CHAPTER 12
ISHIKA
I shut the door with my foot and lean my forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. Home.
The word doesn’t mean warmth to me the way it does to other people.
It means silence. It means control. It means I can take off the mask I wear outside and let my shoulders drop without anyone asking me why I look tired or why I don’t smile enough.
My flat smells faintly of instant noodles and coffee, which is honestly on brand for my life right now.
I kick my shoes off, drop my bag on the chair, and tie my hair into a messy knot.
My body hums with leftover energy from the day, the kind that doesn’t let you relax immediately.
My mind is still running through checklists—what’s done, what’s pending, what I need to order tomorrow, what I need to tell the contractor that he absolutely cannot ignore.
I’m halfway through washing my hands when there’s a knock on the door.
I freeze.
No one comes here. No one ever comes here.
My first instinct is irritation. My second is suspicion. I dry my hands slowly, quietly, and move toward the door without making a sound. The hallway outside is dim, the kind of dim that makes shadows look longer than they are.
I open the door a crack.
A man stands there.
He’s wearing a mask—one of those plain black ones that hide everything below the eyes. A cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped up. Average height. Nothing about him stands out, and that somehow makes him stand out more. His posture is still, almost too still, like he’s waiting for something.
For me. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me.
Not the casual glance of a delivery person checking the address. Not the polite look of someone about to ask a question. This is different. His eyes linger. Too long. Unblinking. Studying.
My stomach tightens.
“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even though my fingers curl slightly around the door edge.
He doesn’t respond.
“I didn’t order anything,” I say, sharper now.
Still nothing.
He holds out a small package. No logo. No receipt. No name written on it.
“I’m not accepting it,” I say immediately. “You have the wrong address.”
For a second—just a second—I think he’s going to argue.
Instead, he lowers his hand, nods once, and turns around.
Just like that.
He walks away down the corridor, footsteps unhurried, as if nothing about this interaction was strange. As if he didn’t just stand there staring at me like he was memorizing my face.
I shut the door and lock it.
Then I lock it again.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper to the empty room.
My heart is beating too fast. I press my palm against my chest, forcing myself to breathe. People make mistakes. Delivery people mess up addresses all the time. That’s the logical explanation.
But logic doesn’t explain the staring. Or the silence. Or the fact that he didn’t say a single word.
I shake my head hard, physically trying to knock the unease loose. I refuse to spiral. I refuse to give power to something that could very easily be nothing. This is what my brain does—it takes a small thing and stretches it into a nightmare.
I turn toward the kitchen.
Food. I need food. Or something pretending to be food.
I fill a kettle, set it on the stove, and grab a packet of ramen from the shelf. It’s not exactly dinner, but it’s warm, and it’s fast, and it doesn’t require emotional investment. Cooking has never been my strength. I can survive, not thrive.
I can make khichdi. I can make chappathi and rice. I can make aloo ki sabzi.
That’s it.
Enough to stay alive. Not enough to enjoy. Everything else I burn, undercook, or somehow leads to a mess that makes me regret ever trying. So I don’t try. I survive on chips, Snickers, coffee, and the occasional cupcake.
Cupcakes are different.
I smile faintly as the water begins to boil.
My father used to make cupcakes when I was in a bad mood. Chocolate ones, mostly. He’d mess up the kitchen completely, flour everywhere, batter on his shirt, and my mother would stand at the doorway with her arms crossed, scolding him for “spoiling the child.”
He’d just wink at me and say, “Bad moods need sugar, Ishi.”
The memory sneaks up on me, soft and sharp at the same time. I swallow and focus on the ramen, tearing open the packet and dropping the noodles into the boiling water.
I stir. Slowly. Mindlessly.
Today was…productive.
A lot got done. More than I expected. The contractors followed instructions, the layout is shaping up nicely, and the materials arrived on time for once. I should feel satisfied. Proud, even.
Instead, my thoughts drift. To him. To the way he turned on the fan like an idiot. To the papers flying everywhere. To the sound of my own laugh—real, uncontrolled, unfamiliar.
I hate that moment. Not because it wasn’t funny. Because it was. Because laughing meant I let my guard slip. And I don’t do that. I don’t let people see that side of me. Laughter invites closeness. Closeness invites attachment. Attachment leads to disappointment.
That’s the pattern.
Aryan Khanna doesn’t fit into my carefully controlled world. He’s too present. Too observant. Too comfortable in my space. He sees things I don’t want him to see. And worse—he enjoys it.
I don’t like that. I don’t like how my body reacts around him. How my thoughts get messy. How my emotions refuse to stay neatly boxed. I am very good at ignoring people. I’ve built an entire life on that skill.
With him, that skill fails.
That’s dangerous.
I drain the noodles, mix in the seasoning, and eat straight from the pot, I pick it up and move to the couch. Opening my laptop and switching on Netflix, I take another bite. It’s salty, bland, comforting in a way only bad food can be. I take a sip of coffee and let the warmth settle.
I tell myself tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I’ll be more careful. Tomorrow I’ll keep my distance. Tomorrow I won’t laugh.
I glance at the locked door again. And suddenly, the flat feels a little quieter than usual. I shake my head, push the thought away, and take another bite of ramen.
Nothing happened. It was just a delivery mistake.
It has to be.