Chapter 1: The Art of Moving On (Or at least Pretending to)
In the grand scheme of things, Aanya had two choices—sit in her matchbox-sized terrace room, analyzing her life choices into oblivion until even the ceiling fan seemed to judge her, or actually do something about it.
So far, the fan was winning.
She exhaled sharply, sprawled on her mattress, eyes tracing the ceiling cracks as if they held the secret to untangling her 21-year-old existence.
They did not.
Life, she had long since realized, was not a coming-of-age film where heartbreak led to artistic reinvention. More often than not, it led to bad decisions, impulsive haircuts, and an excessive amount of ice cream at odd hours.
Speaking of haircuts—her freshly chopped wolf cut fanned around her head like a halo of regret. She had been warned she’d feel remorse. She didn’t. What she did regret, however, was believing it would change anything. It hadn’t. She was still Aanya, still floundering somewhere between ambition and existential dread.
Her phone cast a dim blue glow from Spotify.
“You call me up again just to break me like a promise...”
Aanya groaned and smacked the skip button before Taylor Swift could drag her into another emotional spiral. Sad songs and overthinking had become the background score to a heartbreak she wasn’t even sure she felt anymore. It wasn’t him she missed—it was the version of herself that hadn’t yet learned to distrust grand, all-consuming love.
Three years at NIFT Gandhinagar had taught her many things—how to survive on caffeine, how to stitch until 3 AM without stabbing herself too much, and how to pretend she had her life together when, in reality, she was flailing. She had left the hostel last year in search of independence. A mistake, in hindsight. Now she rented a tiny terrace room that was either atmospheric or terrifying, depending on whom you asked.
Her phone buzzed.
Kiaan: “U better not be rotting away in that haunted shoebox of yours.”
Aanya: “First of all, it’s not haunted. It’s just… atmospheric.”
Kiaan: “Right. And I’m Zayn Malik.”
Aanya: “You’d rather be Harry.”
Kiaan: “Facts. Now come downstairs. Chai. Five mins.”
She stared at the message, debating whether she had the energy for human interaction.
She did not.
But this was Kiaan.
Kiaan, who tailored outfits inspired by Harry Styles’ concert looks and had once seriously contemplated a Treat People With Kindness tattoo. Kiaan, whom she had met in Semester 2 during a character-day fashion show and bonded with over their shared obsession, even skipping an afternoon lecture to have chai. Kiaan, who had an annoyingly accurate sixth sense for when she was spiraling.
Late-night chai with Kiaan was therapy. No judgment, no forced pep talks—just conversations about life, bad decisions, and which Taylor Swift album best described their emotional states.
Aanya sighed but felt a small smile tug at her lips.
Aanya: “Fine. Give me 10 mins.”
Kiaan: “5. I’m already on my way. Don’t ghost me. I will CALL. And if you don’t answer, I will come up there and jump your lizards.”
Shaking her head, she pulled on the nearest hoodie and stepped outside. The night air wrapped around her like a half-formed thought, cool against her skin. As she made her way down the stairs, she caught glimpses of life unfolding around her. The old woman two houses down was pacing her terrace, arguing with someone on the phone—most likely her son in the US, judging by the dramatic hand gestures. A group of guys sat on plastic chairs, their laughter mingling with the faint scent of cigarettes. Across the street, a couple perched on a parked scooter, their heads bent together, whispering as if the rest of the world had melted away.
Life moves forward, she thought. Mine, however, feels stuck in an endless buffering zone.
She reached the gate just as Kiaan pulled up on his scooty, wearing SpongeBob pajamas and absolutely zero shame.
“You took eight minutes,” he said, dramatically checking his nonexistent watch.
“Sorry,” she deadpanned. “I was busy contemplating my life choices.”
“Babe, that’s literally your default setting.”
He handed her a helmet, and she climbed onto the back of the scooty. As they rode through the quiet city streets, the wind whipped past them, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement and the distant hum of life winding down.
When they reached their usual chai stall, Kiaan ordered their regular—cutting chai, extra adrak and elaichi—and they settled onto the worn wooden bench. The stall uncle barely acknowledged them anymore; they were here too often for him to care.
Kiaan took a sip and exhaled. “So,” he began, “on a scale of just sad to down horrendous, how bad is our mental health today?”
Aanya smirked. “Oh, you know. Somewhere between All Too Well (10-minute version) and Jiyein Kyun.”
Kiaan winced. “Yikes. That’s a rough place to be.”
She let the warmth of the chai settle in her chest. “Yeah, but it’s getting better. Slowly.”
He bumped his shoulder against hers, a quiet reassurance. “Good. Otherwise, I’d have to stage an intervention. Probably by making you listen to the full breakdown of my last date. Again.”
She laughed, and this time, it wasn’t forced.
Maybe she didn’t have to figure everything out just yet.
Maybe, for tonight, chai and Kiaan’s ridiculous pajamas were enough.
