Chapter 5 – The Architect’s Burden
890 Words
The morning sunlight poured into Mira’s small apartment, glinting off her drafting table. Sheets of paper lay scattered, sketches half-finished, a steaming mug of chai untouched beside them. The city hummed outside — buses honking, vendors shouting, the rhythm of daily chaos she had learned to love.
But today, something felt off. Her mother’s voice on the phone from last night still echoed in her head: “Beta, don’t forget, the Khannas are coming for dinner this weekend.”
The Khannas. The family of Rohan Khanna — “suitable” in every sense her parents valued. An architect from a prestigious firm, polite, well-dressed, financially secure. A future that promised stability, predictability — and to Mira, suffocation.
She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. She had spent years carving her own identity in a world that wanted to fit her into molds. Art was her rebellion, her only escape from expectations that came wrapped in smiles and gold bangles.
A soft knock broke her thoughts. “Mira?” Her mother’s voice floated from the doorway.
“Come in, Ma.”
Her mother entered, her silk saree rustling softly. “Still working? You barely ate breakfast.”
“I have deadlines,” Mira replied, not looking up.
Her mother smiled, but her eyes betrayed the real purpose of her visit. “Deadlines can wait. You’ve been working too hard. I was thinking — maybe it’s time you start thinking about… settling down.”
There it was — the familiar weight. The burden she had tried to outrun since she turned twenty-five.
“Ma,” she sighed, “we’ve talked about this.”
Her mother moved closer, her tone gentle but firm. “We just want what’s best for you. Rohan is a good man. You’ll be happy with him.”
“Happy or comfortable?” Mira muttered.
Her mother blinked. “What’s the difference?”
Mira looked up, eyes fierce. “Comfortable is safe. Happy is real.”
Her mother’s voice softened, almost pleading. “Mira, the world isn’t kind to dreamers. You’re talented, yes, but life isn’t only about chasing art. Stability matters. Family matters.”
Mira wanted to argue, to scream that her art was her life — that the city’s chaos, her loneliness, and her ambition were all she had. But instead, she just said quietly, “I’ll think about it.”
Her mother smiled, relieved. “Good. Your father will be so pleased.”
When she left, the apartment felt smaller. Mira exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of her desk. The room seemed to close in — the plans pinned on the wall, the half-drawn bridge she’d been designing for her client, the empty spot where her sketchbook used to be.
The missing sketchbook stung more today. It had been her secret journal — a record of dreams she never dared speak aloud. Now it was gone, like a part of her had been taken.
She looked at her reflection in the window. “What do you want, Mira?” she whispered.
The city answered with noise, the sound of life moving without pause. Somewhere out there, a stranger held her sketchbook — her chaos — in his hands.
Across town, Aarav sat in his studio, the same sketchbook open before him. He had spent the night flipping through its pages again. There was something about the woman behind those drawings — her lines bold yet uncertain, her handwriting tiny and precise, her notes like confessions written in ink.
He found a sketch of a bridge half-finished, just like one he had seen near the river. He smiled faintly. “So, you build dreams too,” he murmured.
He didn’t know why he couldn’t let it go. He’d found wallets, notebooks, even jewelry before — things people lost in the rush of the city. He always returned them. But this… this felt different.
Something about these pages spoke to his own struggle — the architect in him who had once built for passion, not profit. Before deadlines, before clients, before family expectations had drained the joy from creation.
He closed the book and stared out the window. Rain clouds gathered again.
“Maybe she doesn’t even remember she lost it,” he told himself. But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
That evening, Mira’s father called her into the living room. “We spoke to Rohan’s parents. They’d like to meet this weekend. No pressure, beta, just dinner.”
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
“Good girl,” he said warmly, patting her shoulder.
She excused herself, retreating to her room before they could see the tears welling up. As she sat on her bed, her phone buzzed with a new message from her colleague — “Client meeting rescheduled to tomorrow. Bring your bridge drafts.”
Her bridge. Her one place of freedom in this chaos.
She wiped her eyes and whispered to herself, “You built bridges, Mira. Maybe one day, you’ll cross one too — away from all this.”
Outside, thunder rolled over the city — the promise of another storm.
And somewhere in that storm, Aarav opened his phone, searching for the initials “M.K.” He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but something told him he needed to find her.
- Writer
