Chapter One
“Some loves are written in stars. Ours was written in timelines.”
Chapter One - The Girl Who Forgot She Was Magic
Us sheeshe mein kuch toh baaki hai,
Jaise kal ka koi raaz chhupa ho aaj ke peechhe.
Har chaand, har saans,
har khwab mein— Kya tum the?
Ya koi aur zindagi thi mere saath?
They said Ujjain was a city of gods, of rituals, of time measured not by clocks but by cosmic alignment. But for Aanya, it was the city of sticky summers, loud cousins, and autos that never stopped at red lights. Her days were filled with routines she could predict with the accuracy of an atomic clock.
She lived with her Maasi and Nani in a fading yet charming two-storey home near the old lanes of Mahakal Marg, with moss-covered bricks and a bougainvillea plant that refused to die despite no one watering it.
Aanya was 22, majoring in Indian History at Vikram University. She was someone you’d probably pass by in a crowd, but not without noticing her oversized tote bag stuffed with books, her perpetually messy bun, and that little notebook she always carried, as if she were collecting fragments of the past.
She woke up to Nani’s morning aartis—never too loud, always just the right background hum to her groggy mornings. The scent of agarbatti would trail into her room as she groaned, rolled over, and snoozed her 6:45 AM alarm again.
“Utho, kal ki raat ke sapno se aaj ka sach milne aaya hai,” Nani said once, standing in the doorway.
“Poetic, Nani,” Aanya mumbled, “But I have 20 minutes more before the real world starts.”
Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other—scrolling through unread group chats from Kuhu that ranged from class gossip to existential memes.
After a quick shower, she wrapped her damp hair into a messy bun, letting a few strands fall naturally around her face. Her wardrobe was a mix of comfort and quiet elegance—mostly earthy tones, cotton kurtis, a few long shrugs, and soft silver jhumkas she wore almost like a habit.
Today, she chose a rust-orange kurta with cream embroidery, pairing it with white cotton pants and a block-printed dupatta casually draped over one shoulder. Her signature tan sling bag was already half-filled with books, pens, and her little leather-bound notebook. She lined her eyes with a quick flick of kajal—subtle, but it made her brown eyes stand out beneath her glasses.
A light dab of rosewater behind the ears, her mother’s old silver ring on her finger, and she was ready.
By 8:10, Aanya was finally out the door, adjusting the strap of her sling bag, her notebook peeking out like it had something to say. She kick-started her scooty—an old navy blue Activa her Maasi called “Shaani” because of its frequent tantrums—and zipped into the bylanes of Ujjain.
The city was still stretching its limbs. Pigeons flapped across ancient rooftops. The scent of poha-jalebi wafted from street stalls. On her way, she passed the narrow lane near Ramghat, where the ghat-side cows knew her by now.
“Arre, tujhe bhi bhukh lagti hai, haan?” she muttered fondly, slowing down to pull a small packet of roti-sabzi from her bag. It was her Nani’s extra tiffin. She parked for a second and fed the docile white cow, rubbing its forehead gently. “Bas, bhagwan se zyada blessings toh main tujhse leti hoon.”
Just as she was about to ride off, a group of giggling kids came running from the corner temple stairs, each holding tiny paper kites and smudged toffee wrappers.
“Didi! Chocolate hai kya?” one of them piped up, tugging her dupatta.
She laughed and reached into her bag. “Sab kuch hai mere paas, bas shaadi ke rishtay nahi,” she said dramatically, handing out Eclairs and mango candies. The kids squealed and thanked her with the kind of pure joy that made her heart feel weirdly full.
As she neared the Mahakal temple crossing, she slowed down—not to pray, but out of respect. The chants and temple bells echoed like they belonged to another realm. People stood barefoot with folded hands, vermillion on their foreheads, coconuts in hand. Aanya, an atheist by thought but spiritual by habit, parked her scooty at the edge, joined her palms with a soft smile, and whispered under her breath, “Main toh nahi maanti, but agar tu sunn raha hai toh… sabko khush rakhna.”
One of the temple aunties, clad in a green saree with sindoor smudged up to her hairline, called out, “Aanya bitiya! Itna khilaati hai sabko, khud ka dhyaan rakhti hai ki nahi?”
“Main toh jalebi aur pyar pe jeeti hoon, aunty,” Aanya grinned.
“Jalebi toh hum sab jeete hain, lekin pyar toh luck waalon ko milta hai,” the aunty chuckled.
And with that, Aanya zipped past the crowd, the temple fading in her rearview mirror.
The sleepy roads turned a little chaotic as she neared the university circle—dodging cows, kids playing cricket with a brick-and-stick setup, and elderly uncles doing yoga on the sidewalks like they were competing in the Olympics. She took it all in with a strange kind of affection. This chaos was home.
Her best friend Kuhu, a Journalism major, was already waiting at their college chai point, sipping masala chai like it was her superpower. She wore her usual eyeliner flicks and sarcasm like armor.
“Tu late kyun hoti hai har din? Time traveler hai kya?” Kuhu teased, eyes squinting under the morning sun.
Aanya handed her a small packet of coconut barfi. “I got delayed feeding the cows, saving children from sugar withdrawal, and fake-praying to a god I don’t believe in. Your basic Tuesday.”
They laughed and settled into their usual rhythm—chai in clay kulhads, crumbs on their dupattas, and mock fights over whether Shah Rukh Khan could ever be replaced (Kuhu said yes, Aanya said blasphemy). And whether ghosts were real (Aanya said no, Kuhu insisted she’d seen her uncle’s chappal fly across the room once).
Aanya didn’t believe in ghosts or magic. Not really. But sometimes, just sometimes, when she touched something old—like a rusted key or a fading black-and-white photograph in the college archives—she felt a twinge. A flutter. Like déjà vu with claws.
She never told anyone. Not even Kuhu. Not even her Nani, who somehow knew things before they were said out loud.
Her Maasi, a teacher at a local school, was her reality anchor. Every afternoon, without fail, she called with her routine checklist: “Lunch khaya? Assignment diya? Koi ladka mila?”
“No, Maasi,” Aanya would sigh, walking past the old banyan tree near the girls’ hostel.
“No new boys. No old boys either. Just books.”
“Books don’t get you haldi-mehendi invitations,” Maasi replied.
“Books also don’t ghost you,” Aanya shot back, kicking at a fallen leaf with quiet irritation.
That night, she sat on the rooftop with her notebook, the city below buzzing like a distant dream. Stars scattered the sky like forgotten punctuations in an old poem. She was working on a new research project for her history class—on forgotten revolutionaries, the ones who didn’t make it into textbooks.
She scribbled, “Rebels no one remembers.”
A gentle breeze stirred. The curtains in her room billowed, although the windows were shut. A shiver passed through her—just enough to make her pause.
Her eyes landed on the antique mirror in her room—an heirloom from Nani’s younger days. The glass caught the moonlight at an odd angle. And for a moment, only a flicker, she thought she saw something.
A flicker. A figure. A boy?
No—just her own reflection… wasn’t it?
She blinked. Hard. And muttered to herself, “Ugh. I need sleep. Or less masala chai.”
She shut her notebook, tucked her dupatta around her shoulders, and walked back inside. But behind her, in the mirror’s silvery surface, the shadows didn’t settle as quickly.
📖 Teaser for Chapter Two: The Man in the Mirror That night, Aanya wakes up to find the antique mirror glowing faintly. Her reflection is… not quite right. And when she touches its surface, she sees something that changes everything—a man in old clothes staring back at her, eyes filled with a sadness that belongs to another century.
💬 Let’s Chat! Thank you so much for reading Chapter One of Love Beyond Timelines! 🌙✨
Tell me in the comments:
👉 Which part of Aanya’s life did you connect with the most?
👉 How are you finding her character so far?
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P.S. I made everything for this story—cover, logo, content—from scratch. So your support, even a small emoji, goes a long way! 🕊️💖
With love and timelines, — SaadhanaWrites
