The red eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I attempt to finger-comb through the tangled mess. It's been five days since the incident, and thankfully, I've upgraded from full-head bandage chic to something that doesn't make me look like a last-minute Halloween mummy. I've washed my hair—gently—but the damage is clear in the fistful of strands that keep coming out, no matter how cautiously I run my fingers through them.

Oh God. I'm going to be bald.

The thought hits me for the hundredth time now, and before I know it, fresh tears are spilling down my cheeks, blurring my already defeated reflection.

I sniff and snuff it out.

Enough. I give one last glance at the length of my hair, now in knots I no longer know how to detangle. I grab the scissors, my fingers trembling just a little. One deep breath. Then, in one swift motion, I chop it all off to my shoulders. The strands fall away, hitting the floor in soft whispers. But my heart doesn't break. Not even a little. At least that's what I think.

I set my jaw, staring at my reflection. You're strong, I tell her, my voice firm. I fan the remaining hair over my shoulders and snip at a few uneven strands until it looks... well, not perfect, but better. Manageable.

I sweep the bathroom floor, get changed into my school uniform, and head out. I half expect people to notice — the choppy haircut I gave myself to hide the bandage peeking out from my forehead, the slightly haunted look in my eyes—but no one does. In fact, I've never felt more invisible. It's not until I'm sitting in class, flipping open my book, that someone stops by my desk and mutters, 'This isn't your seat.'

I jerk, startled.

'Oh! It's you!' Vaishali says, her eyes widening like she'd seen a ghost.

'Who else would it be? Sakshi and Gargi aren't even back until tomorrow.'

She squints at me for a second, then, with her signature bluntness, says, 'You look pathetic.'

I take it as her way of showing sympathy and give a quiet nod.

People start filing in, the usual buzz of the classroom washing over me. And then come the inevitable questions. One after another. I find myself on autopilot, answering each with the same, strained smile. 'Just slipped!' My new personal slogan. What happened to your head? Just slipped. Why's your hair short? Just slipped, had to chop it off. What's your eyes bloodshot? Just slipped, shed a few tears. Why does everything feel like a train wreck? Oh, you know, just slipped—right into chaos, and now the lights won't turn back on.

And then they walk in. The four of them, always in formation, like they're starring in their own low-budget teen drama. Shlok, eyes glued to his phone, doesn't even glance my way. Vatsal walks in next. The divot between his eyebrows deepens at the sight of my face. A curious blend of distress and derision evident. Arjun follows, all wide-eyed concern as he stops right in front of my desk, crouching down to meet my eye level. 'Oh no, what happened?' he asks, like he's genuinely worried. Bless his heart.

But before I can respond with my patented 'Just slipped,' Romil steps in, all casual confidence, like he owns the place. His gaze flicks to me, then back to Arjun. 'None of your business, mate,' he says, voice smooth as silk.

Then, without missing a beat, he throws me the subtlest wink, the kind that could go unnoticed by anyone not on the receiving end, and saunters to his seat with a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I don't look back at him, but feel my cheeks grow warm considerably.

*****

I'm sitting alone in the canteen, picking at my parathas with curd, when Arjun drops down next to me.

'Hey!' he says, all casual.

'Hi, Arjun,' I reply, trying not to sound too surprised. He usually sits with his gang, so this is... new.

'I'm sorry about Romil earlier,' he says, glancing over at me with this boyish sincerity. 'He's a total douchebag.'

'Eh...' The memory of Romil's wink flashes through my mind, and before I can stop myself, my lips betray me with a tiny smile. I bite it back, but it's too late. Damage done.

Arjun narrows his eyes at me, but decides to let it slide. 'So, what happened?' He gestures toward my bandage, his voice softening.

'Oh, you know,' I shrug, 'Just slipped.'

'And the hair?' He points to the choppy haircut I now sport, looking genuinely curious.

I shift awkwardly. 'Well... I had to cut it after, uh, the fall. It got all knotty.'

'Naughty?' He grins, raising an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes, but can't help but chuckle. 'Knots, Arjun. Knotty. Not naughty.'

His grin widens, but he nods like he's totally going along with it. 'Right. Knotty.' There's a beat of silence before he clears his throat. 'So... did you think about it?'

'Think about what?' I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly, trying to remember if we had some unfinished business.

'The charity drive,' he prompts. 'I asked some time ago.'

'Oh... that.' I vaguely remember him bringing it up, but it had kind of slipped my mind in the chaos of my life falling apart—quite literally. 'Yeah, um... do we have to do a charity or something?' I ask, trying to sound casual and not at all panicked about how high the bar must be at rich-people-charity events.

He chuckles, shaking his head. 'No, only if you want to.' Then, with a sheepish grin, he adds, 'I just... actually wanted to ask you to come to the charity ball with me. It's the day after tomorrow and I don't have a plus-one yet.'

I freeze mid-bite, the bite-sized paratha hovering in the air. 'Oh... no, no, no, no. I can't. I'm not a ball or gala person. I wouldn't even know where to begin. I'd just feel totally out of place.'

'You won't,' he insists, leaning in a little. 'Trust me, you'll be fine. And honestly, I'm terrible at these things too. We can both be awkward together. It'll be fun.'

His enthusiasm is kind of contagious, even if I'm not totally convinced.

'I don't know...' I say, biting my lip.

He leans back in his chair, throwing me a playful look. 'Come on, Maithili. Worst case scenario, we sneak out early and grab some ice cream. You can't say no to that.'

My heart thunders in my chest. Did he just casually mention the possibility of a date after that?

'Arjun, I—'

'We don't have to do anything that you don't feel like,' he interrupts, smiling in that hopeful way that makes my heart ache a little. 'I'll send you the dress, pick you up, and just take my number—'

'She's going with me,' Romil's voice cuts in smoothly from behind, all cocky confidence and absolutely zero hesitation.

I whip around in my seat. Romil stands there, looking far too pleased with himself, arms crossed like he's just declared it and the universe has no choice but to comply.

'What?' Arjun looks up at him and then at me. 'No, she isn't. You aren't going with him, right?'

I shoot Romil a sharp look. 'Stop deciding for me.' Then to Arjun, I add, 'No, he's lying.'

'She just forgot to mention it,' Romil says, waving a hand like this is all a minor detail. 'You know how it is. She gets busy.'

'Oh, I know how it is,' I mutter, 'You're just making stuff up now.'

Arjun still looks confused. 'Wait, so... you're not going with him?'

'Of course she is,' Romil says before I can answer.

'Stop talking for me!' I snap, shooting him a glare. He just stares back, eyes steady, jaw twitching, like he's trying to send me some secret message, but if there is one, it's completely lost on me.

Before I can overthink it, I turn to Arjun, pocket the number he's slid my way on a small note, and say, 'I'll go with you,' then quickly pack my half-eaten paratha into the tiffin just as the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch break.

*****

It's the last period, the free one, and I'm perched on a stone bench under the gazebo, overlooking the wide expanse of the garden for florist and painting classes we could take optionally. I look at the closest canvas. There's a fifth grader in front of it, brush dipped in a blob of acrylic paint. He presses the bristles to the canvas just so, fanning them out to create a delicate flower pattern, and when he pulls the brush away, the design is intricate, almost perfect.

I can't help but clap. It's instinctive. The boy turns, beaming like he's just hung the moon, pride shining in his cherubic face.

Overhead, the sky starts to shift—soft, slate-gray clouds rolling in, and the slivers of sunshine we had are quickly swallowed up. The painting instructor whistles for the kids to pack up and move indoors. The other kids groan, dragging their feet, but not this one. No, he's determined. His fingers doing wonders over the canvas, moving so fast they're a blur, and within seconds he's made an extraordinary painting of flowers under the rain—achieved through some clever splatter technique that involves a toothbrush and a lot of last-minute genius.

He beams at me, his cherubic face glowing with pride. I clap again, and without missing a beat, he lifts the painting off the easel and walks over to me, holding it up like a prized trophy.

'I'll give it to you once I'm graded on it!' he says, voice bright and sweet, like a spoonful of marmalade.

I laugh, touched by his earnestness. 'Aww, thank you so much! What's your name?'

'I'm Agastya Das from Fifth B,' he says with a serious nod. 'All my friends call me Aggy.' He pauses, thinking hard about something, then adds, 'You can call me Aggy too... if I get to call you by what your friends call you.'

'Uh-oh,' I say, thinking of Maithi, my mouth droops into an exaggerated sad-face.

'Why?'

Before I can answer, Romil's voice cuts in from behind me, 'Because her friends call her Maithi. Not a cute name like yours, Aggy boy!'

The boy turns, sizing Romil up, his face a mix of curiosity and contemplation.

After a moment, he says, 'Well, I think Maithi is a cute name! It sounds like methi, and I love methi paratha. My mom makes the best ones! So, you must be special too if you have such a yummy name.'

That does it. I burst out laughing, and even Romil can't help but chuckle, shaking his head like he's genuinely impressed.

'Methi paratha, huh? Well, that's something!' Romil says, and then adds to me, 'Didn't you have paratha for lunch today?'

I throw a glance at Romil before turning back to Aggy, my face instinctively softening into a smile. 'Thank you, Aggy!' I say, and he skips off to catch up with his classmates, who are already heading inside.

Romil sits down beside me on the stone bench, shaking his head in mock disbelief. 'Methi paratha... I never had the audacity to call you that!'

I nudge him with my elbow. 'From what I know, you are decently audacious already. But at least Aggy appreciates it.'

Romil laughs, a low sound that makes me smile despite myself. The rain picks up, soft and steady, and we just sit there, letting it wash over the gazebo and turn the garden into a misty watercolour painting. The fifth graders are long gone now, and the distant chatter of classes being dismissed for the day hums in the background.

I pull my bag to my chest, watching raindrops bounce off leaves, and Romil leans back against the bench, hands tucked behind his head. 'You always end up making friends with everyone, don't you?'

I glance at him. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'First graders, fifth graders, the security guard... doesn't matter. Everyone gravitates toward you. And here I thought you didn't even want to talk to anyone when you first showed up.'

'Well, people surprise you sometimes,' I say with a serene calm I feel looking at the rain soaking the earth wet. 'It's out of season, and I love it. It's like a message from above.' I comment.

'Oh yeah? What's it saying?' He looks over at me, intrigued.

'Stay strong, keep going, good things are coming... you know, typical cosmic pep talk stuff.'

Romil arches an eyebrow but stays quiet, his gaze drifting to the rain now pouring down in steady sheets. 'You know,' he says, after a beat of silence, 'I don't think I've ever had methi paratha. To think, it's such a mom food to make. My mom never cooked for me.'

I blink at him. 'Are you serious? You've never had methi ka paratha?'

He shakes his head solemnly. 'Never.'

'Well, now I have to bring it for you,' I say, like it's a challenge. 'You can't go through life without tasting methi ka paratha.'

He shoots me a sideways grin. 'I'd be honoured, Methi Paratha Girl.'

I groan. 'Oh no, don't start calling me that.'

'Too late.' He stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. 'Besides, Aggy was right. You have a "yummy" name.' He pauses and then adds with an impish look, 'Suits you. And your haircut.'

I laugh, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. The rain continues its steady fall, pattering softly around us, like the universe is in on the joke.

Then Romil's voice cuts through the comfortable silence. 'Why did you say yes to Arjun for the ball?'

And just like that, the warmth fizzles into something sharp—annoyance, irritation, maybe even a bit of panic. 'Because of you,' I snap, probably faster than I should have.

Romil's brows shoot up. 'Me?'

'Yes, you,' I repeat, my voice firmer now. 'Why did you have to make it sound like there's something more going on between us? I only said yes to Arjun to shut that down.'

'You could've shut it down by saying yes to me.' He shrugs. 'Would've been easier. I told you, Arjun likes you. Now you'll have to share your address with him, and then...'

His words trail off, but I know what he's getting at. The truth, or rather, the mess of my life that I don't exactly broadcast. Arjun will know. 'I'm not hiding anything on purpose, Romil.'

'But I thought—'

'No,' I cut him off, my tone final. 'You don't get exclusive rights to the truth.' My words land with more bite than I intended, but I hold his gaze, daring him to argue.

He doesn't. Instead, he looks away, lips pressed into a thin line. 'I was going to ask you today,' he says after a moment, quieter. 'I'm attending the ball and we can bring a plus one.'

'I wasn't planning to go at all. But he asked me first.' My voice softens at the end, like a confession I didn't mean to make.

Romil stares at me for a beat, his expression unreadable. 'Figures,' he mutters.

I glance up at the sky. The rain has thinned into a mist now, just a light drizzle. I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder. 'Well... I should go,' I say, trying to sound casual, but it comes out more like an excuse to escape.

Romil stays seated, watching me with an unreadable expression. 'Right. See you around, Methi Paratha Girl.'

I roll my eyes but can't help the grin tugging at my lips. 'Goodbye, Romil.'

I step into the wet grass, my shoes squishing softly. After a few steps, I hear him call out, 'You still owe me a paratha, you know!'

I turn, walking backward, and shout over the drizzle, 'I promised, didn't I?'

He leans back, mouthing something, and through the rain, all I catch is the word "yummy." The rest drowns out, but I'm sure it was equally annoying.