Chapter 1

The Arora mansion was glowing that night — not with warmth, but with perfection.

Crystal chandeliers shimmered. Marble floors reflected golden light. Every servant moved carefully, like they were part of an invisible choreography designed to maintain order.

Shristi Arora stood by her bedroom window, her reflection faint against the glass. Beyond the tall iron gates lay Mumbai — loud, reckless, breathing. Somewhere in that city, students were laughing without permission. Singing without rehearsal. Living without supervision.

Her phone buzzed against her dressing table.

Swati: If you don’t come tonight, I’m deleting you from my life. Biggest college fest of the year. And there’s this band from Commerce — the lead singer is apparently insane.

Shristi smiled faintly.

Insane sounded better than perfect.

She looked at her wardrobe — rows of designer dresses that felt more like expectations than clothes. Instead, she pulled out a simple cotton kurti and faded jeans. No diamonds. No statement bag. No chauffeur.

Just herself.

For once.

St. Andrew’s College was chaos — the beautiful kind.

Fairy lights crisscrossed above the campus lawns. Food stalls sent waves of spicy aroma into the night air. Students ran around with painted cheeks and glitter in their hair. Laughter echoed like freedom.

Swati spotted her near the entrance and gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you actually came! Do you realize this is historic?”

Shristi laughed softly. “Don’t make it sound like I escaped prison.”

Swati raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

Before she could answer, the lights near the main stage dimmed. A murmur ran through the crowd.

“Come,” Swati grabbed her wrist. “This is the band I told you about.”

Shristi didn’t know why her heart was suddenly beating faster.

The spotlight flickered on.

And he walked in.

No dramatic background music. No flashy introduction.

Just a boy with a guitar slung over his shoulder and confidence stitched into his posture.

He adjusted the mic casually. “If this thing stops working, please blame the engineering department. We warned them.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Shristi didn’t laugh.

She was watching him.

Messy hair. Rolled-up sleeves. A faint scar near his eyebrow. He didn’t look polished. He didn’t look curated.

He looked real.

“Hi,” he said into the mic. “I’m Sameer Luthra. But if you shout ‘Sameer’ from that far, I won’t hear you. So just call me Sammy.”

The name lingered in the air.

Sammy.

The guitar chords began softly — hesitant, almost shy. Then his voice followed.

Deep. Slightly husky. Imperfect in places.

But honest.

The song wasn’t famous. It wasn’t borrowed from some blockbuster soundtrack. It was his own. About wanting more from life than what it hands you. About breaking out of invisible cages.

Shristi felt something stir inside her.

Invisible cages.

She didn’t realize her eyes had softened until Swati nudged her. “Don’t tell me you’re already impressed.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Shristi murmured.

“You didn’t have to.”

On stage, Sammy closed his eyes while hitting a high note, as if the world in front of him didn’t matter. As if he was singing for himself first.

When the song ended, the applause was immediate. Loud. Unfiltered.

He grinned — not arrogantly, just relieved.

As he stepped off stage, students swarmed around him. High-fives. Teasing. Back slaps.

Shristi found herself walking forward.

She didn’t know why.

She only knew she wanted to hear him speak without a microphone.

Backstage was messy — wires, plastic chairs, empty bottles.

Sammy was laughing with his bandmates when she stopped a few feet away.

He turned.

For a brief second, everything else blurred.

“Hi,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

He studied her, curious but not intimidated. “Hi.”

“That song,” she continued, gathering confidence, “you wrote it?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged lightly. “Unless someone plagiarized it before I performed it.”

She smiled. “It was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” No flirtation. No exaggerated charm. Just sincerity.

A pause lingered between them.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “which department?”

She hesitated.

“I… Arts.”

His lips curved faintly. “You don’t look like Arts.”

“And what does Arts look like?” she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.

“Less… polished.”

She laughed — unexpectedly, freely.

“No one has ever said that to me.”

“First time for everything,” he replied.

One of his friends shouted from behind, “Oye Sammy, autograph de raha hai kya?”

He rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m not famous yet.”

Then he turned back to her. “You staying for the finale? We’re performing again.”

“I’ll be watching,” she said, surprising herself with how certain she sounded.

He extended his hand. “Sammy.”

She looked at it for a second before placing her hand in his.

“Shristi.”

Her name felt different when he said it.

“Nice meeting you, Shristi-from-Arts-who-doesn’t-look-like-Arts.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Nice meeting you too, Sammy-who-blames-engineering-for-everything.”

He laughed.

And something about that laugh felt like the beginning of a story neither of them could see yet.

As she walked back toward Swati, the music from another stage began rising into the night. The campus felt brighter. Louder. Alive.

Swati leaned close and whispered dramatically, “You’re in trouble.”

Shristi pretended not to understand. “Why?”

“Because you’re smiling,” Swati replied knowingly.

Shristi didn’t answer.

On stage again, Sammy adjusted his guitar and glanced briefly toward the crowd — toward the place where she had been standing.

He didn’t know her surname.

He didn’t know the world she came from.

He didn’t know that she belonged to a life far removed from his own.

All he knew was that when she smiled, it felt like applause louder than anything the crowd had given him.

And sometimes, love doesn’t begin with declarations.

Sometimes it begins with a song under fairy lights —

And two strangers who don’t yet realize that their first meeting will echo long after the music stops.