Chapter 3: The White Moonlight and the Outsider

Ananya is my childhood sweetheart. Just like her name, she’s as gentle and radiant as moonlight.

In our colony, where everyone knew everyone’s business, she was the star. Neighbours would peep from their balconies, nudging each other—'Dekho na, kitni pyari bachi hai.' Her laugh could light up even the gloomiest evening, and she had a way of making everyone feel like they mattered.

On the first day of high school, she stood on stage in a white salwar suit, playing the violin gracefully. Her elegant silhouette left countless boys below the stage mesmerised.

The entire auditorium had gone silent, as if even the rickety fans and restless students were held in a spell. Her fingers danced on the strings, and her eyes were closed in concentration. The principal’s wife whispered, 'Kitni sanskari ladki hai.' For a moment, I felt like she was playing only for me.

Everyone called her their White Moonlight.

Boys from all the batches would invent reasons to pass by her class, just to catch a glimpse. The teachers, too, had a soft spot for her. She was the kind of girl you’d write poetry about, the one your mother pointed out and said, 'Why can’t you be more like Ananya?'

Beautiful yet out of reach, shining on everyone, but impossible to hold onto.

To most, she was a dream—smiling, polite, always a little distant. The kind of girl who left a trail of broken hearts behind her without ever noticing. She belonged to everyone, yet no one.

And I was the one every boy envied.

The colony aunties would gossip, 'Woh Rohan to bada lucky hai, na?' The boys would nudge me, half-joking, half-jealous. I walked a little taller, shoulders squared, feeling like I’d won some secret lottery.

Ananya was quiet and slow to warm up, always just acquaintances with others.

She never joined in the wild laughter at the back of the bus, preferring quiet corners and gentle conversations. Her circle was small, and trust had to be earned, inch by inch.

Except for me.

With me, she would share her silly fears—like how she still checked for monsters under the bed, or how she hated karela sabzi. Sometimes, she’d show up at my window with a half-eaten bar of Dairy Milk and a notebook full of doodles, just to gossip or complain about her day.

Our families were neighbours and often visited each other. When we were little, Ananya’s parents were busy with work and would leave her at my house.

There were endless evenings of playing antakshari and cricket in the narrow lanes, our mothers calling us home as the streetlights flickered on. She would steal the bigger piece of jalebi from my plate and grin, knowing I could never say no.

Classmates often joked, "You’re so lucky, getting close to the moon before anyone else. Don’t forget to invite me to your wedding someday."

The teasing would follow us everywhere—from the rickshaw ride to school to the canteen line. Sometimes the teachers would smile knowingly, asking if our 'engagement' was fixed yet. I’d blush, but somewhere deep down, I’d allow myself to dream.

I always thought I was special.

In the silly, stubborn way only teenagers can believe, I thought our story was written in the stars. That it would end in a big fat shaadi, with my friends dancing drunkenly at our sangeet.

I thought it was fate between Ananya and me.

Looking back, I wonder if I mistook habit for destiny. But back then, every smile, every shared secret felt like a sign from above.

Until Kabir showed up.

He arrived like a monsoon downpour—sudden, messy, impossible to ignore. With him, everything changed in the blink of an eye.