Getting ready without makeup isn't just about skipping the foundation and mascara; it's a delicate art form, and I'm here to share the secret—only if you promise not to cheat by slapping on some concealer and calling it a "no-makeup look." That would kill the fun. The trick is simple: dunk your face in icy cold water a few times until you feel all fresh and rosy. Trust me; it's refreshing.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, the soft glow of the morning light highlighting the ethnic skirt and crop-top set I transformed from a Banarasi brocade saree. My hair is pulled into a quick bun, and I slip on my best juttis, a steal at 400 rupees from last year, and ta-da, I'm done. I tap my face dry with a napkin and head out of the house an hour earlier than usual, giving me time to check if everything's been done properly.

And it's not. The decorations aren't even halfway done in this garden of dreams. The caterers? Nowhere to be seen. And the stage—well, let's just say it looks more suited for a talent show than a grand event. What were they thinking? I stash my bag in my locker and make a beeline for the auditorium, where every one of my team members was supposed to gather. Of course, it's empty. Perfect.

I approach the décor guys to ask how much longer they need, and they respond, 'Three hours at the very least!'

'What do you mean, three hours at the very least?' My voice tinges with panic as I process the lack of progress.

I grab the guard bhaiya's phone and call the caterers; they'll arrive in fifteen minutes. My hopes flare slightly. Next, I ring the stage decorators, lighting technicians, carpenters, and the class prefects from Commerce. They'll all be here in half an hour.

I turn my glare on the décor guy, who is scrolling through his phone like he has all the time in the world. 'Why aren't you doing anything?' I ask, my tone sharper than intended.

He doesn't even bother looking up right away. When he does, it's with a lazy sigh. 'Madam, you are too young for this tension. Go, take selfies or whatever you young lot do these days. You won't understand how these things work.'

I open my mouth to respond, but a lump swells in my throat. My chest tightens, and I feel my hands shaking as his gaze drifts back to his phone. I don't know why tears start spilling, and why everything seems to hang low on me, suffocating. I rush to the auditorium and find a dark corner on the stage to sit, curling my legs under my arms.

I let the tears rack me, sobbing harder every second. Something about the emptiness of the school makes me cry even louder. I hardly ever lose control like this. I am wiping my face with the back of my hand when I catch sight of something hovering in front of me—a crisp white handkerchief hanging in the air.

I blink through the blur of tears and look up, tracing the handkerchief to the hand offering it. Romil. His curly hair shines with something he's applied to it. I look at him, standing in his reserved glory, but something about his eyes is different. He avoids looking directly at me.

I take the handkerchief and dry my tear-streaked face, noticing all the while that he's avoiding my gaze, as if I have viral conjunctivitis. But this gives me time to pull my expressions together and look less dishevelled than I do. In the meantime, I notice him. Really notice him. Wearing a pastel Jodhpuri Suit and Peshawari Sandals, he looks ethereal. His broad shoulders seem broader in the suit, and his eyes, usually sharp, now appear a deep, chocolaty shade of brown.

I tear my gaze away from him, snapping back to the absurdity of it all—Romil, of all people, witnessing my breakdown.

'I am okay,' I manage to say as I hand him the damp handkerchief. And then it hits me—the moment he takes hold of the handkerchief, I don't let go of the fabric. 'I'll wash it and give it back,' I say hurriedly.

His fingers curl tighter as he tugs the handkerchief from my hands. 'No need,' he says, pushing it down into his pocket.

He sits beside me, and for a moment, we're just two people in an empty auditorium. The weight of it isn't lost on me. A few beats later, he asks, 'What happened?'

'Nothing. I—' Not knowing what to say, I pause. From how he's reacting, I can assume he won't use this against me, but I don't trust him completely. My track record with Romil is... complicated. I hiccup and feel the warmth of embarrassment creeping in as he disappears for a moment. When I look around, he's gone to fetch his water bottle. Something about this makes me thaw. I watch as he returns, unscrewing the cap and offering it to me with a tentative expression. I take a sip, the cool water soothing my throat, and as I look up, I catch his gaze—searching, almost concerned.

'The stage is too small,' I begin, hesitating under his gaze, 'and—hic—the decorations will take three more hours and—hic—and nothing is going as per the plan. Nothing's—hic—working.' I sniff and watch him as he settles in beside me.

He listens, leaning forward with his fingers steepled. 'And you are crying, why?' he asks.

'Because...' I pause, grappling with the absurdity of his question. The more I think I about it, the better sense this makes. Why am I crying? Yes, the decoration will take another three hours, so what? I sniff one more time and take another sip from his water bottle. 'I don't know,' I finally admit.

Romil nods, his gaze serious, and for the first time, I see warmth and sincerity in his eyes. 'I'll help,' he says simply.

As we prepare to leave the sanctuary of the dark corner, he surprises me with a comment that lingers in the air. 'You could use a bindi,' he says, shouldering his bag before exiting the auditorium with the air of mystery that seems an inherent trait in him.

*****

I'm standing in the girl's washroom, splashing cold water on my face, the bathroom echoing with the sound of laughter and the scent of Gucci Flora when Sakshi makes her entrance. Before I can even process her presence, she shows up behind me and pinches me in the stomach. I yelp in surprise and proceed to tickle the living daylights out of her. She bends over in a fit of giggles, blocking my hands, but I reach anyway, smiling and laughing, my fingers dancing across her sides.

'You're finally showing that pretty waist of yours! How pretty you're looking, Maithi. Where did you get this dress?' Sakshi asks as I twirl around her.

'I made it,' I say proudly.

'Wow, dude! It's so cool!!' She reaches for the seams and feels the fabric with her slender fingers. 'You've literally got some talent, yar Maithi!' I beam at her from the mirror as I tie my hair back in a bun. 'And here's your emblem, daisy, isn't it?'

'Yes, do you like it?' I ask, showing off the intricate detailing I painstakingly stitched into the dainty sleeves and the mermaid skirt.

'Wow!' she breathes.

She looks at me in plain admiration when I suggest, tentatively, 'I can make one for you. I've got a saree bundle.'

'Will you, really?' She beams and nods vigorously. I smile internally. It's been such a weight on my shoulders that Sakshi has helped me out of countless tight spots; now, I finally get to do something for her. Pride blooms in my chest, and I fight back the urge to cry again.

'Maithi, with this talent, you could make a brand! If your father doesn't invest, I'll ask my father to do it. I'll vouch for you...' She is still speaking but I zone out. I hate to keep her in the dark. Sure, I've mentioned being a scholarship student, but I haven't told her how "invest" isn't a word meant for people like us. Saving is the maximum we can aspire to.

I don't correct her. I am leaving when she tugs my hand, pulling me back into her whirlwind of life. 'You're bare-faced! It's not doing justice to your outfit.' Before I can protest, she pulls out a lipstick and begins to apply it to my lips, a soft nude pink that feels foreign on my colorless face. She applies a few dots on my cheeks and dabs them on my cheekbones with her fingertips.

'I think it's enough.' I am about to go when she drags me back, plunging deep into her makeup box. 'It's not every day we get to wear makeup in school!' She takes out a mascara wand and applies a delicate coat to my lashes, making me feel like a character from one of those teen movies where everything turns out just right after you dress up.

Then she reaches for a kohl pencil, and I stop her. 'Wait! Can you make a bindi for me instead?'

With one last look in the mirror, we leave for the fest.