Cupid’s Last Assignment

Eros (Cupid)’s POV

The first human mistake I make is assuming Mumbai mornings are gentle.

They are not.

The sun is trying to murder me, my shirt is sticking to my back, and I’m sitting on a pavement wondering how the God of Love ended up homeless in India.

And no—this is not a metaphor.

Three hours ago, I was still in Olympus, resigning dramatically. Now I’m here.

Let me rewind.

---

If one more mortal calls love overrated, I won’t argue. I’ll resign.

…Actually— I already did.

My golden quill trembled over divine parchment glowing with celestial ink as I wrote the most scandalous sentence Olympus has ever seen:

To: Lady Aphrodite

From: Eros (Cupid, Department of Human Affections)

Subject: Resignation — Effective Immediately

I hereby resign from my duties as God of Love.

Humans now prefer dating apps over destiny, emojis over emotions, and situationships over soulmates.

My arrows are outdated. Algorithms are in charge.

Love in the 21st century is harder than war.

Yours (formerly),

— Cupid (Retired, hopefully)

Short. Clear. Painfully honest.

Once upon a time, one arrow was enough—boom—eternal devotion. Now one arrow leads to:

> “It’s complicated.”

“We’re just talking.”

“I’m focusing on myself.”

Focusing on yourself? Then why are you stalking your ex’s new girlfriend at 3 a.m., mortal?

And my personal favorite:

> “I’m healing right now.”

Healing from what—commitment?

Even my arrows are confused. Last week one hit a guy and instead of confessing, he started a podcast on emotional unavailability.

Welcome to my personal hell.

I tossed my bow aside and sank into my celestial chair. The Love Department looked like a post–Valentine’s Day call center—heart-shaped files everywhere, exhausted cherubs chugging coffee, and someone crying in the corner because their couple broke up again.

That’s when the golden doors slammed open.

Aphrodite entered. Goddess of beauty. Goddess of love. Goddess of drama.

> Aphrodite: “Eros. What nonsense is this about resignation?”

Me: “Not nonsense, Mother. Survival instinct.”

She snatched the letter, reading it aloud with theatrical disbelief.

> “Love in the 21st century is harder than war?”

“Exactly,” I said. “At least in war, people know which side they’re on.”

She sighed so deeply the clouds outside hesitated.

> Aphrodite: “Cupid, love is eternal. You can’t quit because mortals are messy.”

Me: “Messy? One mortal matched with her ex and called it destiny!”

Aphrodite: “Then guide them!”

Me: “I tried. My arrow got ghosted.”

That’s when it happened.

The sparkle.

The dangerous one.

> Aphrodite: “Fine. You want to understand love again? Go live like a mortal. No arrows. No wings. No powers. Fall in love the old-fashioned way.”

I froze. “…Without divine backup?”

She smiled.

> “Exactly.”

💨 FLASH.

The marble floor vanished. My wings disappeared. My bow dissolved.

I landed flat on concrete—wearing denim jeans.

Fantastic.

The God of Love had officially become a broke human.

I squinted at the blazing sun. “This heat feels personal.”

Then I saw the signboard.

Mumbai, India.

“Oh. My. Gods.” “Mumbai summer? That’s not a mission—that’s revenge.”

Defeated, I sat on the pavement with nothing but a bag, a scribbled address, and crushed dignity.

That’s when I heard her voice.

Sassy. Amused. Far too confident.

> She: “Oo hello, angel boy with the confused face! Fired from your job or kicked out of home?”

Her eyes flickered—bright, mischievous—like she already knew something I didn’t.

> Me: “Both. Same boss.”

She laughed, a little too satisfied. “I like you already.”

I handed her the address.

She scanned it, then me. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Nope. Wrong place.”

I blinked. “Even divine handwriting has typos now?”

She scribbled a new address and handed it back.

> “Try this. Don’t get lost again, Angel Boy.”

She walked away laughing.

I muttered, “You’re lucky I’m Love, not War.”

No signal. No divine bars.

Aphrodite’s voice drifted faintly from the sky: “Earth is worse than hell, Eros.”

Half an hour later, I was on an auto. Then a train. Then another auto.

My divine budget evaporated. The driver demanded 2,000 rupees.

Blackmail, apparently, is universal.

Finally—we stopped.

An empty beach.

Silence.

Realization hit.

“She wasn’t an angel,” I whispered. “She was a devil.”

I screamed at the sky.

No reply.

Hours later—dusty, broken, emotionally violated—I returned to the station.

My phone rang.

> Mother: “The apartment you fell in front of earlier? That was your real address.”

Click.

Five hours later, at dawn, I stood in front of that same apartment—looking like a rejected Greek tragedy.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Same girl. Same smile. Same audacity.

Our eyes locked.

> Her: “You again?”

Me: “You owe me five hours, one train ticket, and my remaining sanity.”

The air crackled.

Not with love.

With something far more dangerous.

Because this isn’t the kind of story where love arrives gently.

It’s the kind where one of us will fall first—

and one of us will break.

---

Meanwhile, in Olympus…

Aphrodite sipped her coffee, smiling.

> “Ah. My favorite genre.”

Enemies to Lovers.