In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
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The soft strumming of Vihaan's guitar filled the quiet room like a whispered secret. Each chord flowed smoothly from his fingertips, but there was no fire behind the music—only muscle memory guiding his hands. His mind was elsewhere, not on the melody, not on the strings, but on her.
He stopped mid-strum, letting the final note fade into the stillness. The silence felt heavier than the music, filled with thoughts he couldn't seem to untangle. Beside him lay a worn leather-bound notebook, pages curling at the edges, a testament to countless nights of inspiration—and frustration. Lyrics spilled across the lines, some full of longing, others violently scratched out, as if even the paper refused to hold words that didn't feel right.
Vihaan stared at the latest page, tapping his pen gently against the edge.
Vihaan (thinking): She's unlike anyone I've ever met. Grounded. Compassionate. Fiercely intelligent. And yet... there's this quiet softness in her that draws me in. Like the hush of dawn before the world wakes up.
He closed his eyes briefly, and her image rushed forward like a tide. The warmth in her eyes when she spoke about her patients. The gentle conviction in her voice when she described her work. The way she smiled—not quickly or carelessly, but slowly, like jasmine blooming under moonlight, hesitant at first, then radiant. That smile had stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.
He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair and letting out a thoughtful sigh.
Vihaan (thinking, smiling faintly): Exploring food was the excuse... But the truth? I just wanted to see her again. I wanted a reason. Any reason. And what better reason than a dinner and the hope of hearing her laugh just one more time?
There had been something electric in that evening. Not loud, not dramatic—but quietly powerful. The kind of connection that didn't need declarations, only glances and shared silences to feel real.
His eyes drifted to his phone lying beside the notebook. He picked it up, heart quietly thudding, and opened his contacts. Her name sat near the top, as if waiting. As if hoping, too.
His thumb hovered for a moment.
What would he say? Did he need a reason this time?
Maybe not.
He hit Call, the dial tone ringing like the opening note of a song that had finally found its rhythm.
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