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WHEN ISHAN STEPS in the tinted cafe doors wearing a leather jacket over a white tshirt with some Latin quoted in italicised Times New Roman font, Adarika gets the wind nearly knocked out of her.

It's the exact same as before. Everything is the same, from the direction his hair blows to the light morning breeze to the phone with the matching cases they had in his hands.

And he offers her the same beaming smile before taking her own bag out of her hands.

"Let's go."

Don't screw this up, Adarika.

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