The next morning, Delhi wore a quieter face.
The usual growl of honking cars and vendors' morning calls still lingered, but they came muffled — as if the city itself had taken a breath it didn't want to let go of. The sun, struggling past a pale haze, painted the roads in sleepy light.
Aarvi Kapoor didn't go to class.
She had woken up with the alarm but turned it off with the kind of resignation that didn't need explaining. Every time she imagined the lecture hall—the scraping chairs, the overlapping voices, the scent of too many perfumes in too little space—her skin recoiled.
It wasn't fear.
It was memory.
Not the conscious kind. Something older. Quieter. Crawling beneath the surface of her skin.
So she walked.
No destination. Just movement.
Down past the peeling yellow walls of residential lanes, where old men read newspapers on rusted chairs and chai stalls steamed like slow breath. Past the college gates she didn't enter. Past the fruit vendor who tried to hand her a sliced guava with a hopeful smile.
"Free sample, madam."
She offered a faint smile and kept walking.
Somewhere between turning left without meaning to and crossing a road she didn't remember approaching, she found herself in Connaught Place again.
The curved colonnades stood like tired shoulders, and the air buzzed faintly with morning and memory.
She paused.
Her mind told her it was coincidence.
Her skin knew better.
The stairwell was still there — narrow, half-hidden beside a shuttered boutique with a broken neon sign. The music floated up again. Warm. Slow. Unhurried. Like it wasn't trying to be found, but wouldn't mind being heard.
This time, Aarvi didn't hesitate.
She let her feet move before her thoughts could argue.
The café downstairs smelled of cinnamon, roasted beans, and something like rain. Its walls were painted with hand-drawn vines and wildflowers. Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with mismatched spines and corners curled by love. It didn't feel like Delhi.
It felt like somewhere outside time.
He was there again.
The boy with the guitar.
He sat near the window, head tilted, fingers strumming something soft—almost like a lullaby meant only for the morning. His headphones were still looped around his neck. No crowd. No setlist. Just presence.
Aarvi lingered near the bookshelf, running a finger along the edge of a spine that had no title.
She wasn't hiding.
She just didn't know how to enter spaces that felt too real.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
A slow, familiar smile curved across his face. Like he'd been waiting, but not waiting. Like she was just part of the music.
"You came back," he said, not as a question.
"I didn't mean to," she said.
He chuckled, not unkindly. "That's how this place works. It finds you."
She hesitated. Her body itched to flee. But her feet betrayed her. They carried her forward.
She sat across from him, at the edge of the circle of sound he made.
"I'm Rishi," he said after a beat.
"Aarvi," she replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
He nodded, like her name made perfect sense.
They sat in silence.
Not awkward.
Not performative.
Just stillness between two people who weren't yet strangers, but not yet known.
"You play well," she offered.
"I play honest," he said, glancing at his strings.
She tilted her head.
"I don't play to impress," he added. "I play to figure things out. Some sounds… they speak more than thoughts ever do."
She didn't answer, but something in her posture softened.
He looked up again. "You feel things, don't you? More than you say."
The words weren't prying. They were… understanding.
Her fingers curled slightly on her lap.
"How do you know?" she asked, not defensive—just curious.
"I hear more than notes," he said. "Sometimes I can hear what someone's not saying."
She blinked.
For a second, her breath caught.
"You're like me," she said before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head again. "Maybe."
"I don't know what's happening to me," she whispered. "It's like… my skin hears lies. Or memories. Or something that doesn't belong to me."
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said softly, "That doesn't sound crazy to me."
She looked at him, really looked. His eyes weren't startled. They weren't calculating. They were calm.
And kind.
"I should go," she said abruptly, panic pressing into her ribs.
He didn't protest. Just gave her a smile that was gentler now, folded at the edges with understanding.
"Come back if the world gets too loud," he said.
She nodded once and walked out.
But her skin hummed all the way home.
That night, brushing her teeth in the mirror-framed bathroom of her aunt's Hauz Khas home, she tried not to look at her own reflection. The mirror was foggy from the hot water she never bothered to cool. Still, her eyes met her own.
Same tired gaze.
Same dark curls tied in a loose knot.
But something behind them shimmered. A quiet current.
She touched her forearm, just above the wrist. The spot that had sparked yesterday. Her skin was warm.
Then something surged—unbidden.
A scent. Jasmine. A door slamming. A child's sob muffled beneath layers of silence.
She stumbled back, nearly knocking over the toothbrush holder.
"No," she whispered, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. "It's not mine. It's not mine."
But the buzzing didn't stop.
It had been patient.
Now, it was awake.
She lay awake hours later, curled beneath her blanket, sketchbook open beside her. Pencil still rolling from where it had slipped out of her grip.
On the page—half-formed—was Rishi's face. Not quite right, not fully finished, but unmistakably him.
In the silence, she whispered, "Why do I know people before I know them?"
Outside, the city roared again. Louder now. Like it had been waiting for her to listen.