Day 515 November
Is connecting with you my destiny or just a coincidence…? Why did I meet you…? Why did you give me hope—why…? When I wanted to run away from everyone, even from myself... you stopped me. And now, I don't want to run. I want to stay.But it's not possible… I don't have much time left…
It was afternoon. Shrey was sitting alone in the college canteen.He had made up his mind—he would stay away from Prakhar now. He wouldn't eat the food he cooked, wouldn't talk to him.He was afraid of attachment… What if he got close to someone and that person left him too?No, he didn't have the strength to lose anyone anymore. It was better to stay distant.
A little while later, the class bell rang. He began walking slowly toward the classroom. Pranay wasn't with him today—his "Rampyari" (his car) had met with an accident, and he was drowning in its grief.
A restaurant door opened, and a cold breeze welcomed Prakhar. The entire restaurant was empty. A strange silence lingered in the air.
"Ah, what a fortune! The mighty general himself graces us with his divine presence…" came a slightly rough but charming voice from inside. Prakhar looked in that direction.
"What's up, General? All good at home?" the man asked while decorating a cake.
Prakhar's voice was serious. "Where is Sir?"
"He's gone to London… It'll be a while before he's back."
"His security?"
"The Head of Security is with him. I've sent some of my agents as well…"
Prakhar just nodded and sat down on a chair.
The man placed a coffee in front of him and sat across the table, chewing on his cake. "What's on your mind?"
"Nothing," Prakhar replied in a deep voice.
"Are you thinking of shifting?"
Prakhar was startled.
"I've been around you long enough to make a guess," the man smiled slightly.
"Find me a new flat… I can't stay there anymore."
"Why?"
"No reason."
"Because of Shrey…?"
Prakhar's fists clenched. He gritted his teeth and replied quietly, "No…"
"Then what's the reason?"
"There is no reason."
"Nothing happens without a reason, General… Every incident has a cause. Just like… what happened here."
Anger flickered in Prakhar's eyes. He slammed his fist on the table, making the coffee cup shake. His breathing turned heavy.
"I don't need to justify anything!" he growled and stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back.
The man simply smiled at him—as if he had known this would happen.
Prakhar didn't say another word, pulled out his bike keys, and stormed out.
Shrey returned home, but the moment he stepped inside, he sensed something was off.
Prakhar was nowhere to be seen. The house felt oddly quiet. It unsettled him.
He brushed it off and walked straight into the kitchen. He was hungry and thought of making noodles for himself. After placing the water on the stove, he opened the fridge to grab some vegetables—and froze.
Inside, placed neatly, was the food Prakhar had cooked for him—just like every day.
Shrey stared at it for a few seconds, then forcefully looked away.
"No… I shouldn't get used to this," he told himself.
He ignored the food and began chopping vegetables.
But the problem was—he didn't know how to cook.
Within minutes, he had managed to chop onions so poorly that his eyes were watering. And while cutting tomatoes, he nicked his finger.
"Ugh!" he groaned and angrily threw the knife away.
He was so flustered with just preparing the veggies for noodles that he didn't know what to do next.
"This is such a hassle…" he muttered to himself.
But he was stubborn. No matter what, he wouldn't eat the food Prakhar made. Even if that meant going to bed hungry.
Just then, the door opened, and Prakhar walked in. His eyes immediately turned to the kitchen—and what he saw made his blood boil.
Shrey was struggling to cut vegetables. Onion and tomato pieces were scattered messily on the slab, and his finger was bleeding slightly. The noodle water was boiling over onto the stove, creating smoke.
Prakhar glared at him for a moment, then clenched his fists. His breath grew heavy, but he held himself back.
"Stupid boy…" he muttered under his breath, too quietly for Shrey to hear. He took a deep breath and stormed into his room without saying a word.
The door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the house.
Shrey turned around in shock.
His face wore a strange expression—confused, numb. He just stood there, motionless and silent.
Later, Shrey sat at the dining table, blowing on the hot noodles before taking bites.
There was no taste whatsoever—too much salt in some places, completely bland in others. The veggies were a mess—some chunks too thick to chew, others too fine to even notice.
But he was stubborn.
Every bite he took, he kept telling himself—"I have to get used to this… I must learn to rely on myself…"
But was it really self-reliance? Or a failed attempt to convince himself?
Each time he looked at the noodles, he was reminded of the food in the fridge—the one Prakhar had made for him. But he shook his head. No, he wouldn't depend on him.
He hastily put a hot bite into his mouth and immediately burned his tongue.
"Ow…!" he winced, gulping water. His eyes welled up—whether from the heat or something else, even he couldn't tell.
Meanwhile, Prakhar's anger hadn't subsided.
He wrapped his hands with bandages and began punching the bag.
With each punch, Shrey's face flashed in front of his eyes—that foolish boy who couldn't even take care of himself, who would rather starve than give in.
"Stubborn idiot…"
Punch.
"Doesn't even care for his own well-being…"
Another punch.
"If you can't cook, you could've at least asked for help…!"
This time he hit so hard that the punching bag swayed violently. His breath was ragged, and sweat gleamed on his forehead.
But was the anger only at Shrey…?
Or also at the fact that he cared so damn much about him…?
He had tried so hard to stop himself, so hard… But when he saw blood on Shrey's hands, a strange ache stirred in his chest.
"This shouldn't matter to me…" Prakhar muttered.
But the lowered eyes, trembling hands, and that flavorless stubborn meal—none of it would leave his mind.
He took a deep breath, clenched his fists again—and threw another punch at the bag.
Prakhar's anger had now turned into exhaustion. After venting all his frustration on the punching bag, he collapsed onto the bed. His breathing was still heavy, but he didn't have the strength to move. His eyes began to close, and soon he drifted into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile, Shrey was still sitting in front of his laptop. His unfinished project was open on the screen, but his mind was elsewhere. The more he tried to focus, the more his thoughts wandered.The room was silent except for the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.
Diamond sat quietly beside the bed, his black, shiny eyes watching Shrey and then glancing toward the door—as if he wanted to say something.
After watching him for a while, he got up and slowly came to Shrey. His nose touched Shrey's leg.
"What is it?" Shrey looked away from the screen for a second and saw Diamond.
Diamond let out a soft whine, as if trying to explain something.Maybe he felt bad for Prakhar—and wanted Shrey to do something.
When Shrey ignored him, Diamond gently tugged at his T-shirt with his mouth.
"Hey, Diamond!" Shrey exclaimed in surprise.
Diamond was persistent. This time, he tugged harder—and rrrriiiip! the shirt tore.
Shrey stared at Diamond, then looked down at his torn T-shirt. His anger flared.
"Diamond!!! What the hell?!"
Diamond froze. His ears twitched slightly, and he looked at Shrey innocently, as if saying, "Did I do something wrong?"
Shrey looked at the torn shirt in frustration, then back at Diamond."Are you crazy…?! That was brand new!" he yelled.
Diamond backed away slightly, fear flickering in his shiny eyes. His ears drooped, and his tail slowly lowered.
Shrey looked at the ripped fabric, sighed in irritation, and muttered,"You even know how expensive this was…?"
Diamond retreated further, still wearing that same innocent look.
He stormed into Prakhar's room and shouted,"Oh hello! You and your dog… What do you guys think of yourselves? Got money so you can do anything? If you're so rich, why don't you just get a new flat?!"
The very next second, realization hit him—and he covered his mouth with his hand.
Prakhar stared at him in shock, then quietly slammed the door in his face.