The mango grove had always been a place of childhood secrets.

Pranati hesitated at the edge of the trees, the afternoon sun dappling the ground in gold and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of ripe mangoes and damp earth, the hum of cicadas a steady rhythm beneath the rustling leaves. She hadn’t been here in years—not since they were children, when the grove was their kingdom, their escape.

And now, Shravan had asked her to meet her here.

Why here?

She stepped forward, the grass soft under her bare feet. The note had been slipped under her door this morning, the handwriting achingly familiar—the same slanting letters he’d used when they passed notes in school.

Her pulse fluttered as she moved deeper into the grove, the memories pressing in from all sides.

And then she saw him.

Shravan sat on the low, gnarled roots of their favorite tree, the one they used to climb to steal the sweetest mangoes. He looked up as she approached, his dark eyes unreadable.

“You came,” he said, voice rough.

“You knew I would.”

A pause. The wind stirred the leaves above them.

“Remember this place?” he asked, tilting his head toward the old stone troughs at the edge of the grove—the ones they used as makeshift bathing pools during the summer.

A laugh escaped her, unbidden. “God, we were such little monsters. All of us crammed in there, splashing around like it was a royal bathhouse.”

“And you,” he said, grinning now, “always stealing the soap and running off.”

“You chased me every time.”

“Because you wanted me to.”

The words settled between them, heavy with meaning. Pranati’s smile faded.

Shravan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Pranu… I didn’t just bring you here to reminisce.”

She knew. She had known the moment she read his note.

“Then why?”

He stood, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hands found hers, warm and calloused.

“Because I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was low, urgent. “I can’t pretend I don’t want you. That I don’t think about you every damn day.”

Her breath hitched.

“When I left for college,” he continued, “I thought it was what I needed. To get away, to start fresh. But all it did was make me realize how much of me was tied to you.”

Pranati’s chest ached. “Shravan—”

“Let me finish.” His grip tightened. “I don’t care about the past. I don’t care about what anyone says. I want you in my life. Not as a friend, not as some fleeting memory. Mine.”

The word sent a shiver through her.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to let herself fall into this—into him—the way she had when they were kids, when the world was simpler.

But then—

A whisper in the back of her mind.

Siddharth’s voice.

You don’t belong to him.

She pulled her hands away. “I can’t be someone's escape, Shravan. I don't want be a mistake you regret later.”

His face darkened. “You were never a mistake.”

“Then why did it take you so long to say this?”

The question hung between them, sharp as a blade.

Shravan’s jaw tightened. “Because I was an idiot. Because I thought I had time.”

Pranati turned away, wrapping her arms around herself. The grove suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.

“I need to think,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop her as she walked away.

---

Night had fallen by the time Pranati returned to her room.

The house was quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of the television downstairs. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment, her mind still spinning.

What am I doing?

She moved to the bed, sinking onto the edge, her fingers absently tracing the frayed stitching of the quilt.

And then she saw it.

A folded slip of paper on her pillow.

Her stomach dropped.

She knew before she even touched it—this wasn’t from Shravan.

Hands trembling, she unfolded it.

The words were written in that same dark ink, the letters precise, deliberate:

"You may choose whoever you want. But in the end, you will be mine."

Beneath the note was a photograph.

Her breath stopped.

It was her—her and Shravan, standing beneath the mango trees just hours ago. His hands on hers, their faces close.

A cold sweat broke over her skin. She turned the photo over, searching for any clue—

And then she saw it.

A watermark. Faint, almost invisible. A symbol pressed into the corner of the photograph.

She squinted.

It looked like… a leaf? No—a feather?

She couldn’t place it. But she knew it.

Somewhere, deep in her memory, she had seen it before.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpane.

Pranati’s hands shook as she clutched the photo.

This wasn’t just obsession.

This was a game.

And she was the prize.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Every creak of the house, every rustle of the trees outside, sent her heart racing.

Because somewhere, in the dark, someone was waiting.

And he wasn’t going to let her go.

---