Not in the Script: An Ahaan & Aneet Collection

Best Friends...?

"Ahaan!" a publicist sang as they walked in. The family swept like a well-practiced tide: Chikki and Deanne at the front, the dignified, smiling nucleus; Chunky and Bhavna half a step behind, laughing, waving; Alanna and Ivor, camera in hand, soft-documenting life; Ananya and Rysa in sleek black, the cousins who smiled with their eyes and whispered with their eyebrows.

Ahaan smiled for photos with his parents, then with his uncle and aunt, then with the cousins. He did the usual: a nod, a tilt, a flash of grin. He checked the entrance out of habit. No Aneet yet.

When the PR rotation finally released him, he ducked into the hallway near the side entrance. It was quieter there, the hum from the ballroom turning to a velvet buzz. He pulled his phone out.

Ahaan: "Where?"

Aneet: "Just walking up the stairs." Then, almost as an afterthought, "I need to remind myself to breathe."

He laughed to himself, and proceeded to type a reply when he heard a little shuffing. He lifted his head slightly, and then she was just... there. The security door swung and she stepped in, draped in a midnight-blue dress that made her look like the night sky. Hair pinned in a way that made a few strands fall on purpose, earrings that flashed when she turned. She saw him and half-smiled, the small, real one that didn't belong to cameras.

"You look—" he began.

"—late?" she offered.

"Beautiful," he corrected, too honest.

"Don't." She rolled her eyes. "We agreed. Separate lines. Professional."

"Professional," he echoed, stepping in just close enough that if anyone rounded the corner they'd look like best friend sharing a private joke. "You're late."

"The stylist changed the neckline twice," she said while smoothning the creases on her dress. She lifted her head to look at him and said, softly, "Hi."

"Hi," he said, the word catching a little in his throat.

Her hand brushed his sleeve when she reached to adjust her bracelet. The brush wasn't an accident. Neither was the way he shifted, creating a pocket of space for them, or the way she angled slightly toward it.

A PR assistant appeared. "They need you both at the front for the trailer play. We're starting in five."

"Coming," Ahaan said, and they moved together — not touching where lights could see, but hovering in that charged space where every small movement felt like a confession. He held the door open; her hand skimmed lightly across his stomach as she passed. Skinship that could be a mistake if anyone bothered to notice.

—

The trailer played. Applause, whistles, the director taking a small bow; Mohit motioned them closer and said the usual gratitude words with his gentle cadence. "They gave me honesty," he said, gesturing to his leads. "They gave me a love story I believed."

Ahaan stood with his hands folded politely. When he glanced sideways, he found her already glancing. Their eyes snared for half a second too long, enough for Deanne in the front row to notice. She didn't nudge Chikki, didn't wink at Bhavna, she simply pressed her lips together like someone tucking joy under her tongue.

After the official mics and flashbulbs, the party loosened. The ballroom bar opened like a slot machine jackpot. Ahaan did the tour: a long and gentle conversation with Aneet's parents, a hug for an assistant director, a handshake with a distributor, a grin at the crew and everyone else that brought the movie alive. Each time, his eyes slid through the room, found blue. Found her.