Chapter 1: The Door Opens
Pooja raised her hand and knocked twice on the door of Room 1507. The sound was soft but clear in the quiet hotel hallway.
The door opened.
Amey stood there, tall and a little unsure. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. He had a gym-built body—strong arms and chest—but a small softness around his belly. His hair was shaved short, showing the bald patch on top that he no longer tried to hide. When he saw her, his heart slammed hard in his chest.
Pooja Raut.
She looked almost the same as she had in school. Five-foot-six, slim and graceful in a simple black dress that gently hugged her curves. Her large, beautiful eyes still had that spark. Her full lips curved in a small, professional smile. Her dark hair fell loose over one shoulder.
For a moment, Amey couldn’t speak. A rush of memories flooded him. He saw her as a girl in her school uniform, standing in the recess ground at St. Xavier’s, laughing with her friends. The same eyes. The same face.
He swallowed hard.
“Hi,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Come in.”
Pooja stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her. The room was warm and softly lit. A large bed sat neatly made against one wall. The curtains were drawn, keeping out the busy Delhi night. The air felt thick with something neither of them could name yet.
Amey picked up a white envelope from the table and handed it to her without a word. Pooja took it calmly. She opened it and counted the notes with steady fingers, then slipped them into her bag.
“What about travelling expense?” she asked quietly.
Amey reached for his wallet. He pulled out a five-hundred-rupee note. She looked at it and said softly, “One thousand.”
He nodded, took out another thousand-rupee note, and gave it to her. Their fingers brushed for a second. That small touch sent a strange warmth up his arm.
“Would you like something to drink first?” he asked, turning toward the mini-fridge.
She gave a small smile. “Yes.”
That voice.
It was the same slightly husky, beautiful voice that used to call his name across the school playground years ago.
Amey’s throat felt dry. He poured her a beer and handed her the glass. Their eyes met.
“Pooja,” he said quietly.
She looked up.
“Pooja Raut.”
She paused, her head tilting slightly. “Yes?”
He took a slow breath. His stutter was starting to creep in, the way it always did when his feelings grew too big.
“It’s me. Amey. Amey Mane… from Xavier’s. The guy who used to sit right in front of you in eighth grade. The one who… who kept spilling ink on your notebook every other week.”
Pooja stared at him. The polite smile on her face slowly disappeared. Her lips parted in shock. Those beautiful eyes widened.
“Amey?” she whispered.
He gave her a small, awkward smile and nodded.
For a long moment, she just looked at him—Her gaze moved over his face, his shaved head, his broader shoulders. She was searching for the boy she once knew.
Then she laughed. A soft, stunned sound that broke in the middle, full of disbelief and something deeper.
“Oh my God… it really is you.”
She put the glass down on the table. Her hand came up to cover her mouth for a second. When she lowered it, her eyes were shining.
“Amey Mane,” she said again, like she was testing the name. “I can’t believe this. You… you look so different. But those eyes. I still know those eyes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling shy. “Yeah. Life… life changes people. I’m thirty-one now. Half-bald. A little softer here,” he said, lightly touching his stomach. “But it’s me.”
Pooja stepped closer. The professional distance she had carried when she first walked in was gone. She looked at him with warmth now—real warmth.
“I remember you,” she said softly. “Always quiet. Always thoughtful. You used to get so nervous when the teacher asked you to read out loud. Your face would go red.”
Amey chuckled. The stutter showed up a little as he replied, “S-still happens. When I’m nervous.”
She smiled. A real smile this time. The kind that reached her beautiful eyes and made the corners crinkle.
