The city hums below, a mixture of distant car horns, laughter, and the occasional gust of wind carrying the scent of rain. You're sitting on the rooftop of a small café in East London, legs dangling over the edge of a sturdy brick wall. Next to you, Bilal leans back, one arm resting behind his head, staring at the endless night sky.

He exhales slowly, the ember of his cigarette glowing momentarily before he flicks the ashes into the wind. "You ever wonder why we chase things that we know are bad for us?" His voice is deep, slightly rough, as if he’s been holding in too many words for too long.

You glance at him, caught between curiosity and amusement. Harshvardhan smirks, tilting his head toward you. "Love. Regret. Memories. The past. Name one person who ever outran them.

You can feel the weight behind his words. There’s a story there—one he isn’t telling.