Chapter 1 Aashi
"Some people live in books because reality feels a little too sharp for their soft hearts.”
October had arrived like a soft sigh across the city — cool breezes, golden leaves, and a sky that looked like it had been painted in sleepy watercolors. I sat curled up in my usual corner of the school library, a book resting on my knees and a half-finished cup of coffee by my side.
Coffee — my one constant, my quiet rebellion against sleepless nights and restless thoughts. While others chased dreams of college and careers, I chased the comfort of fictional worlds and the bitter sweetness of caffeine.
"Hey, you're Aashi, right?"
I looked up, blinking away the fog of my thoughts. A senior stood there, familiar and unfamiliar at once — tall, easygoing, with a grin that made it impossible to pretend I hadn't heard him.
"Yeah," I said, my voice quiet.
He smiled. "I'm Kunal. I was thinking... you should join the Healer Plus Society."
I blinked at him, not sure how to respond.
"Me? No... I don't think so," I said quickly, tightening my grip on my coffee cup like it could shield me from the conversation.
Kunal laughed lightly, not the mocking kind, but the type that made you want to believe you weren’t as invisible as you thought.
"Come on," he said. "You even have that spark in you. We need someone like you."
"I prefer being alone," I said, half-apologizing, half-defending.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe that's exactly why you should come out more."
I stayed silent, hoping he would take the hint and leave me be. But he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like we were sharing a secret.
"Tell you what — one lunch. Canteen. My treat. If you still feel like staying alone after that, I won't bother you." hesitated, the book feeling heavier in my lap. Lunch with a stranger? The thought itself was exhausting. But somewhere deep inside, a tiny voice whispered: Maybe it's time to live a little differently.
"Okay," I said, before my overthinking could stop me.
The canteen smelled like fried food and hurried conversations. We found a table near the window. I mostly stayed quiet, while Kunal did most of the talking — about school events, societies, how boring life could get without trying new things. He ordered two cups of strong coffee without asking, and somehow, that small gesture — the understanding that chai wasn't my thing — made me smile a little inside.
"You should really join Healer Plus ," he said again, sipping his coffee. "You fit in more than you think."
I shrugged. "Maybe... I don't know."
"Think about it," he said, grinning like he already knew I would say yes.
That evening, when I got home, I slipped into my routine — dropped my bag by the door, greeted Mom distractedly, and headed straight to my room. The house smelled like fried onions and the faint hint of wet earth — Mom must have watered the plants again. I opened my window, letting the evening breeze and the fading light spill into my room. As I curled up on my bed with yet another coffee in hand, my phone buzzed.
Kunal:
"Join kar le na. (Join it...). It'll be fun."
I smiled a little despite myself, typing a polite refusal.
No, I'm better alone...
Before I could hit send, another notification blinked across my screen.
Kunal added you to the group "Healer Plus Society."
I stared at the screen, laughing under my breath.
So much for having a choice.
The group exploded with welcome messages. It felt overwhelming and oddly warm at the same time — like being thrown into a pool and realizing you could float.
A personal message followed:
Kunal:
"There's a conversation meet this Sunday. You have to come. No running away."
I tossed my phone on the bed, lying back and staring at the ceiling fan.
No exams to hide behind. No excuses. Just me, a room full of strangers, and a life I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
Downstairs, I could hear Mom calling for dinner. Dad's laughter rumbled faintly from the living room, probably at some stupid joke from TV. Normal sounds. Familiar comforts. And yet, somewhere inside me, something unfamiliar had begun to stir — excitement, fear, hope — I couldn't tell which one.
Maybe Sunday would change everything.
Maybe it wouldn't.
But for the first time in a long while, I felt like something was about to begin.
Sunday morning carried a strange stillness, like the world was holding its breath. I sat by the window with my favorite oversized coffee mug in hand, watching sunlight drip lazily through the trees.
Today was the day of the Healer Plus Society meeting — the one Kunal had pulled me into. My mind buzzed with excuses to skip it, but none felt convincing enough. So, I dressed plainly — jeans, a loose sweater, glasses perched on my nose — and left before overthinking could win.
The community hall looked bigger in real life, almost intimidating with its glass walls and colorful banners fluttering outside. Inside, the noise hit me like a wave — excited chatter, jokes flying across the room, the energy of people who belonged.
I stayed near the door for a moment, adjusting my bag strap nervously.
Kunal spotted me instantly.
“There you are!” he called out, making space for me among his group of friends. I walked over, feeling like I was threading my way through a maze I didn’t understand.
Introductions blurred together — Aman, Simran, Rahul, Preet… Names floated past me like autumn leaves.
And then — I saw someone.
He stood near the far wall, talking to two other seniors, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was tall — at least six feet — wearing a crisp black shirt tucked neatly into black pants, sleeves rolled up casually to his forearms. His skin was fair, almost glowing under the soft hall lights. A strong, defined jawline, and the most noticeable thing — the slow, almost hypnotic movement of his Adam’s apple when he spoke in his deep, manly voice.
He wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be.
People naturally turned toward him — some listening, some just watching — drawn like moths to a steady, invisible flame.
I found myself watching him too — the easy way he nodded while listening, the effortless grace with which he moved his hands when he spoke. I wasn’t close enough to hear his words, but something about the way he leaned in when people spoke to him — like he actually listened — made it hard to look away. For a moment, the noise of the room faded.
It was just me, and this man in black, standing in the middle of a crowd he somehow made his own. I snapped out of it quickly, pushing my glasses up and looking down at my coffee-stained notebook.
Ridiculous.
He didn’t even know I was here.
The meeting began formally — ice-breakers, upcoming event discussions. When he spoke about a future workshop idea, the room quieted. His voice rolled through the space — deep, calm, heavy with a strange kind of gravity. I scribbled meaningless lines in my notebook, pretending not to listen while soaking up every word.
He wore black.
Maybe he always did.
Or maybe black just suited him — simple, classic, unforgettable.
After the meeting, the room dissolved into smaller groups again. I packed up quietly, trying not to bump into anyone, but my gaze betrayed me, flickering once more toward the boy in black. He stood by the exit now, phone in hand, thumb scrolling lazily, laughing at something someone showed him.
I bit my lip, debating with myself, and then leaned toward Kunal.
“Hey… who’s that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He followed my gaze and grinned wickedly.
“Oye hoye… koi impress ho gaya lagta hai?”( Wooo, woo woo... somebody got impressed huh?), he teased, elbowing me lightly.
I flushed. “Shut up! I was just asking,” I muttered, pushing my glasses up again in embarrassment.
“That’s Shabad,” he said finally, dragging out the name dramatically like it was some big secret.
“Senior member. Full package,” he added, winking.
I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the exit, pretending I didn’t care — even though his name now echoed quietly in my mind.
Shabad.
Shabad.
Shabad..
Somehow, it suited him perfectly.
That night, back home, the familiar sounds of family life wrapped around me — Mom discussing grocery lists, Dad teasing her about buying too many houseplants, the TV humming in the background. I sipped my late-night coffee, staring at my phone lying blank beside me.
Somewhere out there, Shabad existed.
In his black shirts and deep voice.
In a world I had barely touched yet already felt drawn to. And somewhere deep inside, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I knew this was only the beginning.
“Some stories don’t ask for permission to begin. They simply unfold when you’re brave enough to look.”
