𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Morning in New York City was just beginning to stir, but inside a sunlit apartment overlooking the skyline, a quiet storm was already in motion.

A girl stood in the middle of her room, wrapped in an oversized blue hoodie with cartoon patches stitched across it. One sock on, one missing. Her long black hair was pulled into a messy bun with strands falling over her eyes. A tiny scar peeked through her left eyebrow — faint, almost unnoticeable, like a forgotten memory. Her skin was soft and fair, her brown eyes round and filled with an innocent sort of panic as she looked from her suitcase to her closet… and back to her suitcase.

She knelt down, trying to squeeze three more books into an already-bursting bag, mumbling to herself, “If I sit on it, it’ll close. Physics says so.”

From the living room came a calm voice, warm like chai on a winter morning. “That suitcase has suffered enough, don’t you think?”

She looked up. A tall man in his early forties stood by the doorway, dressed in a soft grey sweater and linen pants. His face carried a gentle charm — a mixture of thoughtful eyes and a smile that never faded completely. He held two cups of tea, one of which he handed to her.

“I thought you were packing,” he said softly.

“I am!” she replied, taking the cup and nearly spilling it. “I just... keep getting distracted.”

He laughed lightly. “Sharvari.”

Her name. Spoken with so much love it almost felt like a lullaby.

She grinned sheepishly. “I’m a work in progress.”

He glanced at the disaster zone of clothes, wires, books, and a tub of moisturizer lying upside-down. “You’re more like a cyclone that forgot its purpose.”

Sharvari stuck her tongue out at him and sipped her tea. “Thanks, Dad.”

He handed her a folder. “Passport. Admission letter. Ticket. Don’t lose it.”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” she said.

She immediately dropped it.

Before she could even bend down, he was already picking it up with a soft sigh. “Your flight is in four hours.”

“I’m ready,” she said, tripping over her charger wire. “Almost.”

The doorbell rang.

“I invited her to help you,” her dad said, walking over to the door.

Moments later, a woman entered — mid-thirties, tall, wearing a soft pink kurta over jeans and sneakers. Her hair was tied in a neat braid, and a dimple appeared as she smiled warmly at Sharvari.

“You still haven’t packed, have you?” she said sweetly.

Sharvari gave her a guilty look. “Vedehi... I tried.”

“I know,” she chuckled, already rolling up her sleeves. “I’ve known you long enough.”

Ansh turned to her with a teasing smile. “You’re my assistant — so you’re supposed to handle this chaos.”

Vedehi laughed, nudging his arm gently. “Good thing I’m used to it.”

And just like that, the quiet comfort of New York wrapped around them one last time — as the girl with the messy bun prepared to leave for something bigger, something unknown… something waiting in India.