles her, and she takes an instinctive step back, her jutti clicking faintly against the metal floor.

Her elbow throbs faintly with the movement, but she ignores it, leaning slightly against the doorframe as though it will steady her.

The closeness is almost suffocating; she can feel his presence beside her like a tangible weight, heavy and inescapable. Still, she keeps her gaze firmly ahead, refusing to meet his eyes even as her pulse quickens ever so slightly.

Shubman lets out a slow, deliberate exhale, a deep breath that seems to carry the weight of the growing frustration building within him. His hand, which has been running through his hair for what feels like the hundredth time, drops down to his side, fingers flexing in a futile attempt to release some of the tension tightening in his chest.

His eyes, once narrowed and focused on her, now flicker down briefly to the faint scuff marks left on the floor from her restless pacing. The traces of her movement across the metal surface of the train seem to bother him more than he cares to admit.

Perhaps it's the constant reminder of her agitation, the way she can't seem to sit still, or maybe it's the fact that it is somehow affecting him more than it should.

With a sharp shake of his head, Shubman mutters under his breath, his voice low, nearly drowned out by the sound of the train clattering along the tracks. His words are coated with a touch of sarcasm, though the irritation that tinges them is unmistakable.

"Mujhe toh laga tha ki yeh train ki journey shanti se nikle gi," [I thought this train journey would be peaceful,] he says, his tone carrying a slight edge, the sarcasm woven into the words, though it is clear he isn't actually joking. "Par yahan toh tum ho." [But here you are.]

Isha's head snaps around at his words, the sudden shift in her attention sharp and deliberate.

Her eyes, which had been cast downward just moments before, now lock onto his with a coldness that can almost be felt across the distance between them. It is as if his remark has lit a fuse, and she isn't about to let him get away with it so easily.

"Agar itni shanti chahiye thi na," [If you wanted so much peace,] she replies, her voice slicing through the tension that has thickened in the air like a blade, "toh apne ghar ke drawing room mein baith jaate. Train mein kyun aaye?" [you should have sat in your drawing room at home. Why did you come to the train?]

Her words are calculated, precise, no hesitation in her tone. It isn't just a retort—it's a challenge, one she is fully prepared to defend.

There is no softness in her voice now, no trace of the carefully constructed composure she had tried to maintain earlier. Instead, there is something sharper in the way she speaks, something almost daring.

Beneath the surface, however, there is a flicker—just a brief, flickering hint—that perhaps, just perhaps, she is enjoying the fire of their exchange more than she is willing to admit.

Shubman's jaw clenches at her response, his lips pressing together in a thin line as he leans back slightly, tilting his head as if trying to put some distance between them—though they are already separated by a mere few feet.

The way she speaks, the biting sharpness of her words, is enough to make him want to retreat, if only just to clear his head.

His gaze falls momentarily to the metal floor beneath them, as if searching for something—anything—to ground him in the moment, to defuse the growing tension. But his frustration only seems to mount.

"Tumse toh baat karna hi bekar hai," [Talking to you is pointless,] Shubman mutters to himself, his words slipping out more as a resigned statement than an insult.

He isn't sure why he is even engaging with her anymore. He hadn't wanted this confrontation in the first place.

All he had wanted was a quiet train ride, a few hours of solitude to clear his mind. But somehow, this woman, with her sharp words and even sharper silence, has managed to throw him off balance.

Isha hears the words and feels an involuntary twist of annoyance knot her stomach. She hadn't expected him to respond like this—at least not with resignation. It's almost as if he has given up, as if he thinks she'll just stop talking.

But she isn't the type to back down so easily, especially not when she can feel the spark of tension between them, hanging thick in the air like smoke.

Without missing a beat, she shoots back, her voice cutting through the space between them with startling clarity.

"Toh baat kyun kar rahe hain aap?" [Then why are you talking?] she asks, her words sharp, each syllable practically snapping in the air. The question isn't just a challenge—it's a dare. "Jaiye na, apni seat pe." [Go on, sit in your seat.]

The way she speaks, the way her eyes hold his gaze without so much as flinching, makes it clear that she isn't intimidated.

In fact, there is a subtle, almost imperceptible satisfaction in the way her lips curl up at the corners, a small but undeniable victory in her retort. She has no idea why she is engaging with him so fiercely.

He is just another stranger on this train, someone who has been thrust into her world of frustration and annoyance, but for some reason, she can't seem to walk away. Not yet.

Shubman, for his part, had expected something different—maybe silence, maybe a quick apology, anything to ease the tension—but instead, she is standing her ground. She isn't backing down, isn't playing by the rules he has subconsciously expected her to follow.

His body, still tense and rigid, seems to pulse with an internal struggle—whether it is his desire to keep his distance or his unwillingness to let this conversation die. He can't quite figure it out.

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of them utters a single word. The world around them seems to shrink, the constant hum of the train wheels rolling along the tracks beneath them the only sound filling the space between them.

It's a sound that should be calming, steady, almost reassuring in its rhythmic consistency.

Yet in this moment, it amplifies the tension, making the silence feel all the more oppressive. Each passing second hangs in the air like an invisible weight, pressing down on them both, as if daring one of them to speak first.

Isha's eyes remain fixed ahead, her posture tense, as if she is waiting for the first move. Her chest rises and falls slowly, her breath measured, though her body vibrates with an undercurrent of restlessness, frustration simmering just beneath her calm exterior.

She refuses to let her gaze flicker toward Shubman, though she can feel his presence beside her—close enough to make her aware of every shift in his stance, every subtle movement he makes.

The space between them feels like an invisible battlefield, one where neither is willing to give an inch.

Shubman, on the other hand, visibly struggles to keep his composure. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers fidgeting by his side as he resists the overwhelming urge to break the silence.

His eyes, dark and intense, stay trained on the floor, though his mind is far from the mundane sight of scuffed metal. His thoughts swirl with irritation, confusion, and something else—something he isn't ready to name.

He's annoyed, yes, but there's something about her—the way she refuses to yield—that stirs something deeper, something that has nothing to do with the frustration of their exchange.

Then he notices it—the faint, almost imperceptible trickle of blood running down her arm. His gaze snaps to her, drawn to the red stain spreading slowly across the sleeve of her shirt, where the fabric clings to the exposed skin of her elbow.

For a moment, he just stares, his eyes locked on the injury, a mixture of surprise and mild concern flickering in the depths of his gaze. The sight of it catches him off guard, like an unexpected twist in a story he hasn't prepared for.

Isha, feeling the weight of his stare on her injury, instinctively tries to cover it, her arm pulling away from view. She looks down, her fingers brushing against the bloodstained fabric, as if trying to hide the evidence of her carelessness.

The sudden awareness of her injury, the sharp sting that has dulled into a low throb, makes her more conscious of the situation than she was moments ago.

She isn't sure why it matters that he's seen it—perhaps it's the way his gaze lingers, or maybe it's the fleeting moment of vulnerability she feels at the exposure. Either way, she refuses to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

Shubman, still standing there, his hands now clenched at his sides, lets out a short, irritated breath. It's not exactly anger, but there's a simmering frustration beneath the surface, something he can't quite shake.

He means to ignore her, to move on from the pointless back-and-forth that has done nothing but fuel his irritation.

But now, seeing her like that, there's an unfamiliar pull within him—something urging him to do something, anything, other than stand there and watch.

With a sharp shake of his head, as though trying to clear the thoughts crowding his mind, Shubman turns abruptly.

He doesn't say anything, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he strides back toward his seat, his footsteps heavy on the metal floor of the compartment. The distance between them, though only a few feet, feels like miles.

He wants to sit, to put space between them and the simmering tension clinging to the air around them. But as he walks, his gaze lingers on her for just a moment longer, his mind racing with thoughts he can't quite place.

Isha stands there for a moment, her body unmoving, as though frozen by the lingering tension in the air. The soft creaking of the train, the gentle sway of the compartment as it rolls steadily along the tracks, all feels distant in this moment.

She hears his footsteps fading behind her, the faint scrape of his shoes against the cold metal floor, but she keeps her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to glance back.

The silence settling between them carries a weight—one she's unwilling to acknowledge or doesn't quite know how to handle. She isn't sure what to make of the brief exchange they just had.

The whole interaction leaves a strange taste in her mouth, a bitterness she can't quite shake, even though, deep down, she knows it's a small thing—a fleeting encounter that, in the grand scheme of her day, will probably be forgotten.

But it isn't the exchange with him that bothers her. It's the principle of it—the sudden coldness from someone who, at first glance, didn't seem so difficult to engage with.

That sharp, dismissive tone catches her off guard. Isha isn't used to that. She's used to people smiling back at her, returning her warmth with their own.

She's always been the one to diffuse tension, to lighten the mood with a well-timed smile or a silly joke, but here she is, standing alone in a compartment filled with nothing but the steady hum of the train's movement. And she can't understand why it bothers her so much.

Taking a deep breath, she exhales, trying to shake off the lingering irritation. Her eyes soften for a moment, and she absentmindedly runs her fingers over the handle of her Christian Dior Tote.

The cool, smooth leather beneath her fingertips feels like a small comfort, grounding her back to reality. This is supposed to be a fun trip, after all. Her first-ever train journey. She's been looking forward to this for weeks.

The excitement of watching the scenery blur past her window, the rhythm of the train lulling her into a peaceful trance, the promise of new experiences—it all felt so magical in her mind before the trip.

But now, standing in the middle of this compartment, with echoes of their brief, awkward exchange still ringing in her ears, it doesn't feel so magical anymore.

A little frown tugs at the corners of her lips, though she quickly brushes it away, trying to push the thoughts from her mind.

"So rude!" she mutters under her breath, her voice soft but full of indignation. It's a small protest, one more for herself than anyone else, and yet it feels strangely comforting to say out loud.

Her hands tighten around the handles of her tote and suitcase, and with an exaggerated stomp of her foot, she pushes herself forward, her movements brisk and purposeful.

The sudden burst of energy seems to shift something in her, pulling her out of the cloud of frustration that had been hovering over her moments ago.

She can feel her shoulders relax as she starts to march down the narrow aisle of the train, her feet tapping against the cool metal floor with each determined step she takes.

Her suitcase rolls smoothly behind her, and the faint rustle of her Christian Dior tote bag swishes lightly by her side, the soft pastel blue fabric a perfect match for her sunny disposition.

Every detail about this moment feels so... right. The excitement in her chest bubbles up, almost threatening to spill over, but she holds it in check.

This is her time to enjoy, to embrace every little moment of the journey, and she isn't about to let a minor bump in the road derail her optimism.

Her thoughts wanders back to the excitement she had felt when she first boarded the train. The journey ahead was one she had imagined in her mind for so long—a journey of possibility, of new sights and new stories to tell.

There would be people to meet, conversations to strike up, and little moments of magic to collect along the way.

But now, as she makes her way through the compartment, weaving past other passengers who are lost in their own thoughts, she can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

There was a part of her that hoped to share this moment with someone, to have it be the kind of trip she can remember with a smile, but the earlier interaction with this man has left a small crack in that hopeful picture.

Still, she is determined not to let it get to her. She isn't one to dwell on negative encounters. After all, her heart is too full of light to let anyone—or anything—dim it for long.

Isha's eyes dance with a glimmer of excitement as she continues her walk down the aisle. The gentle sway of the train makes the atmosphere feel like an adventure, and the rhythmic sound of her suitcase wheels rolling across the floor is oddly satisfying.

She feels a little bounce in her step, a sense of anticipation rising within her. This is going to be a trip to remember, and she isn't about to let anything—especially a grumpy stranger—get in the way of her sunshine-filled mood.

With each step, she imagines the journey ahead: sitting by the window, gazing out at the passing countryside, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin.

She has dreamed about this for so long, the peaceful solitude of train travel, the opportunity to meet new people, hear new stories, and maybe even make new friends along the way.

The thought of it all fills her with an infectious sense of joy. There are so many little details she looks forward to—the friendly conversations with fellow passengers, and the simple joy of watching the world pass by.

But as she approaches her seat, a tiny flicker of doubt creeps into her mind. Is this the right row? She hasn't actually checked her ticket to confirm which seat was hers, and a small, almost unnoticeable twinge of uncertainty makes her hesitate.

It is nothing serious, just a passing thought, but she doesn't let it derail her. After all, if she isn't in the right spot, she can always ask someone, or just move to a different seat.

As she continues her way down the narrow aisle, her mind wanders back to the image of herself sitting by the window, lost in the sights and sounds of the train.

The thought brings a smile to her face, and she walks with a little more purpose now, eager to find her spot and settle in.

But just as she is about to continue down the path and claim the seat she has been aiming for, disaster strikes—well, a mild disaster. She isn't paying full attention, and before she knows it, her body collides with something.

No, not just something—someone. The impact is gentle but jarring, as if she has walked straight into a brick wall disguised as a man.

The shock of it leaves her gasping, and she quickly steps back, blinking in surprise. Has she just bumped into a person? How had she not seen them standing there?

Her eyes quickly flicker upward, and she freezes when she sees him—him. The very same man she had encountered earlier, with his broad back now blocking her path completely.

It seems like fate—or perhaps the universe—has decided that their paths are destined to cross again, though she hadn't exactly planned for this encounter. He is standing in her way, looking just as surprised as she is, but his reaction is very different from hers.

For a moment, she simply stares at his back, trying to piece together what has just happened.

She hadn't noticed him standing there before, hadn't realized he was blocking her path, and yet, here he is, towering over her with that same cool, detached air.

She blinks again, not entirely sure if this is some kind of joke. It felt like the world has conspired to make this interaction as awkward as possible.

And then, just as the confusion starts to settle in, he turns around, his sharp words cutting through the air like a blade. "Ab mere peeche kyu aa rahi ho?" [Why are you following me now?] His tone is direct, with just a hint of annoyance that she hasn't expected.

Is this man serious? It isn't like she has been following him on purpose. In fact, she hadn't even noticed him until—well, until she accidentally collided with him.

Isha, still processing the oddity of the situation, blinks a couple of times, as if trying to clear the fog that had suddenly descended over her thoughts. The man before her has just turned, and his words are sharp, and far more direct than she is used to.

It is as though she has unwittingly stepped into some sort of mystery she hasn't signed up for. He is blocking her way, yet, in a bizarre twist of fate, it almost seems as if she is the one being accused of something—though what, exactly, she has no idea.

Has she inadvertently done something wrong? Has she offended him in her search for her seat?

She gives her head a slight shake, trying to dismiss the confusion. Her usual sunny disposition is still there, even if she feels a little rattled by the encounter. The train, after all, is supposed to be a place of contemplation, or at the very least, a chance to watch the world go by.

Her voice falters just a little as she speaks, though she tries her best to keep it steady. "Main... main toh bas apni seat dhoondh rahi thi," [I... I was just looking for my seat.] she says, her words drawn out and cautious, as if she is speaking to a particularly temperamental cat.

She isn't sure how to respond to the irritation in his voice, the annoyance that seems so out of place on such a beautiful night. And yet, there it is, hanging in the air between them.

She takes a slow, measured breath, unwilling to let this minor inconvenience disrupt her mood. After all, it is just a train ride. Just a moment. A very small blip in the vastness of life.

Before Isha can fully wrap her head around the situation, he speaks again—this time, his tone is sharper, firmer, as though he is laying down the law. "Yeh meri seat hai. 21 meri seat hai," [This is my seat. Seat 21 is mine,] he says, and there is a certain finality in his words, like a lawyer presenting an irrefutable piece of evidence in court.

His expression isn't quite a scowl, but it is definitely tinged with irritation, as if he's already resigned himself to the fact that this journey is going to be anything but peaceful.

Isha blinks, momentarily stunned by the weight of his words. The sharpness of his tone hits her like a surprise wave, and for a split second, she is frozen. Wait—is he saying that this is his seat? Has she somehow stumbled into the wrong one?

The idea doesn't quite makes sense at first. Her brain feels like it is moving in slow motion, processing each new detail like a sluggish engine trying to catch up to the speed of light.

But then, with a burst of mental clarity, she glanced down at her ticket, her eyes scanning the printed number with determination. "28." Her seat was 28—the window berth. The perfect seat, the one she had mentally claimed from the moment she laid eyes on the ticket.

She can practically see herself sinking into the cushioned comfort, watching the world pass by as the train rocked gently on its tracks. And yet, there it was. His words, now clearly resonating with her, echo in her mind. 21?

She glances up at him, trying to process the slight irritation flashing in his eyes. He looks like he has been mentally preparing for a peaceful, quiet journey—just him, his thoughts, and perhaps a little nap.

But instead, fate has decided to give him a seatmate in the form of an overly enthusiastic woman who clearly hasn't gotten the memo about the importance of peace and quiet.

Shubman glances at her, his dark brows drawing together into a tight frown as though he can't quite believe his own misfortune. He isn't the kind of man to roll his eyes—at least not visibly—but the urge is dangerously close to bubbling over.

The woman in front of him is a contradiction: too soft yet too loud, too cheerful for this cramped, chaotic train compartment, and far too much for a day that has already tested every ounce of his patience.

His forehead creases as he tries to process the absurdity of the situation, a slow realization settling in like a stone in his gut: this is not the quiet, uneventful journey he had mentally signed up for.

"Mujhe toh laga tha ke yeh train ki journey shanti se niklegi," [I thought this train journey would be peaceful,] he mutters under his breath, the words slipping out with the kind of resignation only someone truly defeated can manage.

His voice is slow but carries enough weight to reach her. "Lekin yeh chattar-pattar hai jo mil gayi." [But instead, I got this chatterbox.]

He hadn't meant for her to hear it—well, maybe he had. Subconsciously. Perhaps a part of him hoped the little jab would make her realize she was being... what was the word? Distracting. Irksome.

Like a bright, fluttering butterfly that has no business being inside a gloomy, storm-clouded room.

He's dealt with cheerfulness before—fans at matches, reporters with endless questions, and overzealous well-wishers—but they always tread carefully around him, careful not to overstep, as if they know when to stop. But this girl?

This girl doesn't seem to have a pause button.

Shubman isn't used to that. His silence, his sharp gazes—it all works like an invisible shield, keeping people at a respectful distance. Most read the signs and back off. But not her.

She seems oblivious to the warning signs he wears like armor: his tense shoulders, the slight twitch in his jaw, the steely look in his eyes that practically screams leave me alone.

No, this one—this chattar-pattar—is different. It isn't just her silence that grates on him earlier; it is the way she carries it. Defiant. Dismissive.

As though she doesn't care who he is or what he thinks. She hasn't shrunk away from him or muttered an awkward apology.

Instead, she's tilted her chin upward, smoothed her kurta like it is some royal robe, and ignored him—as though he is the one causing the disturbance.

It is disarming, and for some reason, it bothers him.

At his muttered words, she pauses. And then she smiles. Not a polite, apologetic smile—no, that would have been too easy to brush off.

This smile is full and bright, radiating something close to joy, like a sunflower that had just turned toward the morning light.

It is so unapologetic, so completely unearned, that for a split second, Shubman forgot why he is annoyed in the first place.

Her head tilts slightly, her dark curls bouncing as if conspiring with her to add to the effect. "Chattar-pattar?" [Chatterbox?] she repeats, her voice lilting upward like a curious birdcall. "Iska kya matlab hota hai?" [What does that mean?]

Shubman blinks at her, thrown off by how genuinely interested she sounds. She can't be serious. He'd expected indignation—maybe a huff, a roll of her eyes, even a sharp retort.

But curiosity? That is new. Her wide, kohl-lined eyes regard him like he'd said something fascinating, not mildly insulting.

And that infuriating smile of hers doesn't waver, as though the word itself is something delightful she wants to pocket for later use.

He drags a hand down his face, the pads of his fingers pressing briefly against his tired eyes as though he can physically wipe away his tears of frustration.

"Chattar-pattar ka matlab hota hai..." [Chatterbox means...] he starts, exhaling slowly as he gathers his words, his voice flat with deliberate slowness, "wahi jo tum kar rahi ho." [exactly what you're doing.]

He waves a vague hand in her direction, as though she were Exhibit A. "Bolte rehna. Bina kisi kaam ke." [Talking endlessly. Without any purpose.]

Her face lights up as if he's just paid her a compliment. "Oh!" [Oh!] she exclaims, nodding enthusiastically. "Toh chattar-pattar matlab... talking?" [So, chatterbox means... talking?]

She leans forward slightly, as though drawing the meaning out of him is the most thrilling puzzle she's ever solved. "Aur yeh kya problem hai talking se? Mujhe toh yeh word bada cute laga." [And what's the problem with talking? I think it's a very cute word.]

She glances sideways at him, her lips twitching upward. "Chattar-pattar. It rolls off the tongue nicely, doesn't it?" [Chatterbox. It rolls off the tongue nicely, doesn't it?]

Shubman doesn't respond right away. He just stares at her, his expression unreadable—though beneath the surface, his mind is spinning.

Cute? Cute? This girl is insufferable. Cute isn't the word he'd use for the phenomenon she has single-handedly unleashed upon his day.

Chaotic, maybe. Distracting. Like a ray of sunlight that refuses to be ignored even when you pulls the curtains shut. And yet, for all the annoyance prickling at him, he can't bring himself to snap at her properly.

Maybe it is the earnest way she looked at him, like she isn't mocking him at all but genuinely fascinated by this new word he'd thrown her way. Maybe it is because his mummy and Shahneel di will kill him, if he behaved horridly with a girl.

He exhales again—slower this time—as though he can physically push the tension out of his chest. "Cute nahi hai," [It's not cute,] he mutters, his tone clipped but quieter now. "Annoying hai." [It's annoying.]

Her mouth forms a small "O" of surprise, and for a split second, Shubman thinks he's finally offended her. But then, her eyes sparkle with something suspiciously close to amusement, and her smile widenes further, as if to prove she isn't going anywhere.

"Aapko annoying lag raha hai?" [You find it annoying?] she asks, pressing a hand to her chest like she is deeply offended—but the laugh bubbling under her words betrays her.

"Mujhe toh lagta hai aap hi thode grumpy hain, Mr..." [I think you're the one who's a little grumpy, Mr...] She pauses, her brows furrowing slightly as if realizing something. "Wait. Aapka naam kya hai?" [Wait. What's your name?]

Her question catches him off guard, and for a moment, he just stares at her, completely at a loss.

He had been expecting more chatter, maybe another attempt to pry at his words, not something so straightforward. What kind of person can talk so much without knowing the person they are talking to?

"Naam?" [Name?] Shubman echoes, blinking at her as though the word has just short-circuited every functioning part of his brain.

It's as if she's spoken some alien language, an unfamiliar code he hasn't quite deciphered, and for a fleeting moment, he can't do anything but stare at her, completely dumbfounded.

His mind stutters to a halt. She doesn't know my name? The realization hits him like a cricket ball square in the chest—unexpected, jarring, and mildly insulting. This isn't arrogance, mind you. Shubman doesn't expect everyone to recognize him on sight, but still... don't people at least pause?

Or stare a second longer when they see him? It's an occupational hazard—being a public figure means that even strangers on trains, chaiwalas at stations, and aunties in marketplaces somehow seem to know exactly who he is.

They squint, whisper among themselves, maybe even elbow someone nearby before approaching him with that overly familiar tone: "Arre Shubman beta, ek photo? Bas ek hi photo!" [Hey Shubman beta, one photo? Just one photo!]

But this girl? Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even the hints of curiosity that usually precede the inevitable "Are you that cricketer?"

Instead, she just stands there, all sunshine and unfiltered earnestness, her kohl-lined eyes blinking up at him expectantly, as if the question she's just asked is the most natural thing in the world. Your name, please. Like he's some random stranger on the street and not, well, Shubman Gill.

She nods once, sharply, as though to confirm that yes, she has, in fact, just asked his name. The motion is accompanied by an eager smile—a bright, unflinching kind of smile that makes it impossible to believe she's teasing him or pulling some kind of stunt.

No, this girl is being genuine, which somehow makes the entire situation even more absurd. Her expression is so open, so completely unguarded that it throws him further off balance.

For someone so loud—chattar-pattar, his brain reminds him again with a faint sting of irritation—she's not putting on a show. She just... doesn't know him. And worse? She doesn't seem to care.

Shubman's brow furrows deeply as a muscle in his jaw ticks, an involuntary reaction that often appears when he doesn't quite know how to process his irritation.

It's as if his body has taken it upon itself to express the emotions he's still trying to untangle. "Tumhe pata nahi?" [You don't know?] he finally asks, the words slow and deliberate, as if he needs clarification for his own sanity. "Mera naam?" [My name?]

Isha tilts her head slightly, curls bouncing at the motion, as though considering his question for an extra beat. "Pata hona chahiye?" [Should I know?] she replies lightly, her tone laced with nothing but innocent curiosity.

Her wide eyes lock onto his, completely unbothered, the corners of her lips quirking upward ever so slightly—as though the idea of her not knowing his name is baffling him, not her.

The sheer audacity of the moment leaves him speechless. Does she not know who he is, or is she just pretending not to know? No, he decides after another quick glance at her face—she's far too earnest for this to be some kind of act.

He can spot fake admiration from a mile away; it's easy to see when someone tries too hard to impress him or lingers too long to drop hints of recognition.

But this girl? There isn't a shred of pretense about her. She doesn't care that she's standing opposite him—the Shubman Gill—and demanding his name like it's something he owes her.

For a long moment, he considers not answering. Just to see if her curiosity will fizzle out. But when she tilts her head a little further, a slight crease appearing between her brows, as if he's the unreasonable one for not responding, he realizes he's already losing this battle.

She has that effect—this annoying, inexplicable knack for taking the upper hand without even trying.

"Shubman," he says at last, his voice clipped, as though he's been forced to part with a state secret.

The name falls out of his mouth reluctantly, heavy with the weight of his irritation, like it's been dragged from some deep, begrudging place inside him.

He hopes—hopes—that this will be enough. That this small offering of information will satisfy her, as if handing her a crumb will send her skipping off to wherever she had been headed before she collided with his already-crumbling patience.

Maybe she'll nod politely, murmur a quick "thank you", and move on with her sunshine-colored life. The kind of life that doesn't mix well with brooding clouds like his.

But of course not. This girl doesn't seem to play by the rules.

Her face lights up the moment the name leaves his lips, like someone has flipped on every bulb in the universe at once.

"Oh!" she exclaims, as though he's just shared something utterly fascinating and not, you know, the most basic piece of information about himself.

The sound of her delight is far too loud, far too cheerful, and far, far too pleased for his liking.

"Shubman!" she repeats, testing his name out loud like it's a new word she's just learned, as if it needs rolling around in her mouth to see if it truly fits.

It doesn't help that her voice has this lilting quality—high and sweet, almost musical—that somehow manages to take something simple and make it sound entirely too dramatic.

Then her smile widens—somehow—her entire face lighting up even further, and for reasons he can't quite explain, it sends another shiver rippling down his spine.

It's not a bad shiver, either. It's worse.

It's the kind of shiver that makes him acutely aware of things he doesn't want to think about—like the honeyed sweetness in her voice, or the way his name lingers on her lips just a second longer than necessary, as though it belongs there.

The thought makes something tighten uncomfortably in his chest. Pull yourself together, he scolds himself silently, rolling his shoulders back as though to shake off the feeling. It's just his name. Just two measly syllables.

"Isha," she announces suddenly, her voice light and clear, as though it's the most natural thing in the world to introduce herself mid-conversation—or lack thereof.

Her hand lifts delicately to rest against her chest, fingers splayed with theatrical grace, like a performer stepping onto a stage and presenting herself to an adoring audience. "Mera naam Isha hai." [My name is Isha.]

There's a pause after that, deliberate and charged, as though she expects something in return—a response, a handshake, perhaps even an impressed nod of acknowledgment.

It's delivered with such conviction, such an almost sacred sincerity, that it startles him into silence.

To her, this isn't just an introduction. It's an offering. Her name, spoken like a gift, as if he should take it and hold it gently, grateful for being trusted with this seemingly precious piece of information.

Shubman blinks.

Isha.

Haan. Of course. Woh toh obvious tha.

What else could her name possibly be? She looks like an Isha—soft edges and bright colors, the kind of person whose very presence seems to turn a dull room into something brighter.

A name like Isha belongs to people who thrive on chaos, the kind of chaos that comes with laughter in unexpected places and chatter that doesn't seem to have an off switch. Isha. Sweet, simple, and—he's quickly learning—relentlessly unstoppable.

His brows knit together as the thought unfurls in his head, slow and unrelenting. Isha... Ishan.

The comparison lands with a thud, and for a brief moment, Shubman feels like the universe itself is laughing at him. He stares at her—not openly, of course, but through quick glances, the kind that someone uses when they don't want to admit they're paying attention. The resemblance is uncanny.

Not physically, obviously—unless Ishan has started wearing salwar kameez and jingling bangles in his free time—but in every other way that matters, this girl and his best friend might as well be two halves of the same ridiculous, overly sunny whole.

Ishan practically radiates energy the moment he enters a room. Ishan, who can talk circles around anyone until they give up and hand him whatever snack he's pestering them for.

Ishan, who fills every moment with something—noise, laughter, teasing words—because silence, to him, is like standing in a storm without an umbrella.

And now this girl.

Isha.

The same tireless cheer, the same knack for finding amusement in places where he sees nothing but irritation. She walks into this train compartment and immediately declares herself a fixture of his day, as if she belongs here.

No hesitation, no awkwardness. Just a smile so bright it could challenge the sun and a voice that seems to echo in every corner, loud enough to drown out the gentle hum of the train wheels against the tracks.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

A sound escapes him then—something between a resigned sigh and a huff of exasperation, as though his very soul protests this situation.

He turns his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the window where the countryside blurs past, a mix of greens and browns that should be soothing but offers no real distraction.

His hand lifts instinctively, pinching the bridge of his nose in that familiar way that usually steadies his irritation. It doesn't help.

Why? he wonders bitterly, feeling the beginnings of a headache form behind his eyes. Why do I attract these people?

First Ishan. Now Isha.

Is there something about him—some invisible, unspoken trait—that calls out to people like them? Like a magnet attracting opposite poles, no matter how much he tries to push them away. Ishan, at least, has history on his side.

That particular brand of chaos has been a constant in his life for years, worn down into something he's grudgingly come to accept, even like, in small doses. Ishan has earned his place.

But this girl? This stranger, with her glowing smile and complete disregard for his desire to be left alone, has barged into his day uninvited, like a stray ray of sunlight forcing its way through the cracks of a closed curtain.

And somehow, he already knows she isn't going anywhere.

He glances at her again, this time more deliberately, though his expression remains carefully unimpressed.

There she is, still smiling like she has just handed him some grand revelation, still standing there as though she belongs not just in this compartment but in his life itself.

Her eyes sparkle with that same Ishan-like mischief, wide and unguarded, the kind of look that says You're going to like me. I've decided.

The audacity of it all is almost impressive.

Shubman inhales sharply, the sound deliberate and slow, like he's physically trying to draw patience into his lungs, holding it there so it doesn't escape too quickly.

He can feel his irritation hovering dangerously close to the surface, the thin thread of his composure stretched tighter with every passing second.

Yet when he speaks, it isn't with the explosion of exasperation he feels brewing beneath the surface but with a voice so dry and lifeless it could make a desert blush.

"Accha," [Okay,] he says at last, the word crawling out of his mouth with a weight that makes it sound like he's been forced to say it at gunpoint.

Each syllable is drawn out with precision, his tone teetering on the knife's edge between sarcasm and surrender. "Toh tumhara naam Isha hai." [Your name is Isha.]

It's a sentence, sure, but it feels more like a reluctant declaration—one delivered by a man still trying to figure out how the universe has allowed him to end up here, in this moment, on this train, having this conversation.

And yet, her reaction is immediate and, to his growing dismay, entirely unbothered. Her smile doesn't waver for even a fraction of a second. In fact, it somehow—it defies logic, really—grows brighter. It's as if she's stored up an extra reserve of sunshine just for this moment, pulling it out to counter his gloom like it's her superpower.

"Haan!" [Yes!] she confirms with such unshakable enthusiasm that Shubman might believe she's just won a prize for being correct.

She practically beams at him, her eyes sparkling with the kind of unearned triumph that makes his jaw tick. "Simple aur easy, na? Isha." [Simple and easy, na? Isha.]

Shubman stares at her for a long, slow moment, his brow lifting in a look of utter disbelief. His face, still carefully blank, twitches faintly at the corners—just enough to suggest that somewhere beneath the scowl, he can't decide whether he's annoyed, impressed, or just plain confused.

Finally, his head tilts slightly, and his voice, when it comes, is as dry and unforgiving as sun-scorched earth.

"Simple?" [Simple?] he repeats, tasting the word like it might leave something bitter on his tongue.

His brow creases deeper, his sarcasm sharpened to a fine point, honed over years of fending off Ishan Kishan's relentless nonsense. "Bola toh aise jaise NASA ke satellite launch ka schedule announce kar diya ho." [You said it like you just announced NASA's satellite launch schedule.]

There. That should do it. He delivers the words like a weapon, carefully aimed, ready to knock that incessant grin right off her face. Most people—normal people—would falter, even if just a little, under the weight of that tone.

They'd pause to reassess, maybe awkwardly stammer out an apology or decide to leave him alone for the sake of their dignity.

But Isha?

She is not most people.

Her response is so immediate, so unreasonably cheerful, that it almost knocks him off balance. She blinks once, startled for only the briefest of moments, before her entire face lights up like someone has flipped a switch inside her.

A grin breaks across her lips—wide, unabashed, and so genuine it feels as though the sun itself has just entered the compartment. And then comes the sound.

The laughter.

It starts as a soft giggle—one of those faint, airy sounds most people try to hold back when they're unsure how the other person will react.

But then it grows, swelling into something full and unrestrained, bubbling up from somewhere deep and unapologetic. It fills the small space between them like light pouring through a crack in a wall, loud and bright and impossible to ignore.

Shubman freezes, his entire body going momentarily still as he stares at her in a mix of disbelief and—well, something else. He can't quite name it. Annoyance? Probably. Embarrassment? Maybe.

But beneath all that, there's something warmer, something quieter, curling like smoke in the pit of his chest.

Because her laugh—this laugh—isn't polite or restrained, the way people usually laugh around him. It isn't the kind of fake chuckle meant to charm him or the forced sound people make to make him feel like he's somehow amusing when he hasn't meant to be. It's real. Loud and bright and hers.

And, to his growing horror, Shubman realizes he doesn't hate it.

Oh, he wants to hate it. He wants to be properly annoyed, to scowl harder, to throw up the invisible walls he was so good at building.

But the sound of her laughter worms its way through every crack, spilling into places he hasn't been prepared to defend. It tugs at something he'd rather leave untouched, forcing the corner of his mouth to twitch.

The whole time, she just keeps laughing—light and full and completely unrestrained—as if the universe had dropped her favorite joke into her lap, and he had been the unfortunate delivery man. It's not the polite, reserved kind of laugh that people give when they're trying to be nice.

No, this one is shameless, bubbling out of her in bursts, filling up every corner of the compartment until it feels like even the train itself might be laughing along with her.

Shubman sits there, stunned and unmoving, his expression somewhere between a scowl and outright disbelief. For a solid moment, he wonders if anyone else in this train compartment feels as personally attacked as he does.

Probably not. They're lucky. They don't have to deal with this. His fingers drum absently against his knee, his lips pressed into a thin line as he waits—hopes—for her to stop.

But the laughter just keeps rolling out of her, like waves crashing relentlessly against the shore, until finally, mercifully, it begins to taper off.

She wipes at her eyes—eyes that are still sparkling, infuriatingly bright—and takes a deep breath like she's trying to compose herself. It doesn't work.

There's still a smile plastered across her face, soft and amused, and when she looks at him—actually looks at him—it's like she's decided he's the funniest thing to have happened all day.

"Aap kitne funny ho," [You're so funny,] she says at last, her voice lilting with that teasing amusement that has quickly become her trademark.

There's a sing-song quality to the words, a lightness that makes it sound like she's skipping through a meadow instead of talking to a man who looks like he's plotting an escape.

Shubman turns to her slowly, as if the effort of facing her head-on requires energy he doesn't have. His eyes narrow just slightly, dark and unreadable, the kind of look that would've turned a lesser mortal to stone on the spot.

It's a skill he's perfected over the years—giving a stare so flat, so unimpressed, that most people wilt under it. But not her.

Of course not her.

She meets his gaze without so much as flinching, her expression still alight with the kind of cheer that borders on criminal. She doesn't look nervous. She doesn't look embarrassed. She just looks... pleased. Like she's proud of herself for dragging him into her nonsensical little world.

"Yeh joke nahi tha," [This was not a joke.] he says finally, the words leaving him in a voice so low and even that it almost doesn't sound like him. There's no sharpness to it, no real irritation—just the faint weariness of a man who has realized he's fighting a losing battle.

Her grin widens as though his response has confirmed everything she suspected about him. "Arey," [Oh,] she replies, leaning forward slightly, her elbows braced on her knees as if settling in for a long chat.

"Aap na bilkul waise hi ho jaise woh books mein CEO log hote hain. Grumpy wale. Jo shuru mein serious rehte hain, phir end tak funny ban jaate hain." [You're exactly like those CEOs in books. The grumpy ones. Serious at first but funny by the end.]

CEO?

Shubman blinks once, slowly, like he's trying to process what she's just said. CEO? Funny? His brow creases, and he opens his mouth, probably to argue, but she keeps going as if she hasn't noticed.

"Bas ek dum serious," [Completely serious,] she adds, squinting at him like she's sizing him up for a role in some imaginary movie.

Her words hang in the air, light and unassuming, like they belong to some parallel universe where such conversations make sense.

There's not even the faintest trace of mockery in her tone, no malice in the teasing curve of her lips. It's like she genuinely believes this bizarre movie script she's narrating is an actual possibility.

And somehow, that sincerity—it makes her comments land harder. Not in an offensive way, but in a way that feels like someone poking a bruise you didn't know you had.

Shubman's fingers tighten ever so slightly around his knee, his jaw working in quiet frustration as he exhales through his nose—long, steady, and deliberate.

It's a breath that belongs to a man trying very hard to not say something he'll regret, a man clinging to a sliver of composure when faced with something—someone—utterly impossible.

He doesn't respond immediately, partly because he's not sure he trusts his voice to stay even, but mostly because he needs the time to process. To wrap his head around her.

Her relentless energy. Her unapologetic brightness. Her audacity to sit here and speak to him like they've known each other for years instead of the last fifteen minutes.

When he finally looks at her, his gaze is sharp, evaluating, but there's a flicker of something softer—something cautious—just beneath the surface.

His eyes trace the animated way her hands move as she talks, the way her bangles jingle softly against her wrists, the way her wide, curious eyes seem to hold the light in a way that feels almost unfair.

She's too much, he thinks. Too loud, too cheerful, too... present. And yet, even as the irritation simmers under his skin, a part of him acknowledges—begrudgingly—that there's something rare about her.

Most people don't talk to him like this. Most people don't laugh like this.

It's unnerving.

His gaze flicks to the window, the fields outside blurring into a soothing palette of greens and browns.

He lets himself focus on the scenery, deliberately, like he's decided that the rustling crops and distant horizon are infinitely more interesting than the girl sitting across from him. Maybe, if he stares long enough, he can pretend she's not even there.

Of course, that illusion doesn't last.

"Aap kya dekh rahe ho?" [What are you looking at?] Her voice cuts through the silence, light and curious, as though she's genuinely interested in his answer. There's no hesitation, no awareness that her questions might not be welcome.

He doesn't turn, doesn't shift his focus. "Shanti," [Peace.] he replies curtly, his tone flat and clipped, hoping the weight of the word will be enough to deter her.

"Shanti?" [Peace.] she repeats, her voice tinged with confusion, as if the very idea is foreign to her. He hears her bangles clink softly as she adjusts her posture, leaning forward slightly. "Aapko seriously lagta hai shanti interesting hoti hai?" [Do you really think peace is interesting?]

"Yes," he says, the word leaving his mouth like a full stop, final and uncompromising.

But he knows, deep down, that this is far from the end of it.

And he's right.

"Achha," [Okay,] she says, her tone taking on a playful lilt as if she's just accepted a challenge. "Toh bataiye, aapko mazaa kis cheez mein aata hai? Matlab bina smile kiye din kaise kaat lete ho? Mujhe toh samajh hi nahi aata." [So tell me, what do you enjoy? How do you get through a day without smiling? I just don't understand.]

Her persistence, he realizes, is both baffling and oddly impressive. He turns to her sharply, his brows furrowing, his patience finally cracking just enough to let the words tumble out. "Tumhe problem kya hai?" [What's your problem?] he asks, his voice low, tinged with exasperation.

Her eyes widen slightly, but there's no embarrassment, no hesitation—just the barest flicker of surprise before her lips curve into that maddeningly persistent smile again.

And then, to his absolute disbelief, she laughs—a soft, melodic sound that feels far too warm for this conversation.

"Koi problem nahi," [No problem,] she says easily, her shoulders rising in a casual shrug. "Mujhe toh bas aapke saath baithna kaafi mazedaar lag raha hai." [I just find sitting with you very entertaining.]

He stares at her, unblinking, trying to comprehend the absurdity of what she's just said. There's no guile in her expression, no ulterior motive lurking behind her words. She means it, he realizes, and for a moment, the sheer honesty of it leaves him completely at a loss.

He turns back to the window, letting out another long, measured breath as he resigns himself to his fate. There's no fighting this. No escaping it.

She's not going anywhere, and he's stuck here, in this compartment, on this train, with her endless chatter like it's the most important conversation in the world. Filling the air like sunlight streaming through an open window.

Shubman just knows he is in for a long headache.

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BACK TO BACK UPDATES!!!!!! EVEN WHILE SICK!!!

Kaisa laga Isha and Shubman ka meet up???

   dagabaazreee, bowledover18, Esma_Hiranur_Sultan — kaisa laga?

Vote and comment, please.

Milte hai, prem se bolo

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