Kavya Sharma

The morning light filtered through floral curtains, casting soft golden patches on the floor of the Sharma household. The hum of the city had already begun outside, but inside, the house was alive in its own familiar rhythm—plates clinking, the whistle of the pressure cooker, little feet pattering toward the bedroom.

“kiki bui  Get up, na!” came a tiny voice, climbing onto the bed and snuggling beside her.

Kavya smiled without opening her eyes. “Pari baby, five more minutes…”

But Pari wasn’t one to negotiate. Her small hands tugged at Kavya’s braid until the 27-year-old designer groaned in surrender and sat up, ruffling Pari’s curls with exaggerated affection.

“Okay, okay, you win! But only if you give me a kiss first.”

The giggles that followed filled the room with sunshine.

Kavya Sharma was a burst of energy in every room she walked into. With her bubbly laugh, expressive eyes, and a wardrobe full of pastels and optimism, she had the rare ability to brighten up even the dullest of spaces. She cried during ads, laughed in the middle of serious conversations, and talked to plants like they were people. And somehow, she made it all seem completely natural.

The Sharma household mirrored her warmth. Her father, Mr. Sharma, sat with his glasses low on his nose, sipping chai while reading the newspaper aloud as if it were breaking news even when it wasn’t. Her mother, Mrs. Sharma, moved in and out of the kitchen, fussing about breakfast, repeating everyone's names in a loop like a song with too many verses.

Kavya took her seat at the round dining table, her chai already poured, just as she liked it—ginger, not too sweet.

“Your kurti is wrinkled,” her mother said, eyeing her without looking up from the bowl of upma.

“It’s called linen, Maa. It’s supposed to be wrinkled,” Kavya teased, lifting Pari into her lap as the little one munched her toast.

Across the table, her elder brother Karan Sharma and his wife Naina entered, already bickering about who forgot to restock the milk. It was the kind of domestic noise Kavya loved. She didn’t mind the lack of silence—it reminded her that she belonged somewhere.

Pari drew something on a scrap of paper—two stick figures holding hands with flowers in the background. “It’s you and your prince, Bui!”

The entire table laughed.

“If only your Bui could find someone who can match her drama,” Karan said, grinning as he reached for his paratha.

“She doesn’t need a prince,” Naina replied gently. “She needs someone who understands her. That’s rare enough.”

Kavya smiled but didn’t reply. That comment hit too close to home.

Her world was full of feelings. Of looking too deeply, of noticing too much. People often found her exhausting in a world that preferred cool detachment. She wasn’t built for half-hearted love or casual connections.

Still, she filled her days with light. She hummed while she worked, made spontaneous plans for roadside chai, left handwritten notes for her coworkers, and rescued stray kittens without thinking twice.

And yet, every time she opened her sketchbook, drew out a space meant to feel like home for someone else—she hoped, quietly, that she’d find someone who saw the world the way she did.

---

Vivaan Mehra

Six blocks away, in a world where noise was unwelcome and feelings were filed away like dusty records, Vivaan Mehra woke to the sharp buzz of his alarm.

He sat up without stretching, his movements mechanical. The suit was already ironed. His black coffee was already waiting. His schedule is already mapped.

Vivaan didn’t live in a home. He lived in a space.

Clean. Quiet. Predictable.

He buttoned his cufflinks, checking the time. 6:42 AM. Slightly behind. He hated being behind.

Downstairs, his mother Ragini Mehra waited with a breakfast tray he never touched.

“You’ll fall sick someday, Vivaan,” she said, placing it gently beside his laptop.

“I’m fine,” he muttered without looking up.

She didn’t push. She rarely did. Not with him.

His younger brother Aarush waltzed in fifteen minutes later, hair messy, T-shirt too loud for the monochrome kitchen.

“Bhai, I need the car tonight. Taking friends to Juhu.”

Vivaan barely looked up. “Take the other one.”

“And will you be joining us for Ishita’s dance rehearsal?” Ragini asked, hopeful.

Vivaan exhaled. “I have meetings.”

“You always have meetings.”

His silence was answer enough.

Ishita, the youngest, popped her head around the doorframe as if summoned. At 20, she was the only one in the house who dared to call him “Bhai with a heart of ice.”

“Skip one meeting, no one will die,” she said casually. “Except your social life. Which is already six feet under.”

Vivaan didn’t smile. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood, adjusted his collar, and left.

Work was safer. Colder. It didn’t ask questions about how he felt or why his eyes hadn’t sparkled in years.

After his father passed away when he was just twenty, something in him hardened permanently. He didn't have the luxury to feel anymore. There were contracts to sign, deals to chase, a legacy to uphold.

He built buildings, not dreams.

---

Same City. Different Skies.

By noon, Kavya was reviewing client files at her desk at the design studio. Her senior had just informed her about a new luxury residential project under Mehra Group.

“It’s a big one,” her boss said. “And you’re going to the first meeting tomorrow. Be sharp. The owner’s known to be... intense.”

She nodded, suppressing nerves. And then immediately decorated her planner with a small doodle of a grumpy face in a tie, labeling it: Mr. Serious.

That evening, she helped Pari build a dollhouse out of cardboard and glitter. She hummed old songs while her mother braided her hair. Her heart remained full, even when her day was tiring.

That same evening, Vivaan was on a late call with an international partner, voice cold, tone precise, eyes tired.

Downstairs, his mother watched him from afar, whispering to herself like a quiet prayer, “He’s forgotten how to live.”

In one part of the city, a girl was designing dream homes with her heart in her hands. In another, a man was selling skyscrapers with ice in his veins.

And the universe—quiet, patient—was about to bring them face-to-face.

Tomorrow.