Chapter 1: Pillow Madness and Midnight Calls

I have a habit when I sleep: I like to squeeze my hug pillow between my legs.

For as long as I can remember, that comfort—the cool cotton brushing against my skin, the gentle pressure on my thigh—was the only thing that let me drift off without a care. Sometimes, Amma would tease me, calling it my 'second child', and I’d just pull the covers over my head, pretending not to hear. There’s something about the warmth, the scent of my own bed, and the muffled hum of ceiling fans that makes these little rituals sacred. The faint smell of naphthalene balls from the cupboard mixed with the aroma of last night’s agarbatti, and the far-off buzz of a streetlight outside, all made the room feel like my own tiny world.

One night, I suddenly heard the inner voice of my secret crush.

*Don’t, don’t hold so tight.*

*I’m almost out of breath.*

It was so clear—Arjun’s voice, as if he were right beside me, his breath tickling my ear. For a moment, the shadows on my wall seemed to flicker with mischief. There was that tiny catch in his tone I’d always imagined but never dared to hear out loud.

Startled, I immediately kicked the hug pillow away. Right then, I heard a low, hoarse groan from my college heartthrob—right next to my ear.

The air was thick, and somewhere outside, the distant barking of a street dog mingled with the last auto-rickshaw’s horn. My heart thudded so loudly, I was sure even the neighbours would hear.

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I stared at the hug pillow in my hand, seriously wondering if I was hallucinating. How could I possibly have heard Arjun’s voice? Was my crush on him so intense that I’d started hearing things? It was a bit scary, honestly. No, I had to check again.

I pressed my palm to my forehead, half-expecting to find a fever. Amma always said, ‘Too much daydreaming, Neha beta, one day you’ll go mad.’ But this… this was something else. I could almost feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up my neck, like when you know you’ve been caught staring at someone in the canteen. I fiddled with my braid nervously, glancing at the door as if Amma would barge in and catch me in the act.

My hug pillow is a kitten, about one and a half metres long, soft and adorable. I’d only bought it two days ago from Amazon India. I absolutely love how squishy it is—it’s just so satisfying to squish and pet. But right now, I braced myself and smacked the cat’s head right on its belly.

The pillow was pale yellow, with little embroidered whiskers, and a tiny, floppy tail. It had that new, faint plasticky smell and the kind of softness you get only in the first few days before the summer heat and body sweat make it lumpy. A cat, of all things—I’d always wanted a real one, but Amma said, ‘No pets in this flat, Neha, landlord won’t allow.’ So, this was my compromise. If Amma ever found out, she’d call a pundit to do a full havan in my room.

The very next second, Arjun’s WhatsApp video call popped up out of nowhere. My eyes widened. It’s two in the morning! Why is he video calling me? We’d only added each other on WhatsApp by chance, and we’ve always just been acquaintances.

My phone vibrated so hard, the cheap plastic cover rattled against the desk. The green WhatsApp ring glowed in the dark, persistent and insistent. For a heartbeat, I thought of letting it ring out—what would I even say if I picked up? My mind raced, trying to recall if I’d accidentally sent him some weird message, or worse, a random late-night status. No, nothing. Still, the ring persisted, that relentless digital tring-tring echoing in my quiet room.

Shocked and suspicious, I picked up the call. Arjun’s flawless, handsome face filled my screen.

There was a moment when the camera adjusted, and for a second, all I could see was his messy hair and that small mole near his right eyebrow—the one I’d admired from across lecture halls. I quickly swiped my hair behind my ear, even though he couldn’t see more than my sleepy face and faded T-shirt.

When I started college, I fell for him at first sight—because of that gorgeous face. But, alas, the college heartthrob is St. Xavier’s famous untouchable flower. You can only admire him from afar, not get close. So I could only have a secret crush.

It’s the kind of thing every St. Xavier’s girl knows: Arjun never lets anyone get too close. He’s always the first to finish his exam, the last to join any group photo, the one whose Instagram is all poetry quotes and pictures of black coffee. The one boys want to be and girls, well, sigh about over chai in the canteen.

I swallowed and asked a dumb question: “Is this… Arjun?”

In the half-light, my voice came out husky, betraying my nerves. I could hear the faint whir of the ceiling fan above, the background static on his side like some old Doordarshan serial. I bit my lip, waiting.

Arjun’s eyes were red, his usual coldness gone. He looked like he’d just been bullied. His voice was a bit strange too—hoarse and tight, like he was holding back some pain: “Mm.”

His face was pinched, eyebrows drawn together, that ever-present air of control slipping just a little. The sight sent a jolt down my spine. Was it just the video connection or was he actually… struggling?

“Kya chahiye, Arjun?”

It’s the middle of the night, what else would he be doing? “Sona hai, obviously,” I tried to sound calm.

Even as I spoke, I realised my voice was two octaves higher than usual. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my pillowcase. Outside, a milkman’s scooter sputtered past, as if the world was reminding me that only mad people had such conversations at this hour.

Arjun’s jaw tensed, like he wanted to say something but stopped. Suddenly, the room fell silent.

That silence hung, heavy and awkward, just like those moments in the library when someone drops a book and everyone looks up. I chewed the inside of my cheek, almost hoping he’d fill the gap with anything—even his usual snarky one-liners.

Right then, even though his lips didn’t move, I clearly heard his voice in my ear:

*Can’t let Neha know I’m sharing senses with her cat pillow.*

*Otherwise, she definitely won’t want to cuddle me to sleep anymore.*

For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming. Maybe I’d eaten too much biryani before bed. Was this what food coma hallucinations felt like? The city outside was still, the streetlights throwing long shadows onto my window grille. My heart pounded against my ribs.

Me: …