January in Mumbai had a particular texture. Not cold in any meaningful way, not warm enough to forgive you for walking too long. The air carried a dryness that settled on the skin and stayed there, a thin film of dust and salt and traffic exhaust. Morning trains still smelled of yesterday. The city hadn't reset itself yet.
Ahan Choudhary stood on the platform at Andheri, backpack hanging off one shoulder, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, staring not at the incoming local but at the concrete floor beneath his shoes. The yellow safety line had cracked into irregular shapes over the years, like a badly assembled jigsaw. Someone had scrawled a phone number in chalk beside it. Someone else had stepped over it without reading.
He preferred that—looking down. Looking up usually meant eye contact.
"Bro," Zayn said, nudging him with an elbow, camera bag slung diagonally across his chest. "At least pretend you're alive."
"I am alive," Ahan replied, voice flat. "I'm just conserving energy."
"For what? You sleep eight hours. You don't smoke. You don't drink. You don't chase women."
"I'm chased," Ahan said. "Big difference."
Zayn snorted, lifting his camera and pretending to take a shot of Ahan's face from the side. "That jawline is criminal, man. Honestly. It should come with a warning label."
Ahan shifted, turning slightly away. The movement was automatic, practiced. He had learned long ago how to angle himself just enough so people didn't stare straight on. Sharp features did that to people. They made them forget what they were doing.
His face, objectively speaking, didn't help him blend in. Black eyes that looked too still when he wasn't speaking. Long hair, slicked back more out of habit than style, falling just short of his shoulders. A chin that came to a clean point before curving subtly inward, like someone had softened it at the last second. It was the kind of face casting directors liked to describe with too many adjectives. It was the kind of face aunties noticed before they noticed his marksheets.
A girl standing a few feet away glanced at him, nudged her friend, glanced again. Ahan pretended to check the time on a watch that hadn't worked since Diwali.
"See," Zayn said under his breath, pleased. "You didn't even try today."
"I wore the same shirt as yesterday," Ahan muttered. "This is harassment at this point."
The local roared in, wind slapping their faces, the platform erupting into its usual choreography—men stepping forward, others stepping back, someone shouting something about Borivali. Ahan let himself be carried in, gripping the overhead handle, eyes fixed on an advertisement for coaching classes promising IIT dreams in block letters.
They got off at their stop and walked the familiar road toward the engineering college. The building rose ahead of them like a bureaucratic afterthought—concrete, square, functional. No romance there. Ahan liked it that way.
"You ever think," Zayn began, carefully casual, "that you're wasting potential?"
Ahan sighed. "It's 9:12 in the morning."
"That's not a no."
"What potential?" Ahan asked. "This?" He gestured vaguely at his face. "This doesn't build bridges."
"It builds posters," Zayn said instantly. "It builds careers. It builds my career."
"There it is."
Zayn grinned, unapologetic. "Look, I'm serious. Modeling. Just part-time. You walk, you pose, you exist. I click. Everyone wins."
"Except me."
"You'd be fine."
"I don't believe in it," Ahan said. "As a career."
"That's society talking."
"That's reality talking."
"Reality also says engineers are unemployed," Zayn shot back.
Ahan stopped walking. Zayn, mid-sentence, turned.
"Don't," Ahan said quietly.
Zayn raised his hands. "Okay. Okay. Sorry. Too far."
They stood there for a moment, students flowing around them like water around a rock. Ahan exhaled slowly.
"I just want a normal life," he said. "Degree. Job. Stability. No guessing games."
"And no fun."
"I have fun."
"You read thermodynamics for fun."
"It's predictable."
"So is a camera shutter."
Ahan didn't respond. He started walking again. Zayn followed, slower now.
Classes passed in their usual blur—lectures delivered with the enthusiasm of a man reading instructions off a box, the smell of chalk dust, the low hum of ceiling fans threatening to fall. Ahan took notes, asked questions when necessary, disappeared into himself otherwise. He liked systems. Inputs, outputs. Equations that didn't care how you looked.
During lunch, they sat on the steps outside, sharing a packet of chips.
"You know what's funny?" Zayn said suddenly.
Ahan didn't look up. "Statistically, most things you say."
Zayn ignored him. "Bollywood is bored."
Ahan raised an eyebrow despite himself.
"Genuinely bored," Zayn continued. "Same stars, same love stories, same nonsense. People are tired."
"And yet they still watch."
"They don't have a choice," Zayn said. "But producers do. And some of them are looking for something different."
Ahan crunched a chip. "You read too many magazines."
"I read trade news."
"Same thing."
Zayn leaned back on his hands, eyes on the sky. "There's talk. A coming-of-age romantic film. Not a masala thing. Small budget. Two new faces."
Ahan froze for half a second. Zayn noticed. Of course he did.
"So?" Ahan said carefully.
"So open auditions," Zayn replied. "Proper ones. No godfathers."
Ahan laughed once, short and disbelieving. "In Mumbai?"
"Apparently."
"Sure."
"I'm just saying," Zayn shrugged. "If someone like you walked in—"
"I won't," Ahan cut in.
"I didn't say you would."
"You implied."
"I fantasized."
"Stop."
They finished lunch in silence.
That evening, back in Zayn's cramped one-room flat, the camera came out again. It always did.
"Just practice," Zayn said, already adjusting the lens. "You don't even have to pose."
"I am literally posing by existing," Ahan replied, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Zayn clicked. Once. Twice. He moved closer, then farther, crouched, stood. Ahan didn't smile. Didn't frown. He just looked.
The photos came out clean. Sharp. Too sharp.
"See?" Zayn murmured, more to himself than to Ahan.
Ahan didn't ask what he meant.
Two days later, while Ahan was in lab, Zayn's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered, trying to sound professional and failing slightly.
"Yes?"
There was a pause. Then a woman's voice, efficient, practiced.
"We're calling regarding the photographs submitted for the upcoming auditions."
Zayn's heart skipped.
"Yes," he said, before thinking.
"We'd like to inform you that you've been shortlisted."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Me?" Zayn croaked.
"Yes," the voice replied, unbothered. "Please report on the given date and time."
The call ended.
Zayn stared at the phone, fingers trembling, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
He thought of Ahan.
He hoped for the best.