2. LEAVING

Hey my dear lovely readers here is the second chapter for you. Do vote, comment and follow that keeps me motivated to do better.

HAPPY READING

IVAAN'S POV

I was folding clothes into my suitcase — we were leaving tomorrow — when a video call lit up on the group chat. I picked up just in time to hear Raj say, "Sorry, guys. I'm not coming tomorrow. I'll be there in eight days."

"Why though?" I asked.

"Because I'm coming with the bride and groom's one and only best friend — Roshni. Shreya made it very clear I have to bring her."

"Seriously, man?" Sahil looked one dramatic sigh away from a full breakdown. "You're the one who pushed us all to commit to tomorrow, and now you're backing out. What's your deal?"

This drama queen.

"You don't get it," Raj said. "Her traveling alone is dangerous. She's—"

"Bro, are you serious right now," Sahil cut in. "Din ke waqt woh bhi airport mein, kaun kha jayega usse?"

"It's not like she's some rare diamond under constant threat," I said, already irritated. First Mom, now Raj — all this fuss, and they weren't even leaving tomorrow. "I'm sure she's old enough to handle herself."

I'm not disrespecting her.I respect women — my mother made sure of that. But fame has a way of making people forget you're a person. Most women I meet don't see me; they see the name, the stage, something to hold onto. That's why I keep my distance.

"When I said dangerous," Raj said, "I didn't mean for her. I meant she's the danger. For everyone around her. She's a ticking bomb — one wrong move and boom."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I'd never once heard a girl described like a live grenade.

"All I can say," Raj said, "is that she's the kind of danger that smiles softly right before she destroys you."

Interesting.

"Then how do we go without you? Let's just all go together." I don't know why I said it. It just slipped out.

Sahil's face filled the screen, way too close to the camera. "Wait — did Ivaan Randhawa just suggest traveling with a girl?" He looked like he'd uncovered a national secret.

"First, get your face off the camera," I muttered. "Second — Raj said she's different, that's the whole point. And when did I suggest traveling with a girl? I meant all of us, together. Try using your brain for once."

"Ohhh, so now I'm brainless?" Sahil squinted. "After everything I've done for you?"

"Please." I fought a smile. "Your biggest achievement is surviving with that haircut."

Raj burst out laughing. "Can we please focus?"

"We're going," I said. "Tomorrow, or eight days from now, doesn't matter. We go together. And if she's comfortable with it, she can come too."

"Sounds good," Raj said. "I'll check with Shreya and let you both know."

We stayed on the call a while longer, none of us in a rush to hang up. The teasing wore down into that easy quiet that only years of friendship can build. When the screen finally went dark, the room felt strangely still.

I stood there a moment before going back to packing. Not because I was excited. Just because I needed something to do with my hands.

We'd decided, somewhere in all that noise, to spend the next eight days together — no plans, no rush. It was rare, all three of us free at once, and something about that thought settled warm in my chest.

At dinner, I mentioned to Mom that the trip had been pushed back — that a certain "ticking bomb," as Raj so dramatically put it, would be joining us in eight days. I said it like it didn't matter. Some small, stubborn part of me was already bracing for whatever chaos she might bring.

Eight free days. No rushing. No plans. Just us.

Maybe that was exactly what we needed.

The three of us grew up together — every scraped knee, every secret, every ordinary afternoon that felt like it would last forever. Then life happened, the way it always does, pulling each of us down our own road. We still meet. We still laugh the same way. But days like the ones ahead, when it's just the three of us again with nowhere to be — those have gotten rare. Rare enough to feel precious.

After dinner, I took my guitar out to the balcony. The night air was cool, the house quiet behind me — the kind of quiet people spend their whole lives chasing.

I started to strum, thinking about what my life had become.

By day, I was the sunshine boy. Loud laugh, easy smile, the one who cracked a joke before anyone else could feel the silence get awkward. Stadiums, cameras, interviewers — all of it came easy. People loved the brightness.

No one ever asked what it cost to keep it lit.

Under stage lights, I didn't have to think. The applause filled in every crack. It drowned out the old stuff — sharp words, long silences, the nights when smiling had been the only way to survive until morning.

But out here, under the moon, there was no one to perform for.

The smile slipped.

My fingers slowed on the strings. Softer now. The melody carried the parts of me I never let anyone see.

I sing about love. About freedom. About hope. And people call me sunshine.

They never ask if the sun burns too.

I used to be a quiet kid — the kind who flinched at noise, who found people exhausting and silence the only safe place in the world. Then one day a little girl walked into my life, all noise and light and laughter, everything I'd spent years avoiding. And somehow, in the one afternoon we had together, she gave me a kind of happiness I didn't know existed.

We only met once.

Then she was gone — carried off by time like sunlight slipping behind a cloud.

I don't know where she is now. What her life looks like. Whether she even remembers the quiet boy she spent one afternoon with.

But I remember. I always will.

Because she's the reason the boy who used to hate the light learned how to become it.

I pushed the memory down and looked up at the sky instead. The wind moved past me, gentle, and for a moment I let myself just — stop. No grin. No jokes. Just my own breathing, and a heart that still flinched at loud sounds when no one was watching.

After a while I put the guitar down. By morning, the smile would be back in place. Easy. Bright. Untouchable.

ROSHNI’S POV

Tomorrow morning I leave for Goa with Raj bhai and his friends.

I can only pray he isn't one of them.

Please. Anyone but him....Why do I even care?

I don't. I hate him — every part of him, completely.

I found out about this whole traveling together,  a week ago, when Shreya mentioned it on a call like it was nothing, like it had just happened to line up perfectly with my travel plans. Purely coincidental. She said it so lightly I almost believed her.

Almost.

I know Shreya too well to fall for that. There was no coincidence. She planned every piece of this, and I know exactly why. After what happened recently, she's been worried about me — more than she lets on. Worried enough, apparently, to stop asking and just start arranging.

I know she loves me. I know she's only trying to keep me safe.

That doesn't make it easier to swallow.

Because this — all of it, makes me feel the one thing I can't stand: fragile. Like I'm something breakable that needs a hand hovering nearby at all times.

I'm not fragile. I can take care of myself. I don't need anyone trailing behind me just in case.

I tried to argue when she told me. She didn't budge, just kept talking over every objection like I hadn't said anything at all.

So now I'm packing, so tomorrow doesn't turn into a disaster.

I zipped my suitcase shut and stared at it for a second. Flight's at 9 a.m. It's 10 p.m. now.

I sat down in the living room with the dinner Maa had left for me, something I badly needed, after days of barely remembering to eat. The food was warm. My body, apparently, had other plans than staying awake for it.

Somewhere between bites, I drifted off, head tipping against the sofa cushion.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe something else. I didn't have the energy to figure out which.

Ironically, the insomnia that usually kept me staring at the ceiling for hours didn't stand a chance tonight. This wasn't sleep — it was closer to shutting down completely. In the past eight days, I'd slept less than eighteen hours total, and even those had come in stolen, broken pieces during the day.

AUTHOR'S POV

Ivaan, Raj, and Sahil had spent the last eight days doing absolutely nothing together — and loving every second of that rare, plan-free freedom.

Today was the day they were finally leaving for Goa. Flight at 9 a.m., which meant by 6 a.m. they were already at Ivaan's house, saying their goodbyes to his mother.

Ivaan hugged her tight, telling her to take care of herself.

Behind him, Raj walked in with his brows drawn together, eyes fixed on his phone. "Roshni isn't picking up," he said. "I've been calling for a while now."

"Maybe she's asleep. Try again," Sahil said, unbothered.

Raj dialed again. The phone rang and rang before disconnecting on its own, and this time his jaw tightened.

She never ignores calls And she wasn't asleep, he knew about the insomnia. Something about this felt wrong.

He called Shreya instead.

The moment she heard, her worry bled through the line, sharp and immediate. "Go to her mansion," she told him. "Now."

That alone was enough to put the other two on edge too. Shreya sent the address without being asked twice.

They said a rushed goodbye to Ivaan's mother and were out the door before she could even ask what was wrong.

Bye lovies. Let me know your thoughts about the story.