Ayaan Farooqi’s face appears, hair mussed, shirtless, lit only by the blue glow of his screen.
“Hello?” he says, slightly breathless, like he ran to the phone. “Are you okay? Did someone die? Is your AC making that weird noise again? I told you to get it checked—”
She blinks. “Relax, drama queen. I called you by mistake.”
“Oh.” He pauses. His expression collapses just slightly. “Cool. Yeah. No big deal. I only aged seven years in the last three seconds.”
She squints. “Are you in bed?”
He looks around like he forgot where he was. “I mean, yeah? It’s 12:13am. Normal people sleep.”
“You never sleep early.”
“That’s because you never sleep early,” he says, way too fast. Then clears his throat. “Anyway.”
Beat.
She should hang up. Really, she should.
But he’s sitting up now, squinting at her through the screen, and she catches a glimpse of the stupid sticker she put on the back of his phone case six months ago. Still there.
She sighs. “You look tired.”
“Yeah, no, it’s just… emotional damage. You called me and said it was an accident. I’m in mourning.”
“God, you’re dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?” he gasps, hand flying to his chest. “You’re the one who said ‘you’re like a brother’ in front of your aunties last week. I’ve had to live with that slander.”
“I was panicking!”
“You slandered our entire future because you panicked?? We were gonna have a corgi, remember?”
She chokes on a laugh. “We never agreed on a corgi.”
“Well,” he shrugs, grinning now, “we’re gonna. After marriage. You’ll love it. His name will be Paratha.”
She goes quiet for a second.
And then—
“You know I never call anyone by mistake.”
He blinks. “Huh?”
She bites her lip. Looks down.
“I must’ve… been thinking about you.”
His screen freezes for a moment. Not from the Wi-Fi. From him glitching like a broken sim card.
“You—what?”
She shrugs, a little too casual. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Oh I’m definitely overthinking it,” he says, sitting bolt upright. “I already have five meanings for what you just said. Six. Should I open Notes?”
She giggles.
“Don’t play with me like this,” he warns, voice low, eyes soft. “I’m hanging on by one WhatsApp call and a wedding invite to your cousin’s dholki. I need direction.”
She grins.
“Then sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Sleep? After that?” he groans. “I’m gonna lie in bed and whisper your name into my pillow like a haunted lover.”
“—”
“Like heeeey,” he wails dramatically, collapsing back into the mattress. “I’ll float above my own bed. Do a slow spin. Lailaa style.”
She laughs, full and honest now.
“Goodnight, Romeo.”
“Goodnight, meri Juliet with the killer brows.”
Call ends.
He stares at his ceiling like it’s a divine message board.