Chapter Twenty-One: First Glimpse of Us
919 Words
Pakhi’s POV
Sunday morning in Ahmedabad had never felt slower.
The fan spun lazily above her as she stirred in bed, the softness of her sheets tangled around her legs. Her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains.
It was meant to be a lazy day. No work. No meetings. No forced smiles.
She reached for her phone.
There was a message waiting.
Rehaan 💬
Good morning, jaan. Did you dream about me? I definitely dreamt about you 😉
Pakhi’s heart fluttered. Jaan? That wasn’t a slip. That was deliberate. Bold. Sweet.
And very, very Rehaan.
She stared at the message for a few seconds before giggling under her breath like a teenager. She rubbed her eyes and typed back:
Pakhi:
I think my dream had more coffee than you. Priorities, Mr. Shaikh 😌
Seconds later, her phone buzzed again.
Rehaan:
Coffee comes second, bacha. You first. Always you first.
She froze.
No one had ever called her that. Not like this. Not with warmth that settled over her like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.
There was something so unfiltered about it. So his.
And it made her cheeks warm.
Their conversation that day flowed effortlessly.
From talking about food to embarrassing childhood memories, they filled the digital space between Ahmedabad and Bangalore with laughter and easy banter.
Rehaan:
Shona, if you had to pick — pizza forever or me forever?
Pakhi:
Pizza. You’re high maintenance. Cheese isn’t.
Rehaan:
Ouch. I’ll pretend I didn’t read that. Pizza doesn’t text you good morning, okay? Pizza doesn’t call you “meri jaan.”
Pakhi:
True. But pizza doesn’t disappear for days either.
That silenced him for a few minutes.
Then he wrote:
Rehaan:
Fair. But I’m not going anywhere now. Not unless you push me.
There it was again. Vulnerability — layered beneath the flirtation.
Pakhi read the message twice. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
And then she did something she hadn’t done in weeks — she allowed herself to believe him.
Pakhi:
Then don’t disappear. I’m here. For now.
By evening, the air between them had changed.
It wasn’t just playful anymore. There were pauses filled with meaning. Replies that lingered. Words that carried weight.
And then came his message at 9:42 PM.
Rehaan:
Shall we break the last wall? Video call tonight? I want to see that pretty face I’ve been imagining.
Her heart skipped.
She had always wondered what he looked like. They had never exchanged photos, never peeked at each other’s social profiles. It was a rule unspoken — to keep their bond free of visual distraction. To let their connection grow from within.
But maybe… maybe it was time.
She typed:
Give me 15 mins. Need to un-zombie myself.
Rehaan:
You could look like a sleepy potato and I’d still stare. Hurry, meri jaan 💛
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing out her thick, wavy hair and pulling it into a half bun. A swipe of mascara. A peach tint on her lips. Nothing overdone — just enough to not look like she had slept the day away.
She slipped into a soft pastel kurta. Comfort first, but she smiled at her reflection. She looked… content.
When the video call rang, her stomach flipped.
She hesitated before swiping right.
The screen brightened.
And then… there he was.
Slight stubble, tousled hair, and a sleepy but dazzling smile that made her throat tighten. His voice was gentle.
“Hi, shona.”
She laughed — a little shy, a little breathless. “Hi, Rehaan.”
“You’re even more beautiful than I thought,” he said. “That should be illegal.”
“Oh, please. You look like you just rolled out of bed,” she teased.
“I did. For you.”
She looked at him through the screen, and for the first time, the distance between them felt less like a void and more like something they could fill — with laughter, with stories, with shared dreams.
He gave her a tour of his dimly lit room. A wall with polaroids. A plant he named Kareena that was dying because “she’s dramatic.” A poster of an old Bollywood movie she loved too.
They talked for hours.
She told him about the time she once ran into a glass door at a café. He told her about how he broke his hand pretending to be Hrithik Roshan in front of his cousin.
And somewhere between 1:30 and 2:00 AM, there was silence.
But it wasn’t empty.
It was full — of everything unsaid, of everything their eyes tried to express through pixels.
“Pakhi,” he whispered.
She looked up.
“I don’t know where we’re heading… but this — this matters to me.”
Her throat closed up. “It matters to me too.”
A soft pause.
“I wish I could reach through the screen,” he murmured.
She smiled. “Maybe someday.”
“Maybe,” he echoed, eyes soft.
They said goodnight reluctantly. He called her jaan before hanging up.
She held her phone to her chest, lying back into her bed, heart full of something fragile but beautiful.
For once, the ache wasn’t painful.
It was warm.
And for the first time, she drifted into sleep not wondering where they stood, but remembering how he looked at her — like she was the only thing that made sense in a world full of impossibilities.
- Writer
