Chapter 1: The eyes that never left

He walked in and sat directly across from her. Instantly, Mritika’s fingers tightened around the seat handle. Her body stiffened, her limbs trembling as if the past had suddenly taken physical form. A voice echoed in her mind—cold, sharp, unforgiving: “My mother’s killer.” She forced herself to look away. In that instant, her mind travelled seven years back, to the last time she had seen Neel. The memory was etched into her nightmares: him being taken away in a white police jeep, handcuffed, surrounded by a crowd. That image still woke her in the middle of the night, gasping for air. Her uncle had been sitting on the steps outside their house, head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. Mritika had just returned from her math tuition, bag still slung over her shoulder, when she saw Neel being led away. Before she could make sense of it, a lady police officer and her uncle sat her down and delivered the truth that shattered her world: her mother was dead. And the one responsible was Neel—her boyfriend, the boy who had once defined love for her. A sudden jerk of the bus brought her back to the present. She stood immediately, stumbling toward the last seat—far away from him. Only there could she breathe again. “Hitec! Hitec! Hitec!” The conductor’s voice jolted her back to the present. Mritika gathered herself, stood, and walked slowly toward the exit. By the time she reached her office, the clock read 4:44 PM. “Late by fourteen minutes,” she murmured, grateful that Fridays were usually slow. But something felt off. The office buzzed with a strange energy—chaotic, distant, unreal. She tried to focus, but nothing her therapist had taught her seemed to work. Four cups of coffee in two hours. Still numb. She opened her diary to journal her feelings, as she’d been taught. But the words wouldn’t come. All she could see were those eyes—his eyes—the ones she had been running from for seven years. The ones that still haunted her. For a fleeting moment, she wished she had someone to talk to, like in her childhood. But then she was glad she didn’t. No explanations. No pity. Mritika had always been a loner. The only person who truly understood her was her father. He died of cancer when she was just eight—leaving her angry, confused, and unwilling to accept the sugar-coated lies adults told about death. Her father had been blunt, factual, honest. She preferred it that way. After his death, she stopped talking. Books became her refuge—the only world that made sense. Until one day, a new neighbour arrived—a boy who sat on the opposite terrace every evening and persistently called out just one word: “Hi!”. After her father's death, the terrace was her sanctuary, silent, sacred. But this boy was determined to invade it. For five months, he greeted her daily. And then, one day, she finally responded. “What’s your name?” “Neel. And I know you’re Mritika,” he said, grinning. “It means soil, right? I did my research. I’m water—and you’re soil.” He laughed, as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world. That day, she smiled—not at the joke, but at the innocence behind it. Neel was everything she claimed to dislike—lame, loud, ridiculous. He had a squirrel friend, for god’s sake. Who has a squirrel friend? Her name was Don. Yes, her. And she had only half a tail. Neel formally introduced her one day, and within minutes, Don was perched on Mritika’s shoulder, her tiny claws like ant bites. It was absurd, but oddly comforting. Bit by bit, Neel’s “stupidity” chipped away at the walls Mritika had built. She found herself feeding Don from her hand, dancing in the rain, watching cricket she didn’t understand, sharing chocolates in silence. It was all weird. And new. And she had grown to like it. September 9, 2002. She sat on the terrace at 5 PM, waiting. Neel was supposed to read Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice, just before Bassanio chose the casket. Reading together had become their thing. Neel didn’t care for books, but he loved seeing her eyes light up when she read. He said her eyes could speak—and he’d do anything to hear them. But that day, he didn’t show up. She told herself she didn’t care. But as the minutes passed, anxiety gnawed at her. Still, she sat, refusing to show weakness. After half an hour, she gave up and went inside — furious, though she wouldn’t admit why. Two more days passed. No Neel. On the third day, worry won. She walked to his house. His mother opened the door and told her he’d been sick with a fever. That day, Mritika discovered something new about herself: She could feel. In those two days, she had experienced everything she thought she was incapable of—anger, frustration, fear. And maybe something more. Her phone buzzed on the desk. “Transport.” It was midnight. Her shift was over. On the ride home, staring out the cab window, she tried to recall what she had done in the last seven hours. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.