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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Amsterdam
The Zoom screen blinked out, and for a moment, Vihaan just stared at the void it left behind—a glowing, digital square fading to nothing. The quiet in his Amsterdam apartment felt exaggerated now, as though it had been holding its breath until she disappeared from the screen.
He didn't move. Shoulders hunched forward, elbows on the table, fingers hovering over the keys as if his body hadn't caught up with the fact that the call was over.
Her voice still lingered. Clear. Unshaken.
That soft "Hello"—so neutral, so careful—had lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs. Her eyes, once filled with warmth, now held a precise, professional distance. There was no flicker. No visible pause. No space left for softness.
It both impressed and gutted him.
She hadn't stumbled. Not once. And that kind of composure? That kind of self-contained power?
God, he used to love that about her.
Now, it terrified him.
Vihaan rose slowly and walked to the wide glass window, pressing his forehead lightly against the cold pane. Outside, the rain painted streaks across the city lights, smearing the trams, the bicycles, the umbrella-covered couples into a watercolor blur. It was late, even for Amsterdam, and everything felt suspended—like even the city wasn't sure what to say to him.
He turned away and reached for the guitar resting against the armchair. Not to compose. Not to perform. Just... to feel something familiar in his hands. The wood was smooth from years of touch. The strings hummed under his fingers like an old friend reluctant to speak.
He played a few notes—minor chords, mostly. His hands moved automatically, half-remembering a melody he'd never written down. One that had always existed somewhere between his heart and hers. But as the notes slipped into something too raw, too close, he stopped. Let the silence return.
"This is not a love song," he muttered to the empty room. "It's just a briefing. A job."
But who was he kidding?
Every chord still bent toward her name. Every silence still carried the shape of her absence. The worst part wasn't that she was distant—it was that he had no right to close that distance anymore.
Three weeks.
That's how long until Berlin.
Until he saw her not on a screen, not framed by pixels or weak Wi-Fi, but standing in front of him. Real. Present. A version of Arpita he no longer knew how to hold—if he ever did.
And what then?
What would he say?
What could he possibly offer her now, when all he had were unwritten songs and memories too fragile to unpack?
