Damayanti had officially re-entered her toxic relationship with insomnia - this time sponsored and aggressively fueled by her grandmother’s daily dose of “Have you considered ruining your life with a man yet?”

The marriage market, apparently, was having a clearance sale, and her grandmother had taken it upon herself to act as a very unsolicited catalogue distributor. Every now and then, like clockwork, a new photo of some “top eligible bachelor” would land in Damayanti’s WhatsApp - as if one of them might magically rewire her entire existence.

Because clearly, decades of self-awareness could be undone by a well-lit headshot and a LinkedIn-worthy smile. Obviously.

To be fair, her parents were wonderful. Supportive, respectful, and - miraculously - capable of basic comprehension. They accepted her sexuality, respected her boundaries, and didn’t treat her life like a community project. Unfortunately, the extended family existed. And they treated her identity like a temporary glitch that just needed enough social pressure to “fix.”

And her grandmother? Oh, she was convinced that presenting a slideshow of conventionally attractive men would somehow make Damayanti reconsider… everything. As though sexuality worked like a bad Wi-Fi connection - just reconnect to a stronger signal and voilà.

The delusion was almost admirable.

Meanwhile, Damayanti was out here, very much a lesbian, already dealing with the very real and very exhausting challenge of building the life she actually wanted - finding love, carving space, surviving society - and instead of support, she got… insomnia.

Romantic.

What really kept her up at night, though, wasn’t just the irritation - it was the quiet fear. The what-if. What if one day, even her parents - her safe place - buckled under the relentless pressure? Because trust was one thing, but society had a way of wearing people down.

And suddenly, her life wouldn’t just be stressful. It would be… negotiated.

Yeah. Nightmare material.

With a frustrated sigh, she snapped the menu shut and pressed her fingers against her eyes. She needed sleep. Desperately. How she was going to achieve that without committing minor crimes or major life decisions, she had no idea.

Calm down, she told herself. Breathe. Don’t spiral. The world is terrible, yes, but you don’t have to personally host its chaos in your head.

“One chamomile tea with pineapple pastry, please.”

Her internal monologue screeched to a halt.

That voice.

Soft. Bright. The kind that didn’t just exist - it chimed.

Before she could stop herself, Damayanti turned, almost comically fast, to locate the source. And there she was - a girl in a flowy yellow dress, hair tied in a messy bun that looked effortlessly perfect in the most unfair way possible.

Soft features, softer expression. Warm brown eyes.

Which, unfortunately, were now looking directly at Damayanti… because she had been staring like a socially malfunctioning gremlin.

Fantastic.

Damayanti snapped her head back forward so quickly she nearly gave herself whiplash, muttering a curse under her breath. Wow. Peak dignity.

God, how deprived was she that she’d turned into this - openly gawking at strangers like she’d never seen a pretty woman before?

Pathetic.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, she reopened the menu and pretended to be deeply invested in it, as though she hadn’t been sitting there for the past twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing except spiraling and existing.

“Excuse me,” she called, spotting the waitress who had, in fact, been observing her long enough to qualify as a silent documentary narrator.

The girl hurried over.

Damayanti cleared her throat, attempting composure. “One chamomile tea, please.”

Did she know what that was? No.

Was she ordering it purely because Sunshine Behind Her had? Absolutely.

Growth.

“Anything to eat?” the waitress asked.

Damayanti stared at her like she’d just been handed an exam paper she hadn’t studied for.

Food too? In this economy of decision-making?

She skimmed the menu with the urgency of someone trying to escape accountability. “Uh… this. Orange cake? It doesn’t have cream, right?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Great. Perfect. That thingy,” she confirmed, pointing at it like it might disappear if she hesitated.

Once the waitress left, silence settled again. And with it, her thoughts - unfortunately.

She really needed to stop doing this. The whole dramatic spiral into existential doom? Not ideal.

Think of good things, she told herself.

Her parents.

Her love for English Literature.

The henna classes she’d finally joined after putting it off forever.

The very cute girl sitting behind her—

…Okay, no. Absolutely not. We are not doing this.

Was she that desperate?

It wasn’t like she hadn’t had her fair share of… experiences. It had just been a while. And reaching out to her ex - the human equivalent of a financial scam wrapped in bad decisions - was not exactly on her vision board.

Her order arrived faster than her ability to emotionally stabilize.

The orange cake was lovely.

The tea?

She took one sip and nearly reconsidered every life choice that had led her to this moment.

What was this? Herbal-flavoured punishment? Diluted regret? Why did it taste like something a doctor would prescribe with a warning?

People paid money for this?

On purpose?

The soft, dreamy image she had built of the girl behind her took a minor hit. Because there was no way someone that cute should have such questionable taste in beverages.

Still, she had paid for it. And she wasn’t about to waste money. Not when her grandfather’s spirit would probably rise from the afterlife just to give her a disappointed look.

So she powered through - gulping the tea like it was a challenge and immediately shoving cake into her mouth as emotional support.

Balance.

Finally done, she paid the bill and stood up, ready to leave with what remained of her dignity.

And then ---

She felt it.

A glance.

She turned.

Sunshine Girl was looking at her over the rim of her cup, eyes curious, soft, almost amused. Like a puppy that had just witnessed something mildly confusing but entertaining.

And oh.

Oh, she was dangerously cute.

For a split second, Damayanti considered walking back. Saying something. Anything. Even something stupid.

But self-preservation kicked in.

Barely.

She turned and walked out of the café before she could ruin her life in a completely new way.

God.

She really needed to get laid.

And for one horrifying second, she even considered texting her ex.

Yeah… no.

She needed help.