---
## 🌆 Chapter 1 – "Seven Years Later"
The noise of Hyderabad never really stops. Even at 9 p.m., horns blur into the hum of street vendors and the soft thud of rain against glass. I stare out the cab window, pretending I don't care that he's waiting on the other side of the drive.
Seven years.
Seven whole years since I last saw him.
Back then, he was all noise—teasing me, stealing my chips, calling me *"drama queen."* Now he's twenty-three, working, confident, and—if my aunt's endless stories are true—still infuriatingly full of himself.
I step out, dragging my suitcase behind me. The gate creaks open, and there he is.
Black t-shirt. Lazy smirk. Arms crossed like he's still the center of the universe.
"Didn't think you'd actually come," he says, voice lower, steadier.
"Didn't think you'd care," I shoot back, forcing a grin. It feels weird—like wearing old shoes that don't fit anymore.
He chuckles, that same half-laugh I used to hate because it meant he'd won. "Still dramatic," he murmurs.
"Still annoying," I reply, brushing past him. But my pulse betrays me—thudding too fast, too loud.
Inside, the house smells the same: sandalwood, filter coffee, and the faint scent of rain-soaked jasmine from the veranda. Every corner holds a ghost of us—two kids who didn't know life could stretch people apart.
He follows behind, silent now. That's new.
When I turn, he's just watching. Not with family warmth, but with something heavier, unreadable.
"What?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Nothing," he says, too quickly. "You just—look different."
"So do you."
It's true. His jaw's sharper, eyes darker. He looks like the kind of boy who gets everything he wants and never apologizes for it.
I look away, pretending to fix my hair, but I can feel his gaze—steady, possessive in a way he probably doesn't even realize.
Dinner is quiet chaos—everyone talking except us. He sits across the table, occasionally glancing up when he thinks I'm not noticing. I catch him once. He doesn't look away.
Later, when everyone's asleep, I step out to the terrace. Hyderabad's skyline stretches wide, lights shimmering like distant stars. The wind is soft, carrying the smell of rain and night-blooming flowers.
I hear footsteps.
Of course it's him.
"You still can't sleep without walking around, huh?" he says, leaning against the railing.
"You still remember?"
He shrugs. "I remember everything."
There's silence. The kind that's thick with unsaid things.
"Seven years," I whisper. "You didn't call. Not once."
He looks at me then—really looks. "Would it have made a difference if I had?"
My throat tightens. "Maybe."
He steps closer, not enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. "Then I should've called."
I exhale, the old familiarity battling the new tension. "You've changed."
"Maybe," he says softly. "Or maybe I just stopped pretending."
Something flickers in his eyes—something dangerous, magnetic, familiar.
I turn away, heart racing. "Goodnight," I mutter.
He doesn't reply.
But when I walk away, I can feel his gaze follow me—burning, questioning, almost claiming.
And that's when I realize—
Maybe the distance never really ended. It just changed shape.
---
End of Chapter-1
_ _ _