The sun slanted in golden stripes across the cracked courtyard tiles, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant smoke of evening fires. In the distance, temple bells rang the aarti, their deep, resonant tones bleeding into the dusky sky, a sound that always made Siddharth’s chest tighten.

But he wasn’t thinking about the bells.

He was thinking about her.

From behind the half-open kitchen door, Siddharth watched them—really watched them.

Shravan and Pranati.

She was laughing—that laugh, the one that used to be his. Head thrown back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, a lock of hair escaping her braid to dance across her cheek. Shravan was saying something, his hands moving in exaggerated gestures, and every few seconds, Pranati looked up at him with a softness that made Siddharth’s stomach twist.

It wasn’t the laughter that clawed at him.

It was the ease of it.

The way she leaned into Shravan’s space like it was nothing. The way her fingers absently tucked her hair behind her ear, the way her shoulders relaxed—like she hadn’t spent the last week stiff and quiet around him.

Around Siddharth.

Because of Siddharth.

The memory of that night surged forward, unbidden. Her skin under his hands, warm and alive. The way she had clung to him, breathless, whispering his name like it was something sacred. And then—

"This was a mistake."

His own words, cold and final.

And now she was laughing with someone else.

Something bitter crawled up his throat, metallic and sharp. His fingers curled against the doorframe, nails biting into the wood. He should walk away. He should. But he couldn’t.

Because the truth was worse than jealousy.

It was fear.

Fear that she was slipping away. Fear that Shravan—steady, smiling, uncomplicated Shravan—could give her what he couldn’t.

Fear that she was happier without him.

"Careful, Siddharth Anna." A low voice cut through his thoughts. Arjun appeared beside him, leaning against the wall with a crooked grin. "You’ll set the veranda on fire with that stare."

Siddharth didn’t reply. Couldn’t. His jaw was locked so tight it ached.

Arjun followed his gaze, then let out a low whistle. "Shravan’s getting bold, huh?"

A muscle twitched in Siddharth’s temple. "He’s always bold when it comes to things he wants." The words came out sharper than he intended, edged with something ugly.

Arjun’s grin widened. "You think he wants her?"

Siddharth’s chest burned. He didn’t answer.

Arjun chuckled, nudging him. "You might’ve pretended she didn’t mean much, Anna. But someone else might show her she does."

Siddharth turned sharply, but Arjun was already walking away, laughter trailing behind him.

The words settled like poison in his veins.

Because Arjun was right.

And that was the worst part.

Later that night Pranati couldn’t find her phone.

She checked everywhere—under her pillow, beneath the swing where she’d sat with Shravan earlier, even the garden wall where she sometimes left it while hanging clothes.

Gone.

"Maybe you dropped it?" Uma suggested, crouching to check between the flowerpots.

Pranati bit her lip, frustration bubbling up. "It was right here this morning."

But someone had taken it.

Someone had been watching.

The Stalker

He scrolled through her gallery in the dim glow of his bedroom lamp, lingering on every photo.

Selfies where she smiled at the camera, unaware of his eyes on her. Candid shots of her laughing with cousins, her nose scrunched in delight. A blurred mirror picture—her in a cotton kurta, mid-turn, the curve of her waist just visible.

He saved each one.

Then, carefully, he tucked the phone under the garden bench where a child would find it by morning. Just enough silence to make her wonder.

Just enough to remind her—he was always watching.

Siddharth didn’t sleep.

He paced his room, the image of Pranati laughing with Shravan burned into his mind.

He shouldn’t care.

He was the one who pushed her away.

But he did.

God, he did.

He wanted to hate Shravan for it. Wanted to hate her for moving on so easily. But the truth was worse—he hated himself.

Because he had let her go.

And now someone else would hold her. The thought made him sick.

He grabbed his jacket and stormed out into the night, needing air, needing space—

And then he saw her.

Pranati.

On the rooftop, alone, scribbling in her notebook under the stars.

His breath stalled.

She looked different like this—bare-faced, unguarded. The wind played with her hair, and she chewed the end of her pen absently, lost in thought.

Something inside him cracked.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to say—

What?

That he was sorry? That he wanted her? That he was terrified of how much he needed her?

His fists clenched.

No.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he turned away, leaving her to the stars.

That night, Pranati found the note tucked into her bag.

No name. Just four words in sharp, familiar handwriting:

"Meet me in the mango grove."

Her breath caught.

It had to be him.

She traced the letters, heart pounding. After today, after the way they’d talked, the way he’d looked at her—

She folded the note carefully.

Tomorrow.

She would go tomorrow.

The Stalker

Across the village road, a figure stood on his terrace, notebook in hand.

He’d written another entry tonight.

This one was darker.

More possessive.

"She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine. And soon, she’ll feel it—how deep my love runs. How far I’ll go to keep her."

He closed the diary with a smile.

Soon.

Very soon.