Chapter 1: Pink & White

I like wearing little white skirts, always in shades of pink and white. Everyone says I’m obedient and sweet. Like the time I touched the feet of all the aunties at Diwali, my pink skirt brushing against the marble floor.

To be honest, pink and white have been my favourites since childhood—the very colours Maasi would dig out for me from the bustling stalls on Laxmi Road, always saying, "Beta, these make you look like a doll." In our society, the aunties never missed a chance to call me 'the good girl', their voices and glass bangles echoing through the corridors. Sometimes, in the sharp afternoon sun, my white skirt would shine almost too brightly against my dusky skin, but I always felt pretty.

He has red hair, wild and temperamental.

In our world, hair like his is rare—everyone in college stares at him, not like he’s a Bollywood hero, but more like he’s one of those campus heartthrobs you hear about in hostel gossip, the kind girls dare each other to message on Instagram. Amma once whispered, "Is he dyeing it for attention?" But I knew it was all him, just as stubborn as his temper.

He’s my brother’s close friend. Every time we meet, I hide behind my brother and greet him from a distance.

It’s become my habit now—peeking out from behind Bhaiya’s broad back, giving a shy smile or a tiny wave. My fingers clutch at Bhaiya’s kurta, hiding the nervous sweat on my palms. I always check my hair and make sure my dupatta is draped just right. I never let my nervousness show, though inside, my heart races every time.

Always keeping my distance, always reserved.

No one knows I like him.

Sometimes I think, if anyone guessed, I’d melt into the ground. Amma would tease, and Bhaiya—Arrey Ram, he’d make my life hell! So I keep it close to my chest, this silly crush, and just watch from afar.