Saathiya

1) Forced Marriage.

Roohi's POV:

I have a theory. Hating someone feels disturbingly similar to being in love with them. I've had a lot of time to compare love and hate, and these are my observations.

Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person. The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are shredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with a dangerous kind of adrenaline, and you're on the brink of fight or flight. Your body is barely under your control. You're consumed, and it scares you.

Both love and hate are mirror versions of the same game- and you have to win. Why? Your heart and your ego. Trust me, I should know.

It's early Friday afternoon. I'm imprisoned at my desk for an- other few hours. I wish I was in solitary confinement, but un- fortunately I have a cellmate, Shubman Gill. Each tick of his watch feels like another tally mark, chipped onto the cell wall.

We're engaged in one of our childish games, which requires no words. Like everything we do, it's dreadfully immature.

We're playing one of our stupid games, the Mirror game. He's just copying whatever I do.

So, about me: I'm Roohi Rathore. Med student.

And right now, Shubman and I are stuck in this childish game, like always.

Shubman and I? We go way back, like since forever. He's been my neighbor ever since my family and I moved to Mohali. But let's get one thing straight: I can't stand the guy. He gets on my last nerve.

But, gotta give credit where it's due: the dude's hot. I mean, seriously, smoking hot. Not that it matters, though. Personality-wise, he's about as charming as a wet sock.

Anyway, back to the present. Here we are, stuck in this never-ending game of mirroring each other's actions. It's infuriating, to say the least. I roll my eyes and he does the same. Classic.

I've never quite figured out why Shubman despises me so much. Is it because I accidentally slapped him when I was just a toddler and he was nine? Yeah, he's got seven years on me, which probably didn't help matters.

I mean, it's a plausible reason, right? But then again, with Shubman, nothing's ever straightforward. He's like a puzzle with missing pieces, predictable yet unpredictable at the same time.

I've spent countless hours trying to decode his actions, analyze every interaction we've had since we were kids. But it's like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to crack the code of Shubman Gill.

Maybe that's part of the reason why he frustrates me so much. He's this enigma that I can't quite wrap my head around, no matter how much I try.

And as much as I hate to admit it, there's a tiny part of me that's intrigued by him, by the mystery that surrounds him.

But don't get me wrong, it's just a tiny part. The rest of me is still convinced he's nothing more than an annoying thorn in my side.

"How long?" he asked.

"Huh?" I said, snapping out of it.

"How long are you planning to stare at me?" His smirk was both irritating and oddly captivating.

"Did I ever tell you that you have stalker tendencies?" I replied back.

"Says the girl with serial killer tendencies," he retorted.

I rolled my eyes, fighting the urge to smile. "Please, I prefer the term 'observant.'"

"Observant, huh? Is that what they're calling it these days?" He chuckled.