First Chapter
Chapter One: Three Threads, One Beginning
Some days don’t begin with big moments. They start quietly—with missed alarms, half-warm tea, and WhatsApp notifications buzzing under half-open pillows.
That morning, Manjari ( Literature major final year student )was running exactly nine minutes late. Not because she overslept, but because she had decided to rearrange her bookshelf at 2 a.m. after finding a dried mogra flower between the pages of her old journal. The scent had reminded her of her nani’s hair—always adorned with fresh gajras—and that spiraled into a full-blown nostalgia trip .
She was like that. A little reckless with time, very sentimental with memories. Her room looked like a curated chaos of past and poetry: tiny glass bottles of ittar, stacks of handwritten letters tied with threads, and polaroids that didn’t really match the walls but matched her heart.
Her phone buzzed again.
Srishti : "Tu uth gayi ya abhi bhi poetry likh rahi hai ?"
Manjari grinned.
Manjari: "Main toh tab se uth gayi jab se tera good morning meme aaya tha... dubara so gayi bas."
Meanwhile, in Prayagraj, Neerav Mishra ( preparing for civil exams while managing his own vintage book store)had already finished his second cup of chai. He was a morning person—not by habit, but by necessity. The world outside his window was still quiet, except for the temple bell that rang like clockwork at 7:30 a.m.
He liked beginnings. Fresh notebooks, new pens, and the smell of petrichor after summer rains. His room was simple—a desk by the window, a wall filled with post-its, and a lamp that stayed on longer than necessary. Neerav wasn’t one for noise. But he noticed things. Like how the trees outside shifted ever so slightly after a strong breeze. Or how his mother always left a post-it near his tiffin that read, "Drink water beta."
In one corner of Rajasthan, Srishti ( Psychology Hons. Student)was already on her third voice note of the day, speaking animatedly to the group chat she had dragged Manjari into. She was loud in the best way—the kind that made people smile, even while covering their ears.
Srishti (voice note): "Tum dono( Neerav and Manjri )itne chup kyun rehte ho is GC mein? Kabhi lagta hai bot add kar liya maine."
Manjari:
"Main sirf weekend sale aur chai ke memes pe active hoti hoon."
Neerav : "Aur main GC ka ghost hoon. Sirf @ mention karne se dikhai deta hoon."
Srishti: Ajeeb ho tum dono , kabhi kabhi to lgta hai mujhe hi bolte rehne ka lifetime subscription mila hai
Khair let's get to the topic kal ek fun game rakhte hain. Random dares. Pakka?"
Manjari replied with an eye-roll emoji. Neerav sent a thumbs-up.
That day passed like any other. Manjari skipped breakfast, spilled ink on her notebook, and forgot to reply to a teacher’s message. Srishti argued with her brother over TV remote rights and created a poll on Instagram: "Does pineapple belong on pizza?" Neerav spent his evening watering the tulsi plant and re-reading his favorite poem by Gulzar.
But something was different. Slight. Like a thread being tugged.
That night, while everyone else in the group was sharing memes or ranting about college, Manjari accidentally clicked open Neerav’s profile.
No DP. Just a bio that said: "listening more than speaking"
She didn't know why she stared at it for so long. Maybe because it felt familiar
“Listening more than speaking...”
She whispered to herself, just before sleep pulled her in.
Shayad isliye usne pehli baar kisi stranger ka profile open karke do minute extra ruk kar socha tha—
"Tum waqai sunte ho… ya sirf likhna achha lagta hai?"
