Not in the Script: An Ahaan & Aneet Collection

The Green Eyed Monster

Hey, hey! Sorry for the radio silence, life's been a whole circus lately—trying to adult and fangirl at the same time is an extreme sport. I meant to post this last week, but... well, time got away from me. So here we are, better late than never!

Fair warning: this chapter has not seen the light of a human proofreader. I legit asked Chatgpt to proofread ngl. So if you spot any chaos, just roll with it. 😉

Happy reading!

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The apartment was a mess of script pages, highlighters, sticky notes, and the faint, ever-present smell of coffee that had been reheated too many times. Aneet sat cross-legged on her living room floor, hair tied up in the kind of messy bun that had no business looking like a crow's nest, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame, pen tapping restlessly against her notebook.

Her phone buzzed for the hundredth time that day.

Another notification. Another tagged post.

She swore she wasn't going to look. She promised herself she wouldn't give in to the temptation. Discipline, she told herself. That was the mantra now. New film, new look, new weight of responsibility. Maddock's horror-comedy universe wasn't just any opportunity — it was the opportunity. Leading a movie of a successful franchise meant keeping herself under wraps until they were ready for the reveal. No leaks. No outings. No media glimpses of her face or even her hair chopped differently. She had become a ghost in her own city, moving only from her apartment to the studio workshops.

It had been an agonizing choice, really. When Ahaan and Mohit sir had asked her to join them for the trip to Shillong to celebrate the success of their film – a trip filled with winding mountain roads and misty, rain-slicked evenings—her gut had screamed yes. The yearning to go with them, to feel the cool, vibrant air of the North East, was a physical ache. 

But the script, the fittings, the relentless schedule—it had been a stone wall. She'd cancelled, fighting back the sting of disappointment, forcing them to carry on, promising she'd see them soon.

Ahaan, however, had tried one last time, his face filling her screen with an appeal she felt deep in her chest. "We won't extend the trip, promise. Just two days... maybe three. I really want you there with me, yaar." His voice had that low, pleading tone that made it hard to say no, and he'd even tried the pout, the one that made him look unfairly adorable and always broke her resolve, but she knew. Every second counted. This was non-negotiable.

She forced a finality into her voice she didn't feel. "No, Ahaan. I can't."

The light in his eyes vanished completely, replaced by a glint of something she couldn't quite decipher—mischief? "Okay then. We'll just have fun without you," he teased. He quickly blew a kiss at the screen and disconnected, but not before letting her know just how much he was going to miss her.

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But today, her phone was acting as the final, frustrating wrecking ball, shattering the discipline she'd painstakingly built. She was about to slam it face-down and dive back into the script's dense dialogue when a new notification popped up.

She didn't even have to look to know what it was this time.

Another notification. Another screenshot. Another fan tag.

The world — or at least the chunk of the internet invested in their "alleged" relationship — was losing its collective mind over a short video from Shillong. Ahaan, casually dressed in a loose tee, at some club with Mohit and a bunch of friends, was grinning at a fan, leaning down to hear her. Holding her hand and smiling with the utmost sinierity. The angle, the lighting, the fact that their bodies looked way too close — chest brushing chest — was enough to spark wildfire.