FLASHBACK — AGE 9
Late afternoon. Your notebook was open but untouched. You were just sitting on the floor near the verandah when you heard footsteps—fast, uneven.
He came running. Breathless. Mud on his elbows. Eyes glassy.
“Main jaa raha hoon…” he said.
You blinked. “Kahan?”
“Papa ka transfer ho gaya. Aaj raat ko nikal rahe hain.”
He stepped closer, pulled your wrist up and scribbled on it with a half-dead blue marker. The numbers smudged even as he wrote.
“Yeh mera number hai… Tu call karna, theek hai? Promise?”
You nodded, blinking fast.
He didn’t hug you. Didn’t have the guts to. Just one last look. Teary eyes. Then he ran.
You called that night. And again the next day. And the next.
“The number you are trying to reach is invalid.”
You memorized every digit. Checked it over and over. The truth? He was in such a rush, his hands trembling, he accidentally wrote one digit wrong.
One number.
And just like that—he was gone.
PRESENT — COLLEGE, FIRST WEEK
New city. New college. New life.
You were just trying to blend in, make new friends, when some girl leaned over during lunch and whispered,
“Listen, ek Siddhant Mehra naam ka ladka hai… woh apne senior hai. Toh zyada indulge mat karna. Bohot scene hai uska. Thoda… playboy types. Smart. Hot. Off-limits.”
You were mid-sip of your juice, but your heart actually skipped.
Siddhant.
No... there are thousands of Siddhant in the world.... He isn't the one... Right?
LATER — SPORTS PERIOD You were walking past the ground, not planning to stop. But a voice nearby made you glance sideways.
And there he was.
White jersey, hair a little messy, talking to some guys. That same half-smile on his lips. Same tilt of the head when he laughed.
Older. Taller. Unfamiliar in pieces—but undeniably him.
Your feet stopped. Just for a second. You didn’t breathe.