The problem with having friends is that eventually they start paying attention and once they start paying attention, they become impossible to fool.

I discovered this unfortunate truth on a Saturday afternoon when Meher cornered me in a bookstore. Literally cornered me.

One minute I was peacefully browsing the fiction section. The next, she was standing between me and the exit with crossed arms.

"What did I do now?" I asked.

"Nothing."

The smile on her face said otherwise.

I narrowed my eyes.

"That expression is illegal."

"You're deflecting."

I gasped.

"Who taught you that word?"

"Nikhil."

Traitor.

"Okay," Meher said, falling into step beside me. "Let's try this another way."

"No."

"I haven't asked the question yet."

"You don't have to."

She laughed. I hated how predictable I'd become.

"So," she said. "How's Doctor Sahab?"

I reached for a random book.

"I wouldn't know."

"You spoke to him yesterday."

I froze. Slightly. Barely. Unfortunately, Meher noticed everything.

"You two text constantly."

"We do not."

"You absolutely do."

"We are friends."

"Mm-hmm."

I hated that sound. That knowing, infuriating little sound.

Eventually we escaped the bookstore and settled into a cafe nearby. Meher ordered coffee. I ordered chai as nature intended. She watched me over the rim of her cup.

Waiting patiently like a predator.

"I don't like your face," I informed her.

"You're smiling."

"No, I am not."

"You are."

I immediately stopped.

"See?" She said.

"You're exhausting."

"And you are in trouble."

I rolled my eyes.

"Nothing is happening."

Meher's eyebrow rose. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."

"Then why do you smile every time he texts?"

I nearly choked on my chai.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

I stared at her, horrified. Because the worst part? I had no defense.

The conversation somehow shifted after that. As conversations always did with Meher.

Work. Books. Arin's latest publishing disaster. Saahiba's inability to mind her business. The usual.

Until—

"So," Meher said casually. Too casually.

"When's your birthday?"

My stomach dropped. Instantly. The change must have shown because her expression softened. Just a little.

"My birthday?"

"Yeah."

I looked down at my cup. Suddenly fascinated by the tea leaves floating near the surface.

"It's next week."

"Next week?"

I nodded.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

I shrugged. A little too quickly.

"No reason."

Meher stared. And because she's Meher—she immediately knew there was a reason.

"You don't celebrate it."

Not a question. A statement. I forced a smile.

"I have never been big on birthdays."

Lie. Not entirely but enough.

She studied me quietly then reached across the table and squeezed my hand. No pressure, no questions, just understanding which somehow felt worse because understanding always come dangerously close to seeing and there were parts of my life I wasn't ready for anyone to see.

Not yet.

That evening, after I got home, I found myself standing in front of the bookshelf. Staring not really looking at anything just thinking. Unfortunately, my least favourite hobby. The memory arrived before I could stop it.

A birthday. A crowded restaurant, a manuscript, a voice I used to trust, a betrayal I never saw coming.

The familiar ache spreads through my chest. Sharp. Old and still there. I closed my eyes, not today. I wasn't doing this today.

My phone buzzed. Perfect timing. I looked down.

Nikhil.

Nikhil: Survived the bookstore?

A smile appeared before I could stop it. Traitorous thing.

Me: Barely.

Nikhil: Meher?

Me: How did you know?

Three dots appeared.

Nikhil: I know Meher.

Fair. I laughed softly then stared at the screen, at his name, at the warmth that appeared every time I saw it. The comfort. The anticipation and that ridiculous smile.

And suddenly—for the first time—I couldn't pretend anymore because whatever this was becoming—it wasn't friendship.

Not entirely.

Not anymore. And that realization should have scared me. Instead—it made me think of him.

My phone buzzed again. As if the universe had decided subtlety wasn't necessary anymore.

Nikhil calling.

I stared at the screen. Once. Twice. Three times. Because apparently I had become the kind of woman who needed a moment before answering someone's phone call.

Embarrassing.

I answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"That took suspiciously long."

I rolled my eyes immediately. Good. Normal. Familiar.

"Some of us have lives, Doctor."

"Hmm."

I hated when he hummed. It always sounded like he knew something.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

The quiet laugh that came through the speaker made my stomach do something profoundly unhelpful.

"How was the bookstore interrogation?" He asked.

"Brutal."

"Did you survive?"
"Barely."

"Should I notify your family?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

The words were light. Teasing. Casual. But something about them lingered. Because no. I didn't.

And lately that fact was becoming harder to ignore. For a few minutes we talked about nothing important. A patient who had tried to diagnose himself through social media. A ridiculous client request. The weather. The traffic. Things that shouldn't have mattered yet somehow did because the conversation itself mattered more than the topic every could.

Eventually I found myself standing on my balcony. The city stretched below, lights flickering against the dark sky. A cool breeze brushed against my face.

"Nikhil?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Depends."

"That's not how questions work."

"It absolutely is."

I smiled despite myself then I looked out at the city.

At the distance, at the life I'd left behind and before I could stop myself—

"Do you ever regret things?"

The line went quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Thoughtful.

"What kind of things?"

I heard him exhale softly.

"Sometimes."

That answer surprised me because it was honest. No jokes just honesty.

"What about you?" He asked.

I swallowed. The answer was easy. Too easy.

"All the time."

The words slipped out before I could catch them. Silence.

Then—

"Mishka."

Just my name. Nothing else.

And somehow it felt gentler than any comfort could have. I closed my eyes briefly because that was the problem. The very problem.

The reason this was becoming something. Nikhil had his way of making space for things. For sadness, for uncertainty, for silence without trying to fix them, without demanding explanations.

Neither of us spoke for a while. The city hummed below. The wind moved through my hair and for a strange moment, it felt like he was right there beside me instead of several kilometers away.

"You're thinking again," he said.

"Maybe."

"Try sleeping instead."

"Bossy."

"Doctor."

"Worse."

That earned another laugh.

When we finally hung up nearly half an hour later, I stayed on the balcony phone still in my hand, heart feeling oddly full. The city looked exactly the same. Nothing had changed.

And yet—everything felt different.

Because somewhere between chai, bookstores, late-night calls, and conversations about absolutely nothing—I'd crossed a line I hadn't even seen coming.

I was falling for him. Slowly. Steadily.

And perhaps the most terrifying part?

I wasn't sure I wanted to stop.

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