A/N: If you stop reading or get bored at any point in the chapter/story, I'd love to know. Just a simple, 'Hey, this is where I stopped,' would do if nothing else so I can fix them before publishing next year. TYSM for your help. ❤❤

For over a week, Shashank had barely crossed paths with Jun, even if they lived in the same house.

So naturally, he was lonely. Lonely, like 'wandering every aisle at the supermarket for the last two hours because I don't want to go home,' kind of lonely. The poor man ambled along the biscuit aisle for the second time with a still empty trolley when he heard terse Nepali coming from a couple ahead of him. Once upon a time, it would have been a rare thing, happening upon another Nepali, and he would have itched to say, 'Hi, I'm Nepali too.' But these days, they were as rare as seagulls by the sea, and Shashank paused, debating if he should turn his trolley the other way.

But the heated argument over biscuits made him linger. The husband was adamant just a bottle of wine would be enough to take to a dinner party—'It's what people do here,'—while the wife argued for some 'chocolates or biscuits for the kids' because she was not turning up to her sister's empty-handed, all because her husband was a tight ass and only thought of the adults. Or mainly himself.

Shashank watched, mesmerised, as if he were glimpsing his future life. Perhaps, two-three years from now, this could be a scene in some other supermarket between him and his wife—maybe between Jun and him, if Ma got her way—arguing over which biscuits to take to Jyo's. Not that he could imagine Jyo ever settled. Perhaps if the end was neigh, then maybe.

But it was dangerous territory, this line of daydreaming. Look where it had gotten him so far. Three months of living with a woman he liked, and he hadn't even built up the courage to say, 'Hey, Jun, can we start again? Hi, I like you, and I wouldn't mind us giving it a go, like our Amas' want." He was assuming, of course, that 'Aunty', aka Junkiri's mother, was in on the whole setup. And if both families had given their blessings, couldn't the two of them at least try?

She wants her ex back, though.

He bitterly glared at the couple. Every time the wife pulled a biscuit off the shelves and put it in the trolley, the husband put it right back, arguing that she was being too 'Nepali', with that accusing tone, as if being Nepali was something to be ashamed off.

A sudden flash of anger roiled in his chest and Shashank tasted acid at the back of his tongue. Shetal had used a variation on that excuse to rip his heart out and stomp on it with her six-inch heels before clearing out. 'You're Nepali. My parents won't approve.'

"You're not being too much. You're being nice." Shashank rolled his trolley towards the couple as if charging a matador and grabbed the biscuit off the man's hand as he went to put it back on the shelf for the fifth time, like he was some petulant five-year-old chucking a hissy fit because his wife refused to fulfil his whim.

In fact, he was so angry at the man that he snatched two other favourites of his from the shelves and thrust them at the wife. "These will be perfect for kids, Didi. They'll love them."

"Ke manche ho?" The man stepped in between the two as if Shashank were hitting on his wife. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Not picking a fight with my wife, in the middle of a pasal, because she's too Nepali. Shame on you." He snapped at the guy, who was a whole head shorter. "Didn't your Ama teach you any sanskar? You think the 'dev' in devo bhava means you just go there to get piss drunk, and not care about being a nice guest?"

"Ke?" The man gaped as if Shashank had spoken any other language but their mother tongue.

"Atithi devo bhava?" Shashank glared. Was Ma the only mother who constantly reminded her children that 'guests were gods' should they even grumble about dinner guests or, god forbid, guests visiting from Nepal?

"Just take the damn biscuits, so I stop giving etiquette advice to a stranger in a pasal." He placed the biscuits into their trolley gently since the wife stood flabbergast.

What am I doing, confronting strangers in aisles like a poltergeist?

He cringed when he caught the wife's face, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm usually not a kabab me haddi."

In a panic, he grabbed a couple of packets of Kingston biscuits—his favourites—popped them in the child seat of the trolley and rushed out of the aisle before they stared at him anymore than they already were. "Have a nice dinner."

But having told a perfect stranger to be 'nice and kind' in Nepali suddenly made him miss his family.

They should be home.

He practically ran down aisles, grabbing ingredients for mo:mo and dashed to the counter. He was starving. It was midday. And the sooner he got to Ma's, the sooner they could prep, the sooner he could 'discuss' his issues with them, and the sooner he could eat.

He could practically taste the piping hot mo:mo and piro achar they'd eat tonight; the cold glass of cola chasing it down, all so he could do it all over again. Stuff his face. It was the only way to eat mo:mo—till your stomach ached and your worries faded into a blissful blip. A food-induced coma where he could imagine things weren't weird between him and his 'flatmate' all because he said the L-word. Like. He could pretend an email with the subject line 'LOVE IT. SEND MORE!!!' with three exclamation points wasn't waiting for him to open it since last night, and it wasn't from the person he expected it from. And he could act as if anxiety wasn't burrowing a hole so deep in his chest that he could practically see China. Because any hour now, his phone would vibrate like a caffeine hyped-teen. Terry's name would glow on the screen, and for a hot second, he'd romance the idea that she was just calling to say, 'Hey, Shashi, we haven't done a movie night in a while. What do you say I come over with a vat of wine and we order some pizza?' to which, he would naturally reply with, 'Come to Ma's. We're having an impromptu mo:mo night they don't know about yet. I'm sure they'd love to see you.'

But no matter how much pretending he didn't, he knew the truth. Any second, any minute, any hour from now, Terry was going to call, and she'd be wanting to 'chat' about his most recent whoops, which had nothing to do with his little crush on you-know-who. Well, not entirely.

Fuck. Why did I do it? She's gonna kill me.

He quickly bagged his groceries and hurried 'home' to Ma's, as if his future awaited him there.

#

The Autumn sun was warm, bees buzzed about Ma's unintentional privacy screen, the large lavender bush that'd grown wild with the sudden onset of spring, as if someone had flipped a switch on. One day it was still cold enough he was huddling up in jackets and heavy duvets, and the next, people, not just him, were walking around in T-shirts and shorts, displaying their pasty winter skin as if 'blanched' was the new in.

The sound of occasional traffic on the busier roads behind the house rose and fell. The squeals of children in their neighbour's yard reached him, right before the splash of water in their pool. More squealing quickly replaced it. He imagined the water still was wintry cold beneath that inviting, glittering surface.

By all means, it was a perfect Saturday—if Saturdays at Ma's could ever be called 'perfect', not when all three of them gathered under the same roof. He hoped their nonstop blather about their lives would distract him from wondering who Jun was spending her Saturday with.

From the calendar held hostage by no less than five 'Plumber' magnets on the fridge at home, he knew her day was free. There were no 'Cafe 9-5'—nor any other plans—scrolled in her neat, cursive writing in that small white grid corresponding to today.

But with a day like today, what with its warm sunshine and warm breeze, he imagined who she might want to spend it with.

Maybe she's with her ex, trying to work things out over long walks and coffee by some beach... Maybe they've made up... Maybe they're even sharing a kiss right now...

And he hated it. He hated wanting to know, but not wanting to know. He hated that sudden tug in his heart; that need to ask her if she truly meant it—she left Nepal for her ex. That she was truly hoping, after all these months, that the guy would crawl right back to her, like a snake.

And he hated how she wanted such a man back when he was right there, dying for her to notice him. Why did she want such a man back who left her for another country, or worse, for another woman? Shashank was sure the girl he'd been with at that supermarket all those months ago, that was the 'new' Jun.

Men like that always get the girl. Ones who take their lover, or girlfriend, or wife for granted, but are charmers. Unlike me...

"Ma!" Shashank knocked on the door in frustration. If he ever tried to charm someone, he imagined half the time he'd sound like a bumbling Chandler Bing.

There was little he could do, though. Because he had opted for the 'I don't remember a thing,' tactic the morning after his great debacle, hadn't he? He couldn't very well use his stupidity on that night as an icebreaker to make a conversation now. He wasn't supposed to remember how he'd stumbled into Ma's home at one in the morning, oh-so-very-drunk; how he smashed his face on the floor because tripped on his own foot; how he threw up like a kid who'd consumed too much candy; or how Jun saw it all. Saw it all and didn't say a thing.

Yet he was certain his terrible acting hadn't fooled Jun. Because as much as he hit out in his office this past week, she hid outdoors. She had turned into a social butterfly of late, whizzing in and out of the house. It was a constant ballet between college, work, and hang outs with new friends in her cute summer dresses and shorts and plain tank tops that shouldn't look so marvellous, but did, because it was her. Some days she walked in smelling of bars and pubs, of hot chocolates and long, leisurely chats. Other days, she carried the tantalising tang and spices of Nepali food in leftover containers she would stash in the fridge. Little remnants of her life without him.

It definitely gave off 'I'm avoiding you, Shashi,' vibes. Not that he blamed her. After all, confessing 'I like you, Jun', had gone as well as admitting 'I write romance'. Abysmally.

Jun couldn't care less if he wrote romances or if he wrote the obits in the daily newspapers. She hadn't bothered to take another Zachary Eve book from the bookshelf in the upstairs corridor, and the one she'd been reading. It was right back where it used to be.

Perhaps I should change careers, since I'm about to go out in a blaze of glory...

He shuddered at the thought and focused on Ma's door again. "Ma? Jyo? You home?"

He fished out his old keys and let himself in as if two years ago, he hadn't casually dropped the bomb, 'Ma, I'm moving out with Shetal, just as soon I have the deed to the place,' practically giving Ma a heart attack because what did he mean, move out with a girl, to live with her, in a house, all by the two of them—and they weren't even married!

He shed his outdoor shoes by the door, lined them neatly beside Jyo's sandals and Ma's chappal. He touched the feet of the brass Ganesh plaque adorning the wall since they were fourteen and placed that hand to his head and heart as a sign of respect. Then closed the door, calling out, "Ma? Jyo?"

The very silence he'd left behind at his home had followed him here.

Sighing, he slipped on the house shoes and waddled to the kitchen to put the cold items in the fridge before they went off, especially the mince.

As he reached for the fridge, his phone finally buzzed in his back pocket.

Before he even glanced at his watch, he knew who it was, and that bubble of dread he'd been nursing since late last night, since he sighted that email from his editor, the one with the 'LOVE IT. SEND MORE', in the subject line, burst. A tsunami of goose bumps rippled across his skin in an instant. This was it. Terry had read the email. She'd read the email, and they needed to talk.

But he wasn't. Not nearly as ready as he had wanted to be.

The one time I need you—he slipped his phone out, glancing painfully around the empty house—you're not home.

With a trembling hand and shaky nerves, he put the phone on speaker and tried to sound more like she'd just caught him running on his treadmill and not winded by unease. "Hey, Terry,"

"Shashi."

Her one word, loaded with questions and concern, and laced with shock, was enough to get him to abandon the groceries and pick up the phone properly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought I sent it to you. I truly did. I wanted to ask you what you thought I should do... whether keep it or end it here...and—"

"And you send it to her instead?"

"I was drunk. I don't even remember sending it, honestly." He nodded. As if Terry could see him. "What do we do?"

"We can probably salvage it." She sighed on the other end of the line. "The pages aren't half bad, but the situation—"

"Is." He finished. Feeling that nanoscopic relief he'd felt at her 'We can probably salvage it', fizzle.

"Does she know about it?"

No. Shashank shook his head. And there it was, the core reason he'd felt rotten all night. Junkiri Baral. Both a blessing and a bane to his humble existence. The reason he was going to breathe momentum back into his stalled career and reignite his shaky devotion to 'love', or watch both disintegrate into a fiery ball of self-destruction. There was no two-way about it. He could no sooner turn his feelings off than he could his mind, which seemed stuck on 'Jun' like a broken record player. So much so that she bleed into his pages, as if she lived there, belonged there, in that fantasy of a romance. As if he were simply chronicling their love story. He wasn't. The inciting incident was theirs, but the story itself, the pages that bloomed from it, weren't their story. They had no story. Not when Jun pined for her ex, and he remained in that friendzone, that flatmate-zone, pining over a love that was never his, and would never be, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Yes, he'd taken bits and pieces from their lives here and there and sewn it into a tapestry of romance beats—forced proximity, awkward moments of levity, long lingering looks that spoke volumes lips daren't—but they were simply dreams. Dreams he'd dreamt at his keyboard because a real life romance with Jun seemed as likely as winning the lottery.

"Shashi. Does she know? Does she know she is the love interest in your new book?"

Shashank shook his head again, feeling a cold wave of terror wash over him.

"If you're shaking your head—You know I can't see you, right?"

He slumped against the fridge. "What are my options?"

In the moment of silence before Terry spoke, he imagined her disappointed face and the words she wouldn't say, 'Why didn't you come to me first, while sober? I am your agent, but I'm also a friend,' and she wouldn't be wrong.

"You can't submit it the way it is right now. You slip and use her name and her likeness all the time, without her knowledge or permission. What were you thinking?"

"You told me it would make a great story."

"I did not."

"You did too, when you came over and saw her for the first time, and I told you why I suddenly had a flatmate I hadn't looked for." He left the fridge, needing to fidget. "Fuck, what if she moves out? The other day—actually that same bloody day—I told her liked her too, didn't I, and now I can barely stay in the same room as her without wanting to break out in hives, like I'm going crazy being this close to her yet, and not close at all. Not the way I want... And all the time, I just want to scream, 'pick me!'"

He raked a hand through his hair, feeling a swell of panic in his chest. "I'm losing it, Terry. I'm fucking losing the plot."

"Breathe," Terry instructed.

He complied. A long and noisy breath. "I'm fucking losing it. She's driving me crazy, and it's not her fault. Half the time she's looking at me, it's probably because she's thinking 'he's a fucking loon'."

"Shashi?"

"I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think. Hell, I can't even shop like a normal person." He paced the floor, suddenly unable to stop talking. "I practically attacked a guy today because he wouldn't take the damn biscuits, and then ran out of there before he could say anything, or call security. And now, I'm at Ma's, making dinner plans for her without her knowledge, all because I don't want to go home and be alone, wondering about Jun and who she might be with today... I mean, I heard the front door at five in the morning. Five? Like, who goes out at five in the morning?"

"Shashi. You need to tell her..." Terry's voice filtered in, causing a fresh wave of panic.

"I did. I told her how I feel last weekend, right after I sent Fiona that damn email with my half-finished manuscript, thinking I sent it to you." He rolled his head on his neck, feeling the sudden tension in his neck ease a little, as if it was the result of his rant.

"I mean, about this new book." Terry's voice was steady. Patient.

"What if she moves out?" He stared out the kitchen window at the empty backyard, occasional squeals of children still carried in the air. "And what do I even say to her? How?"

"Want me to come over so we can hash it out over tea?"

"If you're not busy."

"I have a ton of things, but right now, you're going through a crisis. Besides, I haven't seen you, Ma or Jyo in a while. I could say hi. I can be there in an hour. What shall I bring?"

"Your dumpling-making skills."

Thank you for reading JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY. Don't forget to comment, react, vote, or follow me to see where this story ends up in 2025! 🖤