Chapter 3: A Changed Script, A Lost Role

He wears a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. There’s a trace of coldness in his eyes, but also a familiar gentleness.

His watch is scratched from years of use, and there’s a pen tucked behind his ear. I notice the faint shadow of stubble, his hair flopping over his forehead. My heart skips a beat—

That’s Arjun Mehra.

In this new-old timeline, he looks even younger, an edge of restlessness about him, as if still learning to carry the weight of his own genius.

Arjun in his youth.

He glances around, posture relaxed but drawing every eye—like he’s stepped straight out of a Satyajit Ray film, all quiet intensity.

Nearby, a few girls whisper:

"Director Arjun is so handsome."

"He could make it on his looks alone, but insists on relying on talent."

One fans herself with the call sheet, another giggles behind her palm. There’s a flutter in the air, like the hush before Holi colours burst.

I can’t help but chuckle.

I want to tell them—just wait, in a few years he’ll be more interested in coffee than cologne, and you’ll find him in chappals and an old kurta, muttering about deadlines.

In a few years, he’ll become a scruffy uncle—won’t wash his face or comb his hair, always with stubble, locked away in the editing room all day.

But even then, his eyes would light up when he found the right shot or when I entered with chai and samosas. That, more than anything, is what I loved about Arjun.

But what I’ve always loved about Arjun was never his looks.

It was the way he saw the world—like it was one big, complicated scene to be understood and loved. Even his silences spoke poetry.

At this point, Arjun has just won a new director’s award. It wasn’t a major award, but for us film students, he’s already a star.

The college noticeboard is covered in printouts about his win—some faded, some new. People talk about him the way they discuss Virat Kohli—full of pride and wild hopes.

"Who do you think Director Arjun will choose?"

"Sigh, I was too nervous and didn’t act well... Hope I get a small supporting role."

Someone’s voice trembles, another nods, chewing her nails. The nervous energy is infectious, but I alone wear a confident smile.

The more they praise him, the more satisfied I feel.

A warmth blooms in my chest, as if their admiration is my secret victory. I want to tell them, "You have no idea—this man will change your life if you let him."

—Such an outstanding man, from the very beginning, only had me, Meera Sharma, in his eyes.

My inner dialogue almost makes me blush. Still, it’s true—he loved me all his life, cherished me all his life, and even at the end, confessed to me.

I look up, my gaze locked on Arjun.

He seems to pause, just for a second, his eyes meeting mine—dark, unreadable. My heart somersaults. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his gaze seems to fall on me too.

I smile at him.

Just a gentle, knowing smile—something only he and I would understand, if only he remembered...

But the next second, Arjun’s gaze calmly shifts away.

My smile falters, just a shade. The thrill is gone, replaced by the old ache of uncertainty.

"We’ve already chosen the female lead for 'Basant Ki Raat.'"

He picks up his notebook, voice low and steady.

There’s a stillness in the air, as if the world is holding its breath.

"Priya Malhotra."

Everyone’s eyes turn to a quiet girl in the corner.

Priya sits ramrod straight, hands fidgeting in her lap. Her eyes widen in surprise, cheeks flushing shyly—like a startled fawn.

And I’m stunned.

The sound of a spoon dropping on the floor echoes in the background. I’m frozen, unable to process what I’ve just heard.

...Why?

Why didn’t Arjun choose me like in the last life?

The question reverberates in my chest, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities.

What happened?