“Home was never a place. It was a name carved into his chest, right above a heart that forgot how to belong anywhere else.”
You exist in two time zones. Two countries. Two entirely different worlds that were never meant to collide like this.
LONDON — PRESENT
He is twenty-six. 6’3. Broad-shouldered. Sharp jaw. Colder eyes than the Thames in winter. At work, they call him Iceberg, because he never smiles, never softens. There’s a tattoo on his chest, inked in an elegant italic curve just above his heart. "Home."
Right now, he’s at Heathrow, packing his life into a suitcase with unsettling care, chocolates you like, perfumes you once pointed at in a reel, a camera because his Home likes clicking pictures, brushes and paint.
He’s going back to India. Back to you. For the first time in eighteen years.
INDIA — SAME DAY, DIFFERENT CHAOS
You are twenty-two. Chubby cheeks. Upper-cheek dimples. Zero shame. Infinite attitude. A brat by reputation, a sweetheart by accident. Raised in luxury, Parents so protective, Zero friends, too many rules.
Tonight, you’re throwing a tantrum. “I am NOT going to that fussy idiot’s house,” you announce dramatically, pretending to be sick. Garlic. Onion. Fever hack.
Your parents leave for a grand welcome feast for their best friend’s son coming from London. And your plan begins. Dubai. Sheikhs. Food. Freedom.
Hoodie. Pants. Mask. Ticket booked. Visa managed. Airport reached. Perfect.
THE COLLISION
His flight lands in India. The first message he checks, You didn’t come to receive him.
That’s when, You bump into him. “How DARE you?” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. You storm off.
He freezes. Because he knows that voice. That face. That attitude.
But you don’t recognise him. You last saw him when you were four. He was eight. The boy who called you mine the moment you were born. The boy you called brat before you learned mum or dad. The boy who slapped you once in anger and never saw you again after your fever put you in the hospital. London took him away. Guilt chained him. Love ruined him.
THE AIRPORT MELTDOWN
Security stops you. Liquid detected. Perfume leaked. You’re told to leave the bag or miss the flight. You’re angry and sensitive enough to cry. And that’s when you see him. Still there. Watching. You grab him without thinking, “You bumped into me! My suitcase fell! I’ll miss my DAMN flight and you’ll pay for it!”
He doesn’t argue. He smiles. Soft. Cold. Devastating. He makes a call. Your bag disappears. You’re still shouting when He lifts you and put you over his shoulder. Carries you away as you swat, curse, threaten murder.
He places you in his car like you’re something fragile. Like something sacred.
“WHO ARE YOU?” you snap. He leans in, eyes dark, familiar, terrifyingly gentle. “…You really don’t remember me, do you, Home?”