Chapter 1: The Second First Meeting

My husband, who once loved me more than life itself, and I have both been given a second chance.

Sometimes, destiny is as strange as an old Hindi film plot—twists and turns come when you least expect them, leaving you shaken yet clinging to hope. Even in the heart of Mumbai’s sticky monsoon, with my kurti clinging damply to my back, I could feel the winds of change swirling around me, restless and electric. Somewhere in the distance, a BEST bus honked, and the sharp tang of wet earth mixed with the aroma of frying vada pav from the street below, anchoring me to the moment.

In our previous life, he was a brilliant, genius director, and I was a top actress shining under the spotlight. As husband and wife, we walked hand in hand, reaching the heights of glory together.

Our names would echo through the corridors of Film City, from Andheri’s coffee shops to the glitzy award nights at NCPA, where people whispered with awe—“Arjun Mehra and Meera Sharma, what a pair!” Sometimes, I still hear the echoes in my dreams: the flashbulbs, the gold and crimson saris, the scent of mogra tucked into my bun on those magical nights.

At the moment of his death, his last words to the world were: "She was my muse for a lifetime."

That sentence would be repeated in newspaper tributes and WhatsApp forwards, our black-and-white photos side by side, a little garland looped around our memories. I can still recall his voice—raspy from too many cigarettes, yet clear as a temple bell at dawn.

Now, I’ve been reborn to the time before my debut, standing on the audition set for Arjun Mehra’s new film. All the other actors are nervous, but I wear a confident smile.

The old Mumbai Film Academy building smells the same—chalk dust, a hint of sweat, and strong tea drifting in from the canteen. I smooth my dupatta and stand tall, feeling the city’s energy pulsing in my bones. My heart thuds with certainty: He will choose me. He is mine.

Until Arjun Mehra walks past me with indifference and points to another pretty face.

I freeze, forcing a smile onto my lips, but it feels brittle. My eyes flicker down to the end of my dupatta, twisting the soft cotton in my fist for comfort. My nails dig into my palm as I desperately search his face, yearning for a flicker of the old warmth, the secret look from our past life. But the fluorescent tube light above only flickers, as if in sympathy. Arjun’s gaze doesn’t linger—he turns instead to a girl with hopeful, braided hair. The sting of his indifference is sharp and raw, like the slap of rain against my skin. A cold dread crawls up my spine, and I swallow hard, blinking back the threat of tears.

Suddenly, it dawns on me—maybe he doesn’t want to live the same life as before.

Maybe he doesn’t want to love the same person again.