That's My Boy ~ A Vikrima SS ~ Chap 7 on pg 2 - Page 2

Chapter 4 (Cracks in the Mirror)

The Tea Stall Invitation

One fine evening, Vikram caught Gunnu closing the shutters of Kaatelal & Sons. The orange Duke was parked nearby, gleaming under the flickering streetlight.
“Oi, Gunnu!” Vikram called, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Chai? You look like you need one.”

Gunnu raised a brow. “Me? Or you?”

“Both,” Vikram shot back too fast, then coughed to cover his eagerness. “I know a place. Quiet. No nosy chachis, no scissors flying at jugulars.”

From the side, Sattu smirked like he’d just been handed tomorrow’s gossip. But Garima—still in Gunnu’s guise—sighed and nodded. “Fine. Tea. But you’re paying.”

“Done.” Vikram’s grin flashed, quick and boyish, as he led the way.

The Near-Accident

The tea stall buzzed with clinking glasses and the hiss of boiling milk. The air was heavy with cardamom and fried snacks. Vikram and Gunnu stood at the wooden counter, closer than either intended, their shoulders brushing.

“Careful, don’t burn yourself,” Vikram muttered, sliding a steaming glass toward him.

“Relax,” Gunnu said with a half-grin. “I’m not as clumsy as—”

Before he could finish, a stray dog darted between their feet. Gunnu stumbled sideways into Vikram. Startled, Vikram caught him by the arms—only to slip on spilled tea.

Both went crashing against the counter, lips colliding in a messy, shocking smooch.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Gunnu’s breath hitched. Vikram’s grip on his arms tightened, instead of letting go. The taste of cardamom and tea lingered on both their lips, and something hot and electric surged through the stillness.

Then time snapped back.

The stall-owner gawked. Two old men sputtered mid-sip, choking. A boy carrying samosas dropped the entire plate with a clatter.

Vikram’s eyes went wide with horror. He tore himself back as if burned. “I—this—damn dog—” he stammered, brushing frantically at his shirt.

“Vikram!” Gunnu called, half-laughing, half-panicked. “Wait! It was an accident—listen—”

But Vikram didn’t listen. He stormed out, jaw tight, climbing onto his Duke. The engine roared like his fury, drowning Gunnu’s voice. Within seconds, he was gone.

Mirror, Mirror

Back home, Vikram locked his room with a snap. He splashed cold water onto his face, droplets trickling down his jaw, then looked up—straight into the mirror.

“That wasn’t real,” he whispered. “It was clumsy. A mistake. Nothing.”

But as his fingers brushed his lips, memory betrayed him—the softness, the shock, the jolt that had raced through his veins. His chest thudded too hard.

“I liked it,” he admitted, voice cracking with fury. “I… actually liked it.”

Rage surged. With a growl, he slammed his fist into the mirror. Glass shattered, blood welling across his knuckles as shards clung to the frame. In the fractured pieces, his face broke into a dozen versions—none steady, none certain.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, touching his mouth unconsciously, the fleeting warmth still haunting him. “I’ve been around plenty of girls. Beautiful girls. So why did this—why did he feel…”

The thought refused to finish itself. His chest heaved, eyes burning.

“He’s my brother. Just my brother,” Vikram whispered fiercely. But the lie trembled as much as his bleeding knuckles. And in the splintered mirror, his reflection bled with him—broken, jagged, unrecognizable.

Back at Kaatelal House

The Duke’s roar faded into the night, leaving Garima trembling in Gunnu’s shoes. She hurried home, her heart knocking against her ribs.

But she had barely set foot in the courtyard when a familiar, sharp voice cut through the silence.

“Aha! So the ghost finally returns.”

Chanchal Chachi stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a pair of scissors.

Garima froze. “Chachi… why are you holding my—uh—the kitchen shears?”

Chachi narrowed her eyes. “Kitchen shears? Don’t lie. These are barber scissors. And this razor I found under the sofa? Don’t tell me you’re shaving vegetables now.”

Susheela appeared, biting into a mango slice, eyes wide with alarm. “Arrey, Chachi, those are mine. For… modern cooking experiments. Shaving karela makes it less bitter.”

Chachi’s mouth dropped open. “Karela… with foam and aftershave?”

Garima choked on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough. “Yes. Very modern. Delhi brand.”

Chachi wasn’t convinced. She sniffed the air dramatically. “Why does this house smell like a barbershop these days? Razors in the hall, combs in the kitchen, wigs on the balcony… is this Kaatelal House or Kaatelal Salon?”

Susheela scrambled. “Trend, Chachi. Hygiene trend. Barbershop vibes keep mosquitoes away.”

Chachi snorted. “Hygiene? Soon the truth will come out—you can hide soap, but not the smell of secrets.” She shook the scissors accusingly. “Mark my words—something fishy is happening. And I, Chanchal Chachi, will find out.”

With a dramatic swish of her dupatta, she stomped off, muttering about “girls turning homes into saloons instead of kitchens.”

As soon as Chachi stomped off, Susheela collapsed onto a stool, paratha in hand. “One day, she’ll invent her own CBI branch just to catch us,” she whispered.

Garima, still flushed from the tea stall, managed a weak smile. “Yeah… and she’ll probably start with the barbershop. Our hideout won’t even survive the first raid.”

In Garima and Susheela’s room

“Of course Chachi suspects us,” Susheela snorted, then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And my sister, the chatterbox, has been suspiciously quiet ever since stepping in. That is never a good sign. Spill.”

Garima fumbled with her dupatta. “Nothing. I’m just… tired.”

Susheela gasped dramatically. “Tired? From what? Closing shop shutters? Or—” she leaned closer, lowering her voice in mock seriousness—“from gallivanting on a Duke with a certain Vikram-ji?”

Garima’s ears turned red. “Nothing happened!” she blurted too quickly.

Susheela dropped the mango, eyes sparkling like she’d just unearthed treasure. “Ah-ha! That tone! Something did happen.” She clutched Garima’s shoulders and shook her. “Tell me. Did he…? Did you…?”

“Susheela!” Garima hissed, clapping a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Do you want the whole mohalla to wake up?”

Susheela’s muffled voice vibrated with glee. “Mhmhmhm—kiss?”

Garima groaned, pulling away. “It was a mistake, okay? A dog, some tea, a—” She flailed her arms helplessly. “A collision.”

Susheela blinked, then burst into laughter so loud even Chachi stirred in the next room. “A dog made you two bump lips? Garima, only you could turn romance into a wrestling match with livestock!”

“Shhh!” Garima pleaded, half-embarrassed, half-amused despite herself. “It wasn’t romance. He ran away like I was some man-eating tigress. He hates me now.”

Susheela’s laughter softened. She looped an arm around Garima’s shoulder. “Or maybe he’s confused. Which is worse for him… and maybe better for you.”

Garima bit her lip, doubt gnawing at her. “Confused or not, what if he suspects something? What if he—”

“Relax,” Susheela cut in with a mischievous grin. “Boys don’t suspect, they sulk. And judging by your face, Vikram is probably sulking so hard he could start a protest march.”

Despite the chaos inside her, Garima let out a reluctant chuckle. For the first time since the stall, her shoulders eased.

Still, when she lay down that night, her hand drifted to her lips, betraying her again.

Garima’s Reflection

Later that night, when Susheela had drifted off, Garima stood before her small dressing mirror. The room was silent except for the tick of the wall clock.

She touched her lips hesitantly, cheeks warming. The memory refused to vanish—the shock, the heat, the closeness.

“Why do you feel real when it was just… an accident?” she whispered to her reflection.

Her image stared back, cheeks just as pink. For a moment, she pressed her palms over the mirror, as if trying to hide from herself.

Unlike Vikram’s shattered glass—fractured, bleeding, refusing truth—hers stayed whole, quietly sheltering the secret she didn’t dare speak aloud.

With a sigh, she curled up on her bed, her hand still hovering over her mouth, her heart restless but oddly hopeful.

-----

To be continued.

As far as Vikram knows, he just kissed a guy and felt something. It is bound to disrupt everything he knows about himself and have him questioning his life.

Its easier for Garima to take in. She has no confusions, just secrets. Will he avoid her now?

Chapter 5 (Avoidance and Tension)

The week after the tea-stall incident dragged like a slow train. Vikram didn’t show up at Kaatelal & Sons—not once. Not even a casual “quick trim” excuse.

Gunnu moved around the shop with forced cheer, scissors snipping, combs clicking, but each creak of the door or rev of a distant motorbike made her heart skip. His absence stung almost as sharply as the kiss that had burned her lips.

Inside, the regulars whispered over their haircuts, smirking behind the hum of clippers.

“Arrey, Bhai… remember how the Duke-owner used to stare at his barber?” one murmured. “Wonder if he’s missing his favorite stylist now.”
“Remember the other day, when he got all flustered around his barber?” another teased.

Gunnu froze mid-snip. Her hands twitched. She muttered under her breath, “Don’t say that. Don’t say that.” But her blush betrayed her anyway.

From the corner, Sattu — in full mischievous mode — leaned against a counter and nudged Gunnu. “Look at you, shaking like a fresh haircut. Careful, Chachi might come here and think you’re catching a fever again.”

Just then, Chanchal Chachi entered the salon with her usual investigative scrutiny. “Hmph. Trembling hands? Red cheeks? Something strange is definitely going on here…”

“Chachi!” Gunnu groaned, ducking behind a chair, scissors raised defensively. “I’m not blushing. That’s… just the lighting!”

Sattu snickered, tugging at Chachi’s dupatta. “Or maybe our Duke-owner’s absence is making his heart race. Admit it, brother.”

“Brother!” Gunnu hissed, glaring at Sattu, who winked innocently. “I am his brother! And don’t you dare—”

Chachi waved them off. “Bah! Whatever you call it, your hands are shaking. One day, I’ll see through these antics, and you’ll be caught red-handed… maybe even in love!”

Gunnu let out a dramatic sigh, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. The combination of Vikram’s absence, gossiping customers, and Sattu/Chachi’s relentless teasing left her both frantic and secretly thrilled.

Rain, Confessions, and Mirrors

The sky had brooded all afternoon, and by early evening, it finally broke. Sheets of rain lashed the streets of Rohtak, drumming against tin roofs, splashing into puddles, flooding the narrow lanes around Kaatelal & Sons.

Gunnu had just finished locking the shutters, her wig slightly askew beneath the hood of a drenched jacket. She muttered under her breath, “Of course. The one day I forget my umbrella, it decides to monsoon.” Neon signs shimmered in the puddles, rippling as scooters hissed past.

“Perfect,” she grumbled, juggling a bucket in one hand and a mop in the other. “Absolutely perfect.”

Then the storm was split by a familiar roar.

The orange Duke skidded slightly as Vikram cut through the rain, braking hard when he spotted her struggling near the shop. Water plastered her hair to her forehead, her jacket soaked through. Without hesitation, he swung off the bike.

“Oi!” he shouted over the downpour. “You can’t walk in this like some shampoo commercial!”

Gunnu squinted through the rain. “And you can’t just appear like the rain god of terrible timing!”

He grinned, steadying the bike. “Hop on. Resistance is pointless.”

Reluctantly, she climbed on. The moment her drenched body pressed against him, a jolt shot through her. The Duke revved, and they tore through rain and puddles like two sparks escaping the same storm.

Neither spoke. The city blurred past, rain streaking their faces, shoulders brushing closer than comfort allowed. Each time her wet hair clung to her cheek, Gunnu’s heart thudded dangerously against her ribs.

Finally, Vikram spoke, his voice low, uncertain.
“Gunnu… what’s happening to me? I don’t understand myself anymore.”

Her fingers tightened around the handlebars. The bike wobbled slightly.

“Vikram sir…” The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft and instinctive. For a breathless second, she almost told him everything—almost let the truth break free.

Almost.

The rain swallowed the moment as Vikram said nothing and rode on.

By the time they reached her house, the storm had softened to a drizzle. Vikram turned toward her, both of them dripping, faces inches apart. As she shifted to dismount, her hood slipped—and with it, the edge of her wig.

A loose strand of Garima’s hair clung to her cheek. A faint glint of gold flashed beneath it.

Vikram froze.

The world narrowed to rain, silence, and that single wrong detail.

“Gunnu?” His voice was rough. “What…?”

She reacted instantly, yanking her hood back into place. “You should go, Vikram sir,” she said, voice barely steady. “Before the rain gets worse.”

He didn’t move. His gaze searched her face, sharp and unsettled.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just… leave.”

The pause stretched.

“Who are you, really, Gunnu?” he asked quietly.

Rain hammered the metal roof, masking the answer she couldn’t give. Gunnu slipped inside and closed the door with a soft click that sounded far too final. She leaned against it, breath ragged, her fingers brushing her lips as if to erase his gaze.

Inside, Sattu sat perched on a chair, a towel wrapped around her head, peering over a mop bucket. “Rain ride with the Duke-owner, huh? Looks like someone slipped in a puddle… emotionally.”

Before Gunnu could reply, Chanchal Chachi appeared, eyes narrowing as she surveyed the buckets, the damp floor, the tension in the air. “Hmph. Cleaning at odd hours? Water everywhere? I don’t trust this.”

“Chachi! We’re not sneaking,” Gunnu protested. “We’re… cleaning.”

Sattu smirked. “Very suspicious cleaning. Careful—mops have a habit of uncovering secrets.”

Chachi crossed her arms. “Bah! One day I’ll catch you in the act. And when I do…” she wagged a finger, “there will be consequences.”

As she stormed off, Gunnu finally exhaled—trembling, soaked, and secretly alive. In the privacy of her small mirror, she whispered, barely louder than the rain,

“Someone you can’t love… yet.”

Outside, Vikram remained by the Duke, rain running down his face as he stared at the closed door. The storm mirrored the chaos inside him, and one thought refused to loosen its grip:

Who are you, really, Gunnu?

Unspoken Truths and Stirring Hearts

The drizzle softened into a quiet patter, but the air between the closed door and the orange Duke remained taut.

Vikram stayed where he was, one hand resting on the handlebar, eyes fixed on the door as if it might open again on its own. The rain had washed the streets clean, but it hadn’t touched the chaos in his chest. Every second replayed itself—the warmth of her back against him, the tremor in her voice, the glimpse of something that didn’t belong.

Why does it feel like I’m chasing someone I already know… and still don’t?

He dragged a hand through his damp hair and exhaled sharply.

Inside, Garima leaned against the wall, fingers clenched in the hem of her apron. Her heart hadn’t slowed since she’d shut the door. One slip. One second longer. That was all it would have taken.

She reached for the mirror and stopped herself halfway.

Not now.

“Gunnu?” Sattu’s voice floated in, light but watchful. She stood nearby with the mop balanced on her shoulder like a prop. “You breathing, or should I call emergency services for emotionally compromised barbers?”

Gunnu straightened, schooling her face. “I’m fine.”

Sattu raised a brow. “That’s the most suspicious sentence in human history.”

Before Gunnu could respond, Chanchal Chachi appeared at the doorway, arms folded, eyes sharp. “Fine? Hmph. Buckets everywhere, water dripping, faces red. This is not normal cleaning.”

“We got caught in the rain,” Gunnu said quickly.

“Yes,” Sattu added cheerfully. “The rain attacked us. Very dangerous weather.”

Chachi sniffed. “And that man outside? He just happened to be passing?”

Gunnu’s jaw tightened. “Chachi—”

“I saw him,” Chachi cut in. “Standing there like a statue. People don’t stand like that without reason.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Outside, Vikram shifted, boots splashing softly in a shallow puddle. His gaze lifted to the windows. For a heartbeat, Garima was certain he could feel her through the glass.

Sattu leaned closer to Gunnu, whispering, “He’s still there.”

“I know,” Gunnu murmured.

Chachi followed the glance, suspicion deepening. “You see? Secrets don’t knock. They wait.”

The door rattled faintly—not a knock this time, just the wind. Vikram’s hand hovered near the frame before dropping back to his side. Whatever was on the other side of that door felt fragile. For once, force didn’t feel like the answer.

Inside, Gunnu forced herself to move, picking up a cloth and wiping an already clean surface.

“All done,” she said lightly. “Just… finishing up.”

Sattu smirked. “Ah yes. Finishing. The national hobby of people hiding things.”

Chachi huffed but stepped back. “Finish quickly. And remember—nothing stays hidden forever.”

As she walked away, the room finally exhaled.

Gunnu let her shoulders sag for a fraction of a second before lifting her chin again. She caught her reflection in the mirror—wig in place, eyes too bright, truth carefully locked away.

Outside, Vikram mounted the Duke at last. The engine ticked softly, undecided. He looked once more at the door before turning the key.

Not yet, he thought. But soon.

Inside, Garima whispered to herself, barely audible over the fading rain,

“Not yet… I can’t risk it.”

The Duke rolled away slowly, leaving behind wet streets, unanswered questions, and a silence heavy with everything neither of them was ready to say.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 6 (Storms Within)

Once inside his apartment, Vikram leaned back against the door, heart hammering. The rain tapped gently against the windowpane, but it was nothing compared to the storm tearing through him. He dragged a hand through his hair, breath uneven.

“What is happening to me?” he muttered. “Why… why can’t I stop thinking about him?”

He moved blindly to the sofa and sank down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The ride replayed itself relentlessly—the soaked jacket pressed against his back, the warmth despite the rain, the way Gunnu’s voice had cracked when he spoke his name.

And then—

That flash of gold.
The earring.

His jaw clenched. “He’s just my barber,” he said aloud. “Just… Gunnu.”

But the lie collapsed even as he formed it.

At Kaatelal House

The door closed softly behind them. For a long moment, Gunnu and Sattu stood in silence, rainwater dripping onto the floor, the weight of the night pressing down on their shoulders.

Then Gunnu exhaled—a slow, breaking breath.

With trembling hands, she pushed her hood back. Her fingers hovered at the edge of the wig, hesitating as if she were afraid of what would happen once it was gone.

Sattu watched her, expression uncharacteristically serious.

“Garima,” she said gently, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

That was enough.

Gunnu pulled the wig free.

The illusion unraveled.

She dropped it onto the counter, staring at her reflection—real hair damp and clinging to her cheeks, eyes shining with unshed emotion. No swagger. No Gunnu-mask. Just Garima, raw and exposed.

Beside her, Sattu reached up without a word and removed her own wig, setting it down carefully, almost reverently. Susheela emerged too—long hair loosened, shoulders sagging with relief and fear tangled together.

For the first time that night, they were simply two sisters, stripped of pretence.

“I can’t keep being him,” Garima whispered. “Not tonight.”

Susheela nodded. “Neither can I.”

Garima pressed a towel to her face, scrubbing away rain and tears she refused to acknowledge. “Why does he do this to me?” she murmured. “Why does my heart betray me every time he’s near?”

Susheela leaned against the counter beside her. “Because you’re human,” she said softly. “And because he’s not just ‘someone’ anymore.”

Garima laughed weakly. “That’s the problem.”

From the corridor, a familiar voice cut in.

“Hmph.”

They froze.

Chanchal Chachi stood at the doorway, eyes immediately drawn to the two wigs lying abandoned on the counter.

“Well,” she said slowly, folding her arms, “this is… enlightening.”

Garima’s heart slammed into her ribs.

Susheela stepped forward instinctively. “Chachi, it’s not—”

“I didn’t say anything,” Chachi interrupted. Her gaze flicked between their uncovered heads, sharp and thoughtful. “But I will say this—houses don’t grow wigs on their own.”

She sniffed. “Pacing. Whispering. Wigs appearing and disappearing. This house is full of storms.”

Her eyes lingered on Garima for a moment longer than necessary.

“Drama passes,” Chachi continued. “But truth? Truth always finds a door.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing like a warning.

Only when she disappeared did Garima sag against the counter.

“She knows,” Garima whispered.

Susheela shook her head slowly. “Not yet. But she’s close.”

Garima turned back to the mirror. Without the disguise, she looked smaller somehow—but also freer. The woman staring back at her wasn’t hiding anymore, at least not from herself.

“He almost saw me,” she whispered. “Not Gunnu. Me.”

Across town

Vikram sat motionless on his sofa as the rain faded into silence. He clutched a cushion to his chest, breath uneven.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” he admitted softly—and froze.

HIM.

The word echoed, terrifying and undeniable.

His laugh.
His lips.
That stubborn, defiant glare that dared him to look closer.

“What if…” he began, then shook his head. “No. I’m imagining things.”

But the thought refused to leave.

Back at Kaatelal House, Garima and Susheela sat side by side on the bed, their wigs lying forgotten on the table between them.

Garima closed her eyes. “Someone you can’t love… yet.”

Susheela squeezed her hand. “Yet,” she echoed.

Down the corridor, Chanchal Chachi muttered to herself, “One day… one day, the truth will walk out without a disguise. And I will see everything.”

The night settled uneasily.

Two sisters without masks.
One man unraveling the wrong truth.
And a storm that had passed outside—but was only beginning within.

The Morning After

The night had been long and restless.

Vikram’s room was a mess—files scattered across the floor, a half-finished cup of chai gone cold on the table. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Gunnu—his hands trembling on the handlebars, his voice breaking through the rain.

That soft, vulnerable “Vikram sir…”

He sat by the window, watching sunlight slice through the blinds.
“Sir,” he muttered bitterly. “That’s all I’ll ever be to him, huh?”

He tried to laugh it off, but it came out hollow. His chest tightened, and he pressed a hand against it, as if he could physically stop the ache.

Why do I care so much? he wondered. It’s just Gunnu. My barber. My—

He stopped mid-thought, the words tasting wrong.

“No,” he whispered. “Not just my barber.”

He pushed away from the window and began pacing. “What is wrong with me? He’s… he’s not even—”
He broke off sharply. The thought that his heart might be leaning toward someone he shouldn’t—someone he didn’t even fully understand—terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

At Kaatelal House

Garima’s morning wasn’t any calmer.

The rain had washed the streets clean, but her mind was still tangled. Now fully back in disguise, Gunnu sat behind the counter, wiping scissors that were already spotless. The wig sat firmly in place, the familiar weight both reassuring and suffocating.

Beside him, Sattu, also fully disguised again, perched on the edge of a chair, trying to balance a comb on his upper lip.

“Stop fidgeting,” Gunnu snapped.

“Stop brooding,” Sattu shot back. “You look like someone rejected your halwa.”

Gunnu glared. “If you knew what happened yesterday—”

He stopped himself.

Sattu’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?” he said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “What did happen yesterday?”

Before Gunnu could respond, Chanchal Chachi’s sharp voice sliced through the air.

“What are you two whispering about, haan? Plotting world domination with hair oil again?”

Sattu nearly dropped the comb. “N-nothing, Chachi! Just… business strategy!”

“Business strategy?” she repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Then why does Gunnu look like he’s seen a ghost?”

Gunnu scrambled. “No, no—just didn’t sleep well.”

“Hmmm,” Chachi hummed. “Or maybe you dreamt of someone?”

Sattu coughed loudly, muttering under his breath, “Oh, he didn’t just dream—he got drenched with—”

“Sattu!” Gunnu hissed sharply.

“With what?” Chachi snapped, instantly alert. “Kaun?”

Gunnu froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. The name sat dangerously on his tongue.

“N-no one!” he blurted. “Just… a stray dog. Yes. A dog followed me in the rain.”

Sattu snorted. “A very advanced dog. One that rides a Duke 390.”

Gunnu turned slowly. “You want a real beating, Sattu?”

Chachi folded her arms, unimpressed. “Hmph. Something is fishy in this house. I can smell secrets. Big ones.”

Sattu leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She’s not wrong, Gunnu. One day, you’re going to blurt everything out without even meaning to.”

Gunnu swallowed hard. He turned away, pretending to organize the counter.

“Maybe,” he muttered, barely audible, “that day is closer than I think.”

His fingers brushed the edge of the wig at his neck. Beneath it, damp strands of real hair still remembered last night—the rain, the ride, the moment he’d nearly been seen for who he truly was.

And somewhere across town, Vikram stood by his window, staring at the same morning sun, gripping his coffee mug as if it held answers.

Neither of them knew it yet.

But the storm hadn’t passed.

It had only shifted.

------

To be continued.

Chapter 7 (Cracks in Certainty)

The night after the rain refused to settle.

Vikram sat on the edge of his bed, towel hanging loose around his neck, knuckles still raw beneath hastily wrapped bandage tape. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and wet earth drifting in through the open window. Outside, the Duke rested under the streetlight, rainwater glistening on its tank like unshed thoughts.

Who are you, really, Gunnu?

The question looped in his mind, sharp and relentless.

That flash—
the strand of hair,
the glint of gold,
the way Gunnu’s voice had softened for a heartbeat before hardening again—

It didn’t fit. It didn’t fit.

Vikram clenched his jaw. He had built his life on logic—numbers, machines, contracts. Nothing slipped past him unnoticed. And yet, this barber with the sharp tongue and guarded eyes had turned his certainty inside out.

“No,” he muttered to himself. “You’re imagining things.”

But even as he said it, his fingers brushed his lips—unconsciously, guiltily.

Morning After

At Kaatelal & Sons, Gunnu worked with ruthless precision.

No hesitation.
No wandering glances.
No listening for engines.

She laughed louder than necessary, corrected Sattu sharply, kept her hands steady even when her chest wasn’t. If the disguise had cracks, she sealed them with discipline.

Sattu noticed.

“You’re not nervous today,” she said under her breath. “You’re… armored.”

Gunnu didn’t look up. “Busy.”

“No,” Sattu murmured. “Prepared.”

Gunnu’s scissors paused for half a second.

The Return

Late afternoon brought heat, dust—and inevitability.

The Duke’s growl cut through the lane like a blade.

The shop went silent.

Gunnu didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She felt him—his presence heavy, unsettled, too aware of everything.

Vikram stepped inside slowly, helmet in hand, eyes scanning the space before settling on her back.

“Busy?” he asked.

Too calm. Too controlled.

“Always,” Gunnu replied, not looking at him. “Hair doesn’t cut itself.”

A pause.

“I’ll wait.”

He sat.

Sattu raised an eyebrow at Gunnu but wisely said nothing.

Minutes stretched. Customers came and went. Vikram stayed put, silent, watching her reflection in the mirror—watching the way her shoulders tensed, the way she avoided meeting his gaze.

Finally, when the shop emptied, he spoke again.

“You didn’t answer me.”

Gunnu’s fingers tightened around the comb. “I didn’t hear a question.”

Vikram stood. He was close now. Too close.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t pretend nothing happened.”

Gunnu turned, jaw set. “What do you want, Vikram sir?”

The use of his name—bare, unguarded—hit harder than any accusation.

“I want to know why every time I think I understand you,” he said, voice low, “something slips. A look. A detail. A moment.”

He gestured vaguely, frustrated. “You feel… real. And unreal at the same time.”

Gunnu swallowed.

“You’re overthinking,” she said, forcing a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Occupational hazard. Too many mirrors around here.”

He studied her—really studied her.

“Mirrors show the truth,” he said. “Even when we don’t want them to.”

Silence pressed between them.

From the back, Sattu cleared her throat loudly. “I’m going to… inventory the towels. Very important towels.”

She disappeared.

Fault Lines

Vikram took a step closer. “Tell me one thing, Gunnu. Just one.”

Her pulse thundered.

“If I ask you to trust me—would you?”

The question landed softer than she expected. No challenge. No accusation. Just… vulnerability.

Gunnu looked away.

“That’s a dangerous question,” she said.

“So is avoiding it.”

She laughed quietly, bitter. “You like danger too much for your own good.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I’m just tired of running from things that matter.”

That word—matter—made her chest ache.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” she whispered.

Vikram’s voice dropped. “Then help me understand.”

For one reckless second, she almost did.

Almost told him everything.

Instead, she stepped back, creating space where there had been none.

“Get your haircut,” she said softly. “Or go. But don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”

Vikram searched her face—hurt flickering, then resolve.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t think this is over.”

He sat in the chair.

Gunnu draped the cape around him with practiced hands that trembled just enough to betray her.

As the scissors began to move, Vikram closed his eyes.

And in the mirror between them, two reflections stared back—
both hiding truths,
both standing on the edge of something neither was ready to name.

The crack had formed.

And it was only going to widen.

Gravity

Vikram told himself it was just habit.

The extra pauses outside Kaatelal & Sons.
The way his eyes searched for Gunnu before anything else.
The faint calm that settled in his chest when Gunnu snapped back at him, unimpressed and unafraid.

Habit.

But habits didn’t make his pulse spike when Gunnu leaned too close.
They didn’t make him replay a voice at night—low, steady, saying Vikram sir like it meant something else entirely.

By the third day, denial was no longer working.

He found himself smiling at nothing, irritation softening into something dangerously warm whenever Gunnu was around. The way Gunnu moved—precise, controlled, hiding something behind sharp edges—pulled him in with a force Vikram didn’t know how to fight.

One evening, alone in his apartment, he said it out loud for the first time.

“I think… I’m falling for him.”

The words echoed, foreign and terrifying.

His chest tightened immediately.

“No,” he said sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not possible.”

He paced the room, dragging a hand through his hair. He had dated women. Been attracted to women. Wanted women.

So why did this feel different?

Why did the thought of Gunnu—his eyes, his restraint, the way he never begged for attention—make Vikram feel exposed?

A darker thought crept in, quiet but persistent.

What if this means something else?

The word formed slowly, reluctantly.

Gay.

The moment it settled, panic followed.

The Decision

Vikram didn’t tell anyone.

He told himself this was confusion. A phase. Stress. Something chemical—something that could be fixed.

That was how he found himself sitting in a clinic two days later, hands clasped tightly in his lap, staring at a framed anatomy chart he wasn’t really seeing.

The doctor—a calm man in his late forties—looked up from his notes.
“So,” he said gently, “what seems to be the concern?”

Vikram swallowed. “I… I think something is wrong with me.”

The doctor waited.

“I’m… drawn to someone I shouldn’t be,” Vikram continued, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s affecting my focus. My sleep.”

The doctor nodded slowly. “And why do you think that’s a problem?”

Vikram hesitated. Then, in a rush, “Because he’s a man.”

Silence.

The doctor leaned back slightly, studying Vikram—not critically, but carefully.

“And you believe that attraction itself is the illness?” he asked.

Vikram frowned. “Isn’t it?”

The doctor sighed, not impatiently—sadly.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Vikram stiffened. “But there must be something you can give me. Medication. Something to stop… these thoughts.”

The doctor shook his head firmly. “There is no medicine for attraction. And there shouldn’t be.”

Vikram’s voice sharpened. “You don’t understand. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit my life.”

“Discomfort doesn’t mean disease,” the doctor replied calmly. “And attraction doesn’t erase who you were before. It only expands the truth.”

Vikram stood abruptly. “So you’re saying I should just… accept this?”

“I’m saying you should stop trying to punish yourself for feeling,” the doctor said. “What you’re experiencing isn’t something to cure. It’s something to understand.”

Vikram left without replying.

Aftermath

The sun felt too bright when he stepped outside.

He sat on his bike for a long time, staring at his hands.

There’s nothing wrong with you.

The doctor’s words echoed—but instead of relief, they left Vikram raw.

If this wasn’t something to fix…
then what did that make him?

His phone buzzed.

A message notification.

From the salon group chat.

Sattu:

Gunnu’s in a bad mood today.
Pray for customers. And for me.

Vikram smiled before he could stop himself.

Then froze.

The realization hit him slowly, unmistakably.

This wasn’t confusion anymore.

This was affection.
This was longing.
This was fear wearing denial like armor.

“I’m not sick,” he whispered to himself.

The truth followed, heavy and undeniable.

“I’m falling for him.”

And somewhere across town, unaware of the storm he was causing, Gunnu snapped at a customer, adjusted his cape, and felt—without knowing why—that Vikram was closer than ever.

Weight of Silence

Garima knew something had changed.

She felt it in the way Vikram lingered longer than necessary at the doorway, in the way his gaze followed her even when he pretended to be distracted by his phone. She felt it in the silences—thick, charged, heavy with words he didn’t say and truths she didn’t dare offer.

That evening, after the shutters were pulled down and the shop emptied, Garima sat alone on the barber’s chair, still dressed as Gunnu. The mirror in front of her reflected the disguise perfectly—the sharp jawline created by contour, the short hair tucked under the wig, the posture she had trained herself into.

Convincing.

Too convincing.

She stared at her reflection until it blurred.
This is my fault, she thought.

Vikram’s confusion, his restlessness, the way he seemed to be fighting himself—it all traced back to her silence. To the lie she wore every morning like armor.

“He thinks he’s wrong,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Because of me.”

The realization sat like a stone in her chest.

A Sister’s Truth

Susheela appeared quietly, already halfway out of her own Sattu disguise. She didn’t joke this time. Didn’t tease.

“You’re blaming yourself again,” she said softly.

Garima didn’t deny it. She pulled the wig off slowly, setting it on the counter. Her real hair fell loose, damp with sweat and emotion.

“He went to a doctor,” Garima said suddenly.

Susheela froze. “What?”

“I don’t know how I know,” Garima continued, staring at the floor. “But I can feel it. He’s trying to fix himself. He thinks what he’s feeling is… wrong.”

Susheela’s jaw tightened. “And you think that’s because of you.”

Garima laughed weakly. “Isn’t it? I let him believe he’s falling for a man. I watch him struggle. And I say nothing.”

She pressed her palms together, breathing unevenly. “Every day I tell myself I’m protecting him. But what if I’m just protecting myself?”

Susheela crossed the room and sat beside her. “Garima… you never meant for this to happen.”

“I know,” Garima said. “But it has happened. And now he’s hurting.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if he hates himself because of me?”

That thought shattered something inside her.

The Almost-Truth

The next day, Vikram came again.

He didn’t say why. He never did anymore.

Garima—back in Gunnu’s skin—worked on another customer, aware of Vikram standing just behind her. Too close. Too quiet.

“Gunnu,” he said suddenly.

Her hands stilled.

“Yes, Vikram sir?”

He hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Have you ever… felt something that scared you? Something that made you question who you are?”

Her throat tightened.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Every day.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. For a heartbeat, the shop disappeared.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “I just want to understand myself.”

The guilt became unbearable.

She almost told him.

The truth rose to her lips—I’m not who you think I am. You’re not wrong. I’m the one lying.

Instead, she looked away.

“You don’t have to understand everything at once,” she said, the words tasting like betrayal. “Some truths… come when they’re ready.”

Vikram nodded slowly, accepting the half-answer like a man too tired to fight anymore.

But as he turned away, something in Garima cracked.

Night Confession

That night, alone in her room, Garima pressed her forehead to the mirror.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered—to Vikram, to herself, to the mess she had created. “I never wanted to trap you in my silence.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, unchecked.

She imagined telling him—imagined his shock, his anger, his relief. Imagined him realizing he wasn’t broken. That nothing about his feelings needed curing.

But fear still held her back.

Fear of losing him.
Fear of hurting him more.
Fear of what would come after the truth.

Outside, somewhere in the same city, Vikram lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Gunnu and wondering why loving someone felt like punishment.

And between them stood a single truth—
waiting, heavy and inevitable.

The longer it stayed unspoken,
the deeper the wound it carved.

------

To be continued.

An almost slip. He is not sure but he suspects that something is up. He will be on watch now.

Sattu wants the secret to spill out? Definitely does not help with keeping it under wraps.

He did think of the possibility that he leaned in a different direction. How will he understand this?

She is feeling so guilty for his confusion. What keeps her from disclosing the truth? Why is it not the time?