It started slowly - like late-night streetlights flickering on one by one.
A meme. A music recommendation. A sarcastic "good night?" sent at 1:03 a.m.
Then came calls. Quiet ones. Ones where laughter grew sleepy and words faded into breath.
The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore. It was warm. Trusting. Full.
They talked about things they never told their closest friends. Childhood fears. Dreams they'd outgrown. The weight of expectations. The thrill of not knowing what came next.
Rohan's voice - calm, low, steady - became her favorite sound.
Shia's laugh - barely above a whisper - felt like it had always belonged in his evenings.
Every morning, she skipped her sporty car.
Every day, he waited.
No explanations. No questions.
Delhi became their playground. Their secret. Their backdrop.
They dodged autos with the finesse of street-born brats. Rode past Lodhi Gardens sipping roadside chai from paper cups. Leaned into corners near India Gate. Swerved through puddles outside Khan Market, laughing like they had outrun the whole world and their parents' warnings.
Rohan never rushed the ride.
Shia held tighter each time. Not just to his jacket, but to the part of herself that only surfaced on these rides - with him.