A/N: So this was originally going to be an OS, but once I got writing it grew too long to be posted at once so I'm chopping it into two, maybe three parts. As for "who" it's written on, in other words which "couple," it's entirely up to you. SaHil, AsYa, whatever makes you happy.
**Italics are flashbacks/reminiscences.
Part 1
"Wait. You two know each other?"
"Excuse me,"
She looked up. Her brown eyes walked a fine line between soft and edged through her glasses. They looked strained, perhaps she'd been crying.
"Wou..."
She had already cleared the other half of the table before he could finish.
The woman in black felt blood rush up to her face, her cheeks only a few shades lighter than the deep red of the man's tie.
"...everything I write is garbage."
The boy within the man, ruffled through his ebony hair, but in doing so, reverted it to its original and inept form.
"Why me?" the girl buried her head in her review book and tried (failed) to subdue her sniffles.
"Sort of."
"No." the man and the woman spoke at once.
"I mean not exactly."
"Kind of..."
Displaying such grave difficulty in answering a rather simple question was embarrassing.
"I should just listen to my aunt and create a Shaadi.Com profile. And join a few cooking classes while I'm at it," she said with ample amounts of aggravation and a pinch sarcasm that was so small, he would've taken it seriously had it not been for the fact that she was in front of him. "I mean screw dreams right? Screw wanting to make the only life you'll ever get count. And a giant middle finger to..."
Half-listening, a sixteenth judging, and the rest editing (read: erasing majority of) his screenplay, whose rough draft by the way was due two weeks ago, the boy looked up from his screen as he noticed her voice getting louder by the second. Or rather because he noticed people noticing, which was bad for him because he was the one sitting with the lunatic.
He took a call, "It'll be alright," he said quickly and perhaps a bit too loud as grasped her hand. And all of a sudden she went silent, the void in the air between them was quickly filled by the hushed chatter of the cafe.
She was confused for a second, wanting to claim her hand back for herself. She looked around receiving the message he was trying to send, "I guess?" she said pulled away. But he noticed it was more of a question. One not meant for him.
Why his reassurance would have made any difference was beyond him. And despite being in no position to, he still said, "You'll be fine, just trust yourself."
Her expression was between a desire to roll her eyes at his cliched statement and genuine thanks for having heard something she needed the most.
The boy sat there amazed with himself, he didn't know he had those words within him. As if he had witnessed an unexpected reflection, in a rather eccentric mirror.
After having sung the alphabet 4 times, forward and back, in his head to complete silence, the fellow colleague had realized it was time to bid adieu and leave the two, both very obviously uncomfortable due to what they had made seem like merciless interrogation, alone.
"I see you've cut your hair," he finally said not making direct eye contact.
She looked around as well, sneaking her bit, "Maybe it's just me, but this is kind of awkward..." she stated quite bluntly, sipping her drink only for the sake of not looking like an idiot who talks to herself.
"Want to go out?" He asked only to find her face bearing a grave expression. Shit.
"Side," he quickly corrected himself. "I mean outside," he emphasized the 'side' part this time, "Like the opposite of inside?" Smooth. Real smooth.
She laughed as loud as one can in a formal setting, he was right, the surroundings were too elaborate. Too fussy for the states in which they've seen each other.
A giant street rat ran past them too fast for the boy to digest. Recognizing the sick face immediately, she pointed a stern finger at him, "Not here..." but it came out like a defeated cry as opposed to an order.
As expected she was too late because his face was already in some trashcan that probably belonged to that sadistic convenience store owner. "Actually..." she said, "...knock yourself out."
But he was probably too sick to hear. The girl furiously rumbled through her bag for a water bottle, until she stood disappointed at the fact that it was the spill-proof orange one.
She heard the boy walk towards her from behind. He rested a palm on her shoulder to keep him up and put the other one forward, as if her generosity was expected. Hell to the n--
"Air-sips, promise."
Goddamnit.
"Keep it."
Part 2: Coming soon.
***
A/N:
I would normally start this off with I hope you liked it but I'm just proud of you all just for making it through.
Please don't judge me for this.
Also sorry for the crappy dedication but, here Jazz and Amber. Ta-da!
Ok bye
-Shweta
____________________________________________________________________
"Dr. Shah is a family friend," he explained his presence once they were outside.
"A coworker." she said.
"Same medical group?"
"Mhmm."
Caught in the uncertainty of the situation, she wondered if it was safe to loosen up or remain careful with her choice of words. It's not like they'd known each other forever, not even close. It wasn't even a full 24 hours for crying out loud.
The crickets then began chirping far too loud, as they continued walking the perimeter of the event hall.
"Nice dress..." he tried to revive the dead conversation.
Red dresses for the win.
"And this new look," he gestured, "It suits you..."
Her long hair swept across the table as she used her books as unfortunate pillows to rest on. He made her just enough space by moving aside his drink. Logically following their individual charges of oversharing, they'd developed a comfortable silence between them.
On second thought they don't, this was just a stroke of luck. Most of the time they're creepy perverts.
The grandfather clock in the back chimed. Her eyes were wide with shock as she turned around to check the time. She opened her bag and seemed to be in search of something, but the quest was short lived as she seemed to dawn upon an unfortunate sense of realization and hastily began to gather her books and throw them in her bag.
"Hey guys, I'm sorry but we've noticed that you both have been sitting here for quite some time, and... well today's just kind of a busy day and we've sort of running out of room and, well you guys are seem to be done with your food and don't appear to be doing...anything really," she muttered the last part, "So I was wondering if..."
"Don't worry I was just leaving," the girl and the boy assured her, oddly the same time.
"Could I have the bill?"
"Mine too please,"
The sight of his open wallet gave the girl a mental heart attack. Inside lay an awry mix of folded and unfolded, some even crumpled, bills of two different currencies.
"Oh the struggle!" she thought to herself as she paid her dues at the counter and went on her way.
"Thanks," she tried her hardest to not brush a lock back (and then be forced to categorize herself as typical).
"Well I'm assuming your exam went alright, what was it the CAT or something, the SET..."
"MCAT, and well I mean obviously (heard: you could do better)..." she answered, "Either that or me being a doctor is a giant lie, though to your credit it very well could be the latter."
Salt on the wound, how mean.
"But what isn't obvious is how that screenplay turned out? I didn't hear of any Bollywood family tragedy rise to critical acclaim, or even be made for that matter."
"They're changing the MCAT. Seven hours long it's going to become, SEVEN. New sections, new material, and I'M the first group that's taking it. Maybe I'm overreacting, but it's just... It's ALWAYS me, I have the worst luck in the world. The universe hates me," she spoke passionately. "Why me?" the girl buried her head in her review book and tried (failed) to subdue her sniffles.
He was getting irritated with how she was hindering his concentration, "If it makes you feel any better, I'm the son of two people who are considered India's "finest" writers, for film that is. Even my sister is a "starred" director. And then there's me, and it seems as though everything I write is garbage," his voice grew louder with each passing word. "Film in reality is about restrictions, commercialism, emotional manipulation, stars, and all that bullshit. No one cares about the story. What even is a story?" he mocked the narrow-mindedness of showbiz.
"When you try to say something, your left being tagged the black sheep by the media and pressurized by the ones you love to make garbage just to shut their mouths," the boy shut his laptop screen in anger and whispered, he was on the verge of breaking,
"I've been given a story that isn't even mine to direct. The only way I could've thwarted it away is if I showed up with another ready to be produced screenplay weeks ago. The sad thing is, that I've been working on this screenplay for months and have still gotten nowhere decent with it. It reeks of half-assed attempts at bandaging a plot together with no attention to the characters. The only reason I've even agreed to films is because I want to tell stories, and I refuse to compromise."
And then there was silence.
He realized he went too far as he saw traces of sympathy make their way to her expression. Far too candid for a stranger.
She realized his embarrassment and tried her hand at damage control.
"I'd be lying if I said I understand. I don't. The same way you don't understand what I cried to you about, which I apologize for by the way. I'm not in the best frame of mind right now. But the fact that you haven't conformed yet in what may be the worst of times should tell you never will. And knowing that won't solve your problems but it should relieve you from this weariness you seem to feel with yourself."
He didn't know how to react.
"A little too much?" she asked.
He kind of smiled, sort of chuckled, and then went back to work as if to pretend the conversation never took place.
"Fine...be that way!" she thought to herself, "I have my own problems to deal with."
But little did she know that behind the computer screen, all because of her little pep talk, he began writing the most honest words he had been able to in the past three months.
It's as if fate had brought him there to ensure he'd hear her words, so he could come up with his.
"I decided there was no real creative' space in films, for me. So...I took to the producer's chair."
"The guy who foots the bill?" she asked gathering her limited knowledge of film that went beyond the DVD covers.
"Basically," he laughed. "But most of the movies have fared well. It's an indie sort of production house, no content creator there goes through the shit I did."
"Makes sense, Bollywood to me is Karan Johar fast food. Which explains my not so high opinion of it, but it's good to see that there are few decent apples in the tree."
"I'm just happy I have..." he struggled to find the right word, "...some semblance of an idea, something ahead of me. Bonus points because it's something I'm pretty cool with. The fam's handed it as well I guess, as well they can."
"But does this mean you aren't writing anymore?"
"I am, but it's going to be a novel. I've been working on it for quite some time."
She smiled in a way she wasn't sure she should.
He responded to her bit back his, only because he didn't want to look like a goof.
As they wait inside the apartment, he was relieved to see that after some serious patience, his laptop was alive. Her bag and its contents were laid out and drying. She'd given up on getting home at this point.
"What exactly is the problem?" she said after a while as she watched the rain fall. "Do you like not actually have a story and are being forced to write one?"
His eyebrows scrunched up in doubt of why she asked, but at the same time appreciated her trying to make conversation, "I do have a story. Kind of. I just can't write it the way I want to. Like for example there's this scene in which the grandfather is searching for an old photo album. The camera follows his tired attempts at locating a photo album that could very well just be a figment of his imagination, considering the character he is. He finally gives into his fatigue and decides, while murmuring irritatingly to himself like old people do, to retire for the night. It's a scene that I think is vital to establish the fact that he doesn't change, he is and always will be the bizarre, stubborn, and nostalgic man he is. But I have to take it out, else the movie'll be too long. And so many more like those scenes."
Following in his footsteps, she heard some of it, but was mostly occupied with the task of wrenching out water from her belongings. Absentmindedly she responded, "Well I mean if you want to give that kind of fine attention to characters, why don't try your hand at writing a book instead?"
"I..." the boy was genuinely dumbfounded by an idea.
"Personally, I think it's a better than film if the purpose is to tell stories," she continued, still paying the same amount of attention. "But then again, the family," she yawned. "I don't know I was just thinking out loud." The girl brought her head to her knees as she rubbed up against the dry wall, "Wake me up when it stops raining?" She asked.
It took a few more seconds to answer for she'd sent him deep in thought, "Mhmm."
"So we should like actually meet up for like lunch or something, you know, the way normal people do." He subtly' suggested. "And not leave it up to chance like this..."
She rolled her eyes, "You were a stranger! I barely knew you!" but he wasn't buying it, "There was something comforting about thinking of you as the anonymous person who I was able to confide in. Like a safe, in which I was able to store away from myself, forever, the things that bothered me the most."
"Are you meaning to say you're disappointed to see me?" His the genuine curiosity in his voice masked with sarcasm.
"No!" came an immediate response. She held onto his forearm bringing their walk to a temporary halt, "No..." She looked up to his face, for a moment just focusing how good his presence, him just being there and standing next to her, felt. "No, th-that's not what I meant. I don't even know, I have a rough time articulating what I mean. Ignore me..." she mumbled before awkwardly continuing the walk ahead of him.
His fear proved to be right, the few drizzles turned out to be a straight up downpour.
"Are you happy now?" she screamed up into the heavens. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" She ran, looking ahead, she knew she had quite a bit of road to cover. This whole storming out in anger thing was stupid to begin with.
"What the heck are you doing?" He chased after.
"Nothing, god what are you my mother or something?"
"You can't keep going like this! I can't believe YOU'RE the one wanting to be a doctor here."
"Just please," she fought against the blurring rain to keep her head up, "Mi--woah," she tripped not noticing the uneasy bump of the gutter on the sidewalk.
Embarrassed but thankful for the weather not allowing it to be as noticeable, she picked herself up immediately she kept stubbornly walking as the thunder rumbled, and not too short after streaks of lightning began to split through the clouds. The rain got harder.
"Ok that's it," he cut her path.
"What is it! What is your goddamn problem?"
"We're stopping somewhere." He looked around their shady whereabouts.
"Speak for yourself. Look you don't understand! My sister... I need to get home! If I keep going as fast as I was, I might get there in tw--"
"Chup. Bilkul chup. How old are you? Even kids aren't so stubborn!" He scolded her with a right he did not have, "Aap mere saath chalrahi hain bas."
"N--" she was about to argue when he gave her a glare. Finally she gave in.
He pulled down the fire exit ladder from the old school apartment and climbed up the shabby exit and opened a window on the first floor. All clear.
Coming back down he held out a hand, "We'll wait here."
"You mean trespassing!?"
"We're waiting here," he repeated. Kind of.
***
One more part to go.
***
A/N:
1. Didn't edit. Will do later. But I doubt I'll have the time to really edit it the way I want to, and since I don't want to half-ass anything, I just posted the unedited/unread through copy. So yeah. 🥱
One thing I really on agree with John Green is the fact that stories belong to their readers.
The authorial intent is generally irrelevent, and though its very tempting to answer some questions, I'll leave it up to you.
And again, don't expect something extrodinary here and you'll be fine, it's a really average story as you can see.
Love you guys a bunch though,
-Shweta
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