Now You're Here by J.M. Espiña at Inkitt

Delivery for Helcurt

The thing about surprises is that they only work if you don’t overthink them.

I have been overthinking this one for approximately fourteen hours, which is the exact length of the flight from Manila to Chennai with a layover in Kuala Lumpur where I almost talked myself out of it three times.

I didn’t, obviously.

I’m here.

Standing outside an apartment building in a part of Chennai I’ve only ever seen through my phone screen, squinting at the address I bullied out of Logan three days ago. The air smells like rain that hasn’t decided whether to fall yet, and also like someone nearby is frying onions, and also like jasmine. India smells like a dozen things at once, all of them alive.

My phone says 7:42 PM.

He doesn’t know I’m here.

He thinks I’m still in Manila, probably editing photos or writing something sarcastic about dating apps or arguing with strangers in the comments section of the app we both haunt. Instead, I am standing at his doorstep with a backpack that weighs approximately as much as a small child and a heart rate that I am choosing to interpret as excitement rather than terror.

It’s excitement.

I’m excited.

This is what I do. I show up. I’m spontaneous. I’m the person who books a work trip to India and decides, somewhere over the Bay of Bengal, that the hotel allowance can go unused and the friend I’ve been talking to for two years can be my first stop instead. He did say, a year ago, you can stay at my place when you visit. I decided to treat that as an invitation. I decided to make it a surprise. Because where’s the fun in a hotel room when you can show up at someone’s doorstep unannounced and watch them try to process your existence in real time?

Technically, it was an invitation.

Technically, he might not remember saying it.

Too late now.

I press the buzzer.

Nothing happens for long enough that I start mentally drafting the message I’ll send Logan: You gave me the wrong address and now I’m standing outside a stranger’s apartment like a lost food delivery driver, thank you for your service.

Then the intercom crackles.

“Hello?”

His voice. Distorted slightly by the cheap speaker, but unmistakably his. Lower than I expected, maybe. Or maybe I’ve just never heard it without the compression of a voice note. There’s a pause after the word, patient, unhurried. He doesn’t say who is this. He just waits.

I lean toward the intercom, grinning.

“Delivery for Helcurt.”

Silence.

I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four—

The intercom crackles again.

“Huh.”

That’s it. That’s the reaction. A single syllable, and then the buzzer sounds, and the door unlocks with a mechanical clunk that I feel in my chest.

I push it open.

The stairwell is narrow and painted a colour that might have been yellow once and is now just... tired. I climb three flights with my backpack thumping against my spine, and by the time I reach the third floor, I’m slightly out of breath and very aware that I haven’t showered in sixteen hours and I’m wearing airplane clothes and my hair is doing whatever it wants.

Not exactly the entrance I’d planned.

But then, I didn’t plan any of this.

The door at the end of the hallway is already open.

And he’s standing in it.

I stop walking because my brain needs a second to reconcile the person in front of me with the person I’ve been talking to for two years.

Taller. I knew he’d be taller, but knowing and seeing are different things. He’s lean in a way that suggests he either forgets to eat or runs on tea and spite. Dark hair that’s slightly too long, pushed back like he ran his hand through it once and called it a day. Glasses. A plain grey t-shirt that’s seen better days. Cotton pants.

He looks like an exhausted academic who was in the middle of something and hasn’t fully processed that there’s a woman on his doorstep who was, until thirty seconds ago, supposed to be in a different country.

He looks exactly like his profile picture.

And also nothing like it.

Because in the picture he’s static, frozen, a collection of pixels. In real life he’s breathing. His eyes are moving. Taking me in — the backpack, the airplane clothes, the grin I’ve plastered on my face to cover the sudden, inexplicable feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Hi,” I say.

And then his face changes.

Not a smile. Not a gasp. Something subtler. His eyebrows lift — just a fraction. His shoulders drop, like he’d been holding something and just let it go. His head tilts slightly, and I watch him take me in. The backpack. The airplane clothes. The grin.

He doesn’t say what are you doing here.

He says, “Helena?”

The way he says my name — not a question, not quite a statement. It lands somewhere between disbelief and recognition.

“Surprise!” I throw my arms out, backpack and all. “I’m a disaster. Look at me. I’m a disaster on your doorstep.”

He stares at me for a full three seconds.

Then he laughs.

Not a chuckle. A real laugh, short and startled, like I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit, you actually—” He stops, shakes his head. A grin spreads across his face, crooked and completely unguarded. “You actually came.”

“I told you I would.”

“A year ago. You said it a year ago. Who the fuck just—” He runs a hand through his hair, still grinning. “Dei, come in, come in.”

He steps aside, still shaking his head, and I walk past him into the apartment before I can do something embarrassing like cry. I didn’t realize I was worried he might not want me here until right now, when the worry disappears.

The apartment is small but deliberate. A couch that’s seen things. A low table covered in books and one mug that’s probably cold by now. A bookshelf against the far wall, absolutely crammed, bowing slightly in the middle. One book lies open and face-down on the arm of the chair across from the couch. He was reading when I buzzed. Something about Indian philosophy, from what I can see of the spine.

The whole place smells like tea and ginger and old paper.

It smells like him.

Which is a weird thing to notice. I notice it anyway.

I drop my backpack on the floor with a heavy thud. Relief rushes through my shoulders as the weight finally leaves them, and I roll them back, wincing at the dull ache settled deep beneath my shoulder blades.

Then I turn around.

He’s still looking at me, and there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before — something warm, something almost disbelieving — and I realize he’s glad. He’s not going to say it. He’s not going to make a speech. But he’s glad I’m here.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m a hugger. Are you a hugger? You don’t have to be a hugger. But I’m a hugger. Fair warning.”

He blinks at me from near the door. He’s closed it now. It’s just us in this small, book-crammed room.

“I don’t know if I’m a hugger,” he says, slowly.

“What do you mean you don’t know? It’s a yes or no question.”

“I mean I don’t know. No one’s ever asked me before.”

This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. “How has no one ever— okay. Okay. We’re figuring this out. Right now.”

I cross the room in three steps. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me approach with that same quiet attention, like I’m a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to solve.

I stop directly in front of him. He’s a full head taller than me. I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

“I’m going to hug you,” I announce. “And you’re going to tell me if it’s terrible. Be honest. I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“Stop being calm. It’s unnerving.”

“You’re the one who showed up at my door unannounced.”

“And you’re handling it suspiciously well. Are you a serial killer?”

“Obviously.”

“Good. Same.” I open my arms. “Ready?”

He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. He just tilts his head slightly, and there it is — the smile. Not almost. Actual. Small and crooked and real, and it reaches his eyes.

“Ready,” he says.

I hug him.

He’s warm. That’s the first thing I notice. Warm and solid and he smells like laundry soap and something faintly spicy, like he cooked earlier and it stayed in his clothes. His arms come up around me — not tight, not loose, just present. One hand rests between my shoulder blades. The other hovers for a second near my waist, like he’s asking permission, and then settles there.

It’s a good hug.

It’s a really good hug.

I pull back first, because I am a professional at not making things weird, and also because my heart is doing the stupid thing again.

“Okay,” I say, stepping away. “Verdict?”

He considers it. Actually considers it, like I’ve asked him to evaluate a piece of music.

“Not terrible,” he says.

“Not terrible? That was an excellent hug. That was a world-class hug. I’m offended.”

“You asked me to be honest.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“That sounds like poor planning on your part.”

I stare at him. He stares back. His expression is perfectly neutral, but there’s a glint in his eyes that I recognize from a hundred text conversations. He’s messing with me. He’s been messing with me since I walked through the door.

“You’re terrible,” I inform him.

“I know.”

“Are you going to make me tea, or do I have to stand here being insulted in your hallway forever?”

“Tea,” he says, and this time the smile stays. “Sit down. You look like you haven’t stopped moving in sixteen hours.”

I sink into the couch while the sounds of the kitchen drift through the open doorway — water running, the clink of a pot, the soft hiss of the stove. I pull my feet up underneath me.

He comes back with two mugs. Hands one to me. Settles into the chair across from the couch — not next to me, I notice, but not far. Just a comfortable distance. His glasses have slipped down his nose.

“You made chai,” I say, after the first sip. It’s good. Strong, milky, cardamom and ginger and something else. Something warm.

“You’re in India.” He says it like it explains everything. Maybe it does.

“I could have wanted coffee.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“No.”

“Then stop complaining.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Complaining has tone. Observing is neutral.”

“You’ve never been neutral about anything.”

I gasp. “I am extremely neutral. I am the most neutral person you’ve ever met. I have no opinions whatsoever.”

He takes a sip of his tea.

“How’s the prawn situation?” he asks.

The prawn situation. I mentioned it once. Months ago. A dream about being chased by a giant prawn through a shopping mall. I told him about it in a voice note at three in the morning because I couldn’t sleep, and he replied with a single line: This sounds like a metaphor for something, but I don’t know what.

I didn’t think he’d remember.

“I faced it,” I say, recovering. “We made peace. I looked it in the eye and said, prawn, you have no power over me.”

“And did it believe you?”

“It cried. It was very emotional.”

“Good,” he says, and the glint is back. “Closure is important.”

“Are you mocking me?”

He takes another sip. “I would never.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Maybe.”

I point my mug at him. “I flew fourteen hours for this. Fourteen hours. And a layover in Kuala Lumpur where a man fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled on my shirt.”

“Did you change your shirt?”

“No. I wanted you to see what I’ve been through.”

“Considerate.”

“I’m a considerate person.”

“You showed up at my door without telling me.”

“And you love it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s the kind of silence that exists between people who don’t need to fill every second with words. I drink my tea. He drinks his. Outside the window, Chennai is doing what Chennai does — honking, shouting, living. A dog barks somewhere. A temple bell rings.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” I say.

He looks at me over the rim of his mug. “You know my name.”

“Helcurt is not a name. Helcurt is a username. I’ve been calling you Helcurt for two years like a weirdo.”

“You are a weirdo.”

“Exactly. So why wouldn’t you tell me?”

He sets his mug down. His fingers tap once against the ceramic — index, middle, thumb — and I recognize the gesture from a hundred moments I didn’t know I was collecting.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“Yes. Names matter.”

“Why?”

“Because—” I stop. “Because I want to know what to call you when I’m yelling at you in person. Helcurt is too many syllables. It’s inefficient.”

“Efficiency. Of course.”

“I’m serious.”

He looks at me for a long moment. Not intense. Not searching. Just... looking. Like he’s making a decision.

“Karthik,” he says.

“Karthik.”

“Yes.”

I try it out. Let it sit in my mouth. Karthik. It suits him. Quiet and solid and warm, like the tea.

“That wasn’t so hard,” I say.