The late afternoon sun spilled over the red-tiled roofs of north Kolkata, painting everything in a warm haze. The Chakrabarty household was alive with the familiar symphony of a Bengali home — the clang of steel plates from the kitchen, the faint scent of mustard oil, and Maa calling out instructions over the sizzle of frying begunis ( eggplant fried in batter).
Ayandeep Chakrabarty stepped into the courtyard, the faint squeak of his sneakers echoing against the old mossy walls. His fitted black t-shirt hinted at hours in the gym, but the way he kept adjusting his watch betrayed a restless energy. His brows were drawn — not in anger exactly, but in the guarded focus of someone who preferred dumbbells over small talk. To relatives, he was the “health-conscious, disciplined boy.” To himself, he was a man quietly wrestling with thoughts that wouldn’t let him sleep.
Inside, Meghna Roy sat near the window, sunlight falling over her pale yellow cotton saree — simple, elegant, nothing overdone. A faint stethoscope mark still lingered on her neck from her morning hospital shift. She sat with calm poise, hands folded in her lap, but her mind was anything but steady. She didn't want to get married, but for her parents happiness she was a mixture of too much pride, too little patience.
From the kitchen, Maa’s voice floated in, “Ei, Ayan! Come inside, the guest is here.”
He walked in, eyes scanning the room… and stopping.
She looked up slowly in search of rejection. Their gazes locked, holding for a fraction too long. No smiles. No words. Just that jolt of recognition, laced with everything they never said.
The pressure cooker hissed. An aunt adjusted her saree, pretending not to stare. A cousin poured tea into porcelain cups.
But for Ayandeep and Meghna, time seemed to slow, stretching the space between them. They weren’t just meeting as two strangers arranged by family — they were meeting as exes, carrying the weight of an unfinished story and a question neither dared to voice:
What if this was never really over?
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