Chapter 1

Written quite some time ago for Angelteen's (Rae) birthday...I forgot I didn't post it up here, so here it is :)

I will warn everyone though that I don't remember what I was thinking when I wrote it, and was writing in the midst of doing assignments, and I'm not going to re-read it now because I'm not sure I want to find out >.< Anyway, I hope you'll like the product of my distraction, and even though a month has passed, I still hope you had a blast on your birthday Rae!

This'll be it from me for a while. Till we meet again, whenever that may be, thank you all so much for being with me, every step of the way :D

ArHi OneShot |Do You Know|

Are you crying?'

There is a ring of disbelief to the question, and beneath that a hint of alarm and perhaps even derision. She is unsure whether her mind, in its current unstable state, is conjuring up fallacies to fill in the blanks, but as she catches her breath and pulls the phone away from her ear a fraction, she reacts instinctively.

"No," her answer is quick and defensive, but also quiet- quiet enough to subdue the sniffles and slight thickness to her voice that might have given her away.

This time she is sure she does not mistake the relief in the response, "OK, good. I'll see you later then."

She mumbles something resembling a good-bye, and hangs up before he can.

A tear-drop slides off her cheek on to her lap to dye the fabric of her dress a deeper red, in perfect synchrony with a pang of pure pain knifing through her heart.

Even though he is not there to hear her, she mercilessly smothers a sob in the well of her throat, stoically bearing the dull, suffocating pain.

She wonders if she ought to have told him the truth. She wonders whether this situation, where she is hurting and all alone, with no one to go to, no one to comfort her, no one to reassure her, would be any different if her "no" had been a "yes".

Perhaps it's her own fault, she thinks, as she gathers up her cell-phone and the simple-yet-chic black clutch a cousin had couriered for her birthday. The thought ambles languorously through her mind, curiously devoid of emotion, numb and bland.

She is thankful for the dim lighting of the restaurant, the far-apart booths enclosing their occupants in their own private bubbles. Even in the midst of strangers, she is conscious of her stinging eyes, and has to hook her hands into her dupatta, so she does not betray herself by rubbing at them.

Maybe it really is her fault.

After all, how can she expect people to understand her emotions if she barely lets them show? She wonders how many within her acquaintances have seen her angry before, or frustrated, or impatient. Those were feelings she was not unfamiliar with, not in the least- she had felt maddening anger grip her when she had found that her group mates had not finished their part of an assignment, she had felt frustrated as she had rushed up the side-walks thinking she would miss her bus because she was let out of class late, she had felt impatient as she waited in line for her ticket to A Fault in our Stars. She is no stranger to them, and she can tell them apart just as clearly as she can tell apart what she is currently feeling- dejected, lonely...and unloved.

But the fact remains that she is the only person who knows that, and the only person who probably ever will.

She smiles at her group-mates and tells them it's alright even though it's not, she cheerily greets her professor no matter how many times she misses the bus because of him, she chirps Hello!' to whoever is sitting at the ticket counter of the cinema.

She is not sure if she is fancying it, but she feels as though the gazes of the waiters she passes by trail behind her, their eyes hard and scoffing behind their amiable and accommodating smiles- judging her.

What are they thinking, she muses with a growing, combustive tightness in her chest as she slides out the door, in to the warm, somewhat humid June evening, Are they thinking I was stood up? Are they thinking I am too broke to afford anything in there?

She glances back at the embossed name of the restaurant mounted high over the rustic front of the small building; it oozes class and elegance and money, and she recalls the wave of apprehension and insecurity that had stuttered her steps when she had first arrived here.

Any small, corner-street caf would have been alright for her. She had even offered to cook, the thought of a nice, home-made meal warm and appealing to her more than the thought of dressing up and going out. But he had insisted, and she had relented, reasoning that after all, she did not get to see him anymore, and anything would be fine as long they got to spend some time together.

All at once, like the hot blast of unpleasant, muggy summer heat, the shame of her petty worries crash into her.

So what if they think she is cheap? So what if they think she was stood up? She does not know these people, and they do not know her- what they think of her is not significant, it does not matter. It would not alter anything in her world or theirs- if anything, they have probably forgotten all about her already. She is above dwelling on such pathetic woes.

She tells herself this sternly, peremptorily, but as she edges toward the street and uncertainly peers down both ends of the unfamiliar lanes, she fails to heed her own advice.

She cannot care less about what strangers are thinking of her, it is true- but what about the people she knows? The people she loves, the people for whom she would do anything to please?

Was she foolish for assuming that it is mutual? That just because she cares for someone, they are obliged to care back? That just because she drives herself spare thinking about them and what they would like, that they would do the same for her?

As the fresh recollection of the casual way she has just been dismissed comes back to her, even though it is herbirthday and his treat, she comes to the harsh realisation that she is, in fact, foolish.

She needs to get home. She needs to get home and crank up the air-conditioner, and crawl into a makeshift igloo under her blankets with a warm, richly decadent mug of chocolate and some sappy, over-sugared films with happy endings.

She needs to be alone, so that the vitriolic, aching burn that is swilling inside her gut and slowly charring her from the inside out would find an outlet.

She needs to weep.

Conscious that she has been standing at the same spot on the sidewalk for some time now, she quickly darts her eyes about her before fishing into her purse for her cell-phone. She has the number of a taxi company, they ought to know where this place is...

You have ONE (1) unread message.

Her heart leaps, and in one millisecond a flash of hope almost as blinding as it is blind renders her mindless. She fumbles with the lock-screen, not knowing what she is expecting, and in that moment not caring, and then-

She stares at the text for a long time, the mesh of her feelings separate and distant from her body and from her mind. They tussle for a moment by themselves, and slowly, their presence begins to seep back into her consciousness, one by one, and the first thing she registers are the words "Hot chocolate".

And something happens. Some circuit-breaker is her system burns out, some floodgate breaks, and all the rashness, the impulsiveness that she keeps insulated inside of her comes surging out.

She is dialling the number before she can stop to tell herself why she shouldn't.

"Hey!"

"Hi..." it is too late to go back and an unexpected bout of nerves wallops the breath out of her, "I...um..."

"How is dinner going?"

Whatever she is going to say next evaporates straight out of her throat and she can feel it wither and dry, and suddenly she is wondering if she shouldn't just turn back and get a drink, because braving that den of extravagance and burning a hole in her purse is suddenly more attractive an option than answering that question.

She is back at square one, that same old dilemma, and the words are arbitrarily formulating inside her mouth already; It's fine, It's OK, It's good, and any of the other vague phrases she could use to divert talking about it.

Because the alternative is admitting that nothing is fine, that nothing is OK, nothing is good.

The alternative is admitting that the plans for her own birthday have been cancelled without her having any say, and she can tell exactly where the conversation would lead from there- "No, no, I'm fine...he's busy, so I understand...a really important meeting came up...it's alright, there's always next time."

But she wouldn't mean it. As always, she wouldn't mean it, but she would parrot them anyway, because she is so afraid of becoming a burden- so afraid of weighing others down with her fears and worries and insecurities, so afraid that they would think her weak or juvenile or selfish, so afraid that they would want to dissociate themselves from her because in the end she was not the resilient, strong person they thought they knew.

She was afraid that she would be alone again, as alone as she had been when her parents had passed away in an accident when she was eight, and for an indefinite bracket in time she had felt as though she had been forsaken and forgotten.

It is a terrifying, crippling fear.

"Khushi...are you crying?"

She clamps her teeth down; her restraint has sprung a leak and a shaky sob-like noise sails out of her mouth before she can stop it.

"No."

It pops out of her mouth without approval again, because it is the only answer she has to offer, the only "safe" response she has.

"He didn't come, did he?"

Panic, pure and acidic, course down her veins and fry up her composure and her common sense.

She is lost again, and so close to dropping the call, when he continues,

"I'm sorry to say this, Khushi, but your step-dad is a bas***d."

"Arnav!"

The reprimand comes out shrill and almost wailing, and it seems to crack a little more of her armour- hot globules of moisture drip to the tarmac in front of her as the street temporarily mists away before her eyes, "He had important meeting, he couldn't call it off and-"

"Where are you right now?"

"I- what?"

"Where are you right now?"

"I- um- I'm about to head home..."

"Where. Are. You? Don't make me spell it out for you."

Stunned, Khushi mouths wordlessly for a moment and forgets to be annoyed at his bluntness.

"In front this restaurant...C'est l'Amour..."

There is a sharp, snappish sound on the other end, as though he has just clicked his tongue a bit too aggressively.

"I bet that was his choice, wasn't it? You don't even like French food."

Her protests are rushed and garbled, "I don't mind French food- don't snort like that!"

"You realise you'd high-tail it to the nearest dhaba afterwards, right?"

"I-"

She is surprised, because she realises that's true, and she is baffled because he realised it before she did.

"And it's your birthday, it's supposed to be what you like doing, not what your bas***d of a step-dad likes doing-"

"Stop calling him that!"

"I call 'em as I see 'em. YOU stop trying to defend him. And go wait at the convenience store down the road."

Overdosed on sensations that are moving far too quickly for her to keep track of, her eyes swing about in a wide arc before landing on a blinking red "24/7" sign hanging not too far off, the rows and rows of biscuits, potato crisps and chocolate just discernible from the distance beyond a wall of glass.

Her feet start plodding in its the direction even before she manages to blurt her question- as though she is much too relieved to have a place to go than nowhere at all.

"Why?"

"Because I'm coming to pick you up, stupid."

She stops, trips on her own feet, and rights herself with a flaming red face.

For some reason her heart is pounding, literally punching into her ribs and pumping heat through her body- but in spite of the sweltering summer air and the film of perspiration making her heavy anarkali stick to her skin, it is not unpleasant.

"No! Why? You don't have to do that, I can just-"

"My offer from earlier still holds, Khushi. Now stop punishing yourself for nothing and go wait quietly in the store."

Hot chocolate...

The text message that had led up to all this blinks against her mind's eye.

"Hey, let me know when you're done with dinner...I got us a stash of movies and some hot chocolate, so we can celebrate properly."

He knows...

And though she can't make any sense of this whirlwind of emotion swirling through her, tipping over and sucking up everything and tossing it up and up and up, and leaving her a little dazed and confused, she thinks it must be something nice, because a breathless giggle trips out of her mouth.

A happy sound- delighted and relieved and grateful.

"Good," he breathes into her ear as she hurries toward the convenience store, a peace she associates with home curling about her as she does, that harrowing feeling of being lost dispelled, and her heart tap-dances at how pleased he sounded, "No one should be crying on their birthday."

She waits for him, and even though it's a while before he gets there, she doesn't mind. She no longer feels alone.

*C'est l'Amour - 'This is love' in French - I was studying for my French exam >:(

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