Diya Singh adjusted the pleats of her mint-green saree for the third time that evening, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. The glittering fabric clung too tightly for her liking, the blouse pinched at the shoulders, and the neckline dipped just enough to make her mother beam with pride. “You look perfect!” her mother had gushed earlier, her hands busy fastening a heavy necklace around Diya’s neck. Perfect for what? Parading in front of every eligible bachelor at yet another family gathering? 

She sighed. It wasn’t that she hated family events. She loved the boisterous chaos of her cousins, the spicy aroma of chaat counters, and the old Bollywood songs that invariably blasted through speakers by the end of the night. What she hated was the constant scrutiny. 

“Thirty, Diya,” her aunt had whispered just last week, her tone low but no less cutting. “The good boys are getting taken. You need to hurry before you’re left with—” The pause had been heavy, judgmental. 

“Before I’m left with you?” Diya had shot back, earning a scandalized gasp. 

Tonight, though, she resolved to keep her mouth shut. She had no energy for verbal sparring. As she entered the sprawling banquet hall, the air-conditioned chill did little to soothe her nerves. Couples milled about, aunts exchanged gossip over paneer tikka, and children zipped between tables. Somewhere in the corner, her parents were undoubtedly scanning the room for prospective grooms. 

“Diya Singh, as I live and breathe!” 

The voice startled her, warm and teasing, like sunlight breaking through a cloudy day. She turned, her eyes landing on **Rudra Roy**. 

He stood with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets, a crooked grin lighting up his face. Dressed in a simple kurta and jeans, he looked every bit the laid-back guy she remembered. The last time they’d seen each other was six years ago at a mutual friend’s wedding. Since then, life had taken them in different directions—him to some high-powered corporate job in Mumbai, and her into the unpredictable world of freelancing. 

“Rudra?” she asked, blinking as if he might disappear. 

“The one and only.” He gestured dramatically, earning a reluctant smile from her. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms. 

“Same thing as you, I suspect,” he replied. “Dodging marriage proposals and wondering if this paneer tastes like rubber.” He popped a cube into his mouth, grimaced, and shrugged. “Yep. Still rubber.” 

She chuckled despite herself. Rudra had always had that effect on her—a way of diffusing her tightly wound frustration with a well-timed joke. 

“Let me guess,” he said, tilting his head. “Your parents dragged you here under the pretense of ‘catching up with family’ but really want you to meet a ‘nice boy from a good family.’” 

“Bingo.” 

“Same here. Though my mom added the extra flair of fake health concerns. Apparently, her blood pressure is tied to my single status.” 

Diya rolled her eyes. “Classic.” 

They found themselves gravitating toward a quieter corner of the hall, away from the matchmaking frenzy. As they caught up, the years melted away. Rudra told her about his job in Mumbai—how he hated the 9-to-5 grind but loved the freedom it afforded him on weekends. She shared her struggles as a freelance writer, the highs of creative control tempered by the lows of inconsistent pay. 

“And you?” he asked, leaning slightly closer. “Still writing poetry in the margins of notebooks?” 

Diya blinked, surprised he remembered. “I dabble,” she admitted. “But it’s hard to make time for it these days. Survival pays better than sonnets.” 

He nodded, his expression softening. “You should make time. The world has enough spreadsheets and PowerPoints. It needs more poetry.” 

Before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation. 

“Diya!” 

Her mother materialized, her smile wide and expectant. Diya tensed instinctively. 

“There you are! Come, I want you to meet someone.” 

Diya groaned inwardly. Here we go. 

Rudra raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: someone tall, fair, and ‘settled’?” 

“Someone insufferable,” she muttered. 

Without thinking, she grabbed Rudra’s arm and tugged him along. If she had to endure this, she wasn’t doing it alone. He came willingly, his curiosity piqued. 

They reached a table where a young man in a crisp suit sat rigidly, his posture impeccable and his smile too polished to be sincere. Diya could practically hear the checklist her mother was mentally ticking off: good looks, stable job, obedient disposition. 

“Diya, this is Akash,” her mother said, beaming. “He works in IT and just bought his own apartment.” 

Diya plastered on a tight smile. “Wonderful,” she said flatly, then turned to Rudra. “And this is Rudra, my...” She hesitated for a beat too long. 

“Her partner,” Rudra finished smoothly, slipping an arm around her shoulders. 

The silence was deafening. Her mother’s smile froze mid-beam, Akash looked like someone had slapped him, and Diya...well, Diya was trying very hard not to burst out laughing. 

“Partner?” her mother repeated, her tone dangerously neutral. 

“Yes,” Rudra said cheerfully. “We’ve been together for a while now. Haven’t we, darling?” 

Diya’s lips twitched. She wanted to be annoyed, but the glint of mischief in his eyes was contagious. “Absolutely,” she said, leaning into the charade. “He’s been my rock.” 

Her mother looked as though she might faint. Akash, clearly uncomfortable, mumbled an excuse and fled. 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Diya elbowed Rudra. “What was that?” 

“Your rescue plan,” he replied innocently. “You’re welcome.” 

She shook her head, but the laughter bubbling in her chest was impossible to suppress. 

---

Later that night, as the party began to wind down, Diya found herself alone on the terrace. The city lights stretched out before her, a glittering sea of possibility. She was lost in thought when Rudra joined her, a steaming cup of chai in each hand. 

“Here,” he said, handing her one. “Thought you could use this after your performance tonight.” 

She accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into her fingers. “Thanks for that, by the way. My mom might strangle me later, but at least I didn’t have to endure Akash for long.” 

“Anytime,” he said, leaning against the railing. 

They stood in companionable silence, the air heavy with unspoken words. 

“Do you ever feel like we’re all just...stuck?” Diya asked suddenly. “Like we’re living someone else’s script?” 

Rudra considered this. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But maybe it’s up to us to rewrite it.” 

She glanced at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Rewrite it how?” 

He smiled, a hint of mischief returning. “Its all in our hand Diya” 

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

A TeVin Fans Friction.

Leave your Vote and comments.. Because I need to know what you feel about the story.

Intresting?

Should I continue?

Do leave comment.

List of Ongoing Stories.

1) Sunn Yaara (RagLak)
2) You're The One For Me?( TeVin)
3) The Twist of Fate (TeZain)

Niha🖤