Off Script

12

“Um, I was going to have ice cream,” Shubman said, catching up to Ishan as they walked out of rehearsal. His voice was softer than usual. “Would you like to join?”

Ishan didn’t even glance his way. “No. I catch cold easily.”

“Okay…” Shubman paused. “Donuts, maybe?”

Ishan stopped in his tracks. “Mereko tu body ni banane dega?” He scoffed. “Dude, I know you’re an actor, but faltu ki acting mat jhaad smjha? Jab Shreyas aaye tabhi karna apna drama.”

Shubman blinked. “I was genuinely ask—” He stopped himself, looking away. “Sorry.”

There was a stretch of silence between them.

Ishan walked ahead, not bothering to look back.

Shubman watched him go, his shoulders sinking a little. But he didn’t say anything more.

He just turned and walked in the opposite direction, hands buried deep in his pockets, wondering why trying to care felt like a crime.

Shubman showed up anyway, holding a small box.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to Ishan who was sitting on the stairs backstage. “I have an extra donut. Would you like to have it?”

Ishan looked up sharply. “Phir aa gaya tu. KYA PROBLEM HAI TERI? MUJHE NAHI CHAHIYE CARE, SAMJHA?”

Shubman stood still.

“Ek baar bola na nahi. Kyu aajata hai- Mmm—”

Ishan’s words were cut off as Shubman leaned in and kissed him, just briefly, his hand gently cupping Ishan’s jaw.

Shubman pulled back slowly, his eyes not meeting Ishan’s.

“Baby, sorry na. Dobara nahi hoga,” he said loud enough for someone else.

Ishan blinked, stunned. And then he turned slightly, his heart froze.

Shreyas. Standing a few feet away, glaring at them, arms crossed.

Ishan, dazed, realized what Shubman had just done. His voice came out automatic.

“It’s okay, meri jaan,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Shubman’s gaze fell to the ground. His shoulders trembled.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

-------------------

“You... You broke the rule,” he said, his voice low but sharp.

Shubman looked at him helplessly. “I’m sorry. I had no idea what to do. You were shouting, and Shreyas was right there. You could’ve—could’ve revealed everything.”

Ishan’s jaw clenched.

“That doesn’t give you the right to touch me without my consent,” he snapped. “Dobara kabhi kiss mat karna.”

Shubman stepped back as if he'd been slapped.

“I feel so disgusted,” Ishan said coldly, the words like knives. “It was all supposed to be fake. You crossed the line.”

Shubman opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat tightened. His chest felt hollow.

Ishan didn’t wait.

He walked away without another word, leaving Shubman standing alone—guilt, regret, and heartbroken.

Shubman looked down at the donut still in his hand.

Untouched.
Unwanted.
Just like him.

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I am so stupid.

So damn stupid.

Why did I kiss him?

Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? My head down? My feelings buried?

He said he feels disgusted.

Disgusted by me.

God, what have I done?

Shubman locked the washroom door behind him and collapsed on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. His breath hitched violently as sob after sob broke.

"I ruined it. I ruined everything."

His voice trembled in the empty space. The harsh fluorescent light above flickered, but the only thing he could focus on was Ishan’s face—his eyes filled with hurt and betrayal.

“I was just trying to help... I didn’t mean to cross the line,” he whispered, fingers clutching at his hair.

“But I did. I crossed it.”

A sharp cry escaped his throat. He slammed his fist against the tile wall.

“He hates me now.”

Tears streamed down his face—hot, relentless, unforgiving.

“I’m so sorry, Ishan,” he whispered to no one, over and over again.

He sat there until his sobs turned to sniffles, until his eyes burned and his chest ached.

And then, with a trembling breath, he stood up, splashed cold water on his face, and left the washroom.

Back to the world.

Back to pretending he wasn’t breaking inside.

---------------------

Ishan slammed the door to his room shut and leaned against it, heart racing, breath uneven.

“Hope he hates me now,” he muttered under his breath, trying to convince himself. His voice was quiet, but his mind was loud.

He walked slowly to his bed and dropped onto it, pulling his knees up to his chest. The silence in the room was crushing, and yet all he wanted was to be alone.

“I don’t want an attachment, Gill,” he said to the empty room. “Why don’t you understand?”

His voice cracked at the end.

“I’m not looking for a friend. I’m using you.”
The words tasted bitter, like betrayal.
“I’m pathetic, I know... and I don’t want you to be pathetic like me.”

He touched his lips gently, eyes staring blankly ahead. The warmth from earlier still lingered.

His fingers trembled.

“His lips… they were so soft,” he whispered.

The memory of the kiss flashed again in his head—how unexpected it had been, how it stopped his anger mid-sentence, how it silenced his world for a second.

He frowned, confused.

“Is this… is this how a kiss should feel like?”
He blinked back tears.

“Every time Shreyas kissed me... he left bruises.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “On my skin, and on my soul.”

His hands clenched the bedsheet.

“I’ve never… I’ve never been kissed like that before,” he admitted softly, almost like it hurt to say it.

Then, anger crept in—not for Shubman, but for himself.

“God, I should’ve never said ‘disgusted’,” he said, groaning into his palms. “I’m not even disgusted... I just panicked.”

He buried his face into the pillow, voice muffled and trembling.

“I just didn’t know how to react. No one's ever cared like that. I didn’t know what to do.”

His eyes welled up again.

“I messed it up. I always do.”

He looked at his phone, contemplated texting him. Just a “sorry” maybe. But he knew sorry wouldn’t erase what he said, the look on Shubman’s face, or the tears in his eyes.

And so, he did nothing.

He stared at the ceiling.

Alone.