"Arjun, please, don't leave us. You promised to stay. You can't break your promise."

"I'm sorry, Radha, but I can't keep up with all this. It's too much. I'm not strong enough to take the responsibility of a child. I'm sorry."

Outside, thunder struck hard. Rain poured down heavily, mirroring the emotional turmoil of the woman begging her husband not to leave. Inside, the baby's cry rose loud and shrill, as if in protest.

"Arjun, I dare you—if you put one foot outside this house, I will never forgive you. You will be dead for us... I left everything for you. How can you do this to me? What about our daughter?"But the man didn't glance back even once. He walked away and never returned.

"ARJUNN..."

Radha collapsed at the doorstep, tears blurring the figure disappearing into the storm. The baby's cries pierced through the silence again, jerking her out of her daze. She rushed inside, picked up the baby, and cradled her tightly. But the little one didn't stop crying, as if she could feel the sadness of her mother and the wound of abandonment.

It was a long night for both mother and child. Alone, heartbroken, and surrounded by shattered dreams, they lay together, helpless, clinging to each other as the world outside raged on.

22 Years Later...

Early morning sunlight crept through the curtains, disturbing the girl wrapped up like a burrito in her blanket. She turned her nose up, rolled away from the light, and buried her face deeper under the covers.
"Aroohi, wake up! It's time for college. I'm getting late for school. Pack your lunch and have your hot breakfast before I leave!"

Our dear princess remained in a deep slumber, chasing dreams with a peaceful smile.

"AROOHHHIIII RANDHAWA!!!! IF YOU'RE NOT AWAKE BY THE TIME I COME TO YOUR ROOM, GOD HELP YOU!"

"Shoot."

Aroohi sprang up and fell from the bed with a 'thump', her hair flying in all directions, and sprinted clumsily to the washroom. Two minutes later, she dashed back out, teeth brushed, still half-asleep.

"Aroohi, are you awake or not?" came her mother's sharp voice as she entered the room.

"Yes, Mama Bear! I was already up when you called the first time. I was in the washroom, so I couldn't reply," Aroohi said, pulling clothes from the cupboard.

"Liar. I know you too well." Her mother narrowed her eyes. "Hurry up and eat. I've packed your lunch—it's on the dining table. Don't forget to put it in your bag. I'm leaving now. Lock the door and text me when you leave and when you reach college. Come straight back home—don't go anywhere without telling me."

Behind her mother's back, Aroohi mimicked every word with exaggerated expressions while following her mother to the main entrance of the house. "And stop copying me," her mom snapped, catching her red-handed. Aroohi quickly made a puppy face and held her ears.

"I know, Maa. Don't fear when Aroohi is here. This is our daily routine. Now go—you'll be late!"

Her mother stopped, turned around, smacked Aroohi's head lightly, then pulled her into a hug, cupping her face."Don't mess around. Stay safe. I love you."

"I love you more, Maa. I'll pick you up from school on my way back." She hugged her mother tightly, kissed her cheek, and waved until she disappeared around the corner. Then she ran back inside to finish breakfast, shivering at the imaginary side-eye she'd get if she dared to skip it.

"Oh God, you saved me today. Thank you so much." She dashed into the bathroom and minutes later emerged in a red kurti and jeans.

After getting ready, I offered my prayers to Lord Krishna. Then, checking the time, I almost had a heart attack—I was late. I hurriedly packed my bag, grabbed my lunch and books, rolled a parantha into foil, poured my coffee into a to-go tumbler, locked the door, and jumped on my scooter to pick up my best friend, Shweta.
______________

Let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Aroohi. My parents separated when I was a baby. My father, who's just a blurred figure in my memory, never looked back at his family. He forgot the little piece of his heart he once swore never to leave. Like most promises, that one broke, too. He went and never came back, leaving us to survive the judgment of society and the weight of struggle.

But just like the sun rises after a dark storm, my mother, my phoenix, rose from the ashes—with me in her arms—and began her new life. My grandparents supported her as she stood on her own feet and pursued her dream of becoming a teacher.

She was there for my every first—my crawl, my first word ("MAMA"), my first steps. Her presence warmed even the darkest nights. She stayed when I feared monsters under the bed, when I cried over scraped knees or shadowed corners. She was always there. I've seen the mist in her eyes when she was torn between home and work, but she never once complained. She never wavered.

And I? I tried to make her proud in every little way I could. I studied hard, scored high, played sports, followed rules (with a pinch of mischief), and gave her reasons to smile. Every school event, every parent-teacher meeting, every match—I was there, and she cheered the loudest. As I grew, she became my best friend.

Apart from her, I had another best friend, Shweta. Unlike me, Shweta joined school in fifth grade. She was a firecracker—pampered, sharp, and always ready to bite if someone got too close. Though she avoided people, she was grounded, guarded, and fiercely loyal. Our friendship started, as most do, with judgment. She gave me a cold glare when I first greeted her. I ignored her right back, thinking she was a "Bitch" with a capital B.

But things changed the day a boy pushed her during break because she refused to be his friend. Hell broke loose. She picked up a teacher's chair and nearly slammed it on him. He ran straight toward the back of the class, toward me.

I was about to ignore it, but being the nosey soul I am, I stretched my leg to 'relax'—just as he ran by. He tripped, fell, and crashed into a sea of lunchboxes. Curry, rice, curd, and embarrassment splattered everywhere. The silence was deafening. The boy sat there, drenched and stunned.

"What happened here?" asked our teacher upon seeing the mess that had been created.

I, the noble class representative, gave a detailed and passionate retelling of the entire scene. The teacher, now fuming, sent the boy straight to the principal's office.

After class, she came up to me with a smile on her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?" I asked with a sly smile.

She looked me straight in the eyes, brought her hand forward, and said,
"Friends?"

Since that moment, Shweta and I have been inseparable.
Even now, in college—currently in the final year of our MBA—we're still joined at the hip.

⸻

I reached Shweta's place. She was already standing outside her home, holding a coffee mug and eating a rolled-out paratha. She yelled a cheerful "Goodbye!" to her parents and hopped onto the back of my bike.

"You, my darling, are late again," she said, wrapping her arms tightly around me and resting her chin on my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry! You know me—I get lost in time when I'm getting ready." I bumped my head gently against hers.

"Hmm, that's alright... but you're treating me to ice cream today," she replied, squeezing me playfully from behind, no doubt already dreaming of all the flavours.

"Ahh, weren't we supposed to have pani puri today?" I tilted my head slightly toward her.

"Nope. Today is an ice cream date. Pani puri can wait till next time. You're always late, so I get to claim the treats whenever I want. Your loss is my gain, darling," she said with a grin, pinching my waist as she held on tightly.

We zipped through the morning streets, the wind rushing past us, her laughter occasionally echoing in my ears whenever I hit a sudden bump on purpose—just to hear it.

As we reached college, Shweta jumped off the bike like a pro stuntwoman and exaggeratedly stretched her arms.

"Another thrilling ride with the ever-late prince," she teased, pretending to bow at me.

"Oh, please! You're just addicted to my driving... and me," I said, winking at her.

"Delusions look good on you," she shot back, sticking out her tongue as we walked toward the gate.

Inside the campus, the two of us kept up our usual antics—sneaking behind classmates to startle them, swapping someone's water bottle with an empty one (guilty), and pretending to be professors to confuse the juniors.

By the time we reached our classroom, we were both breathless from laughing.

As we sat down, catching our breath, Shweta leaned in and whispered, "Don't forget... tomorrow's Saturday."

I gave her a small nod, instantly sobering up.

Our usual Saturday routine—visiting the orphanage.

It wasn't something we talked about too much, but it meant the world to both of us. We'd been doing it since last year of our school, and now, those kids were as much a part of our lives as college itself.

"Same time?" I asked.

She nodded, her eyes softening. "After class. I'm bringing the sketchbooks this time."

"And I'll get the mango candies," I smiled. "You know Ritu still hides them under her pillow."

"Of course. She's my tiny twin." Shweta grinned, then suddenly flicked my forehead. "But that's tomorrow. Today, focus on surviving boring lectures without falling asleep."

"You wish." I grinned, rubbing my forehead as she giggled beside me.

Just another ordinary day.

Or so I believed.

But across the street from the college gates, hidden behind the tinted glass of a parked car, someone else was watching.

They had been watching for weeks now.

Tracking my movements. Taking notes. Counting how many times I laughed. Who do I hug? What time do I leave home? When I arrived at Shweta's.

Their journal—filled with my name, scribbled over and over again—rested open in their lap, the ink still fresh.

Tomorrow, I will visit the orphanage.

Tomorrow, I'd smile like always.

And tomorrow...
They'd be there, too.

Watching. Waiting.

Because to them, I wasn't just Aroohi.

I was theirs.

______________
Who are they???
Will she need someone to help her out of the situation???
Who should she trust???

Share your thoughts... till then toodless😘😘✌🏻✌🏻👋👋