11-06-2025, 01:01 PM
The days passed quietly. Hyderabad's June heat began to mellow with the first signs of monsoon. Abhi was slowly adjusting to adult life—coding during the day at a mid-sized IT company in Madhapur, figuring out groceries, late-night laundry, and making his own coffee just right.
He was sharp for his age— 6 feet tall, with an easy smile and a voice that people tended to listen to. Not overly muscular, but lean and well-kept. He wasn't trying to impress anyone… but he often did without knowing.
He also had a roommate—Karthik, 23, extroverted and carefree, the kind who’d wear cologne to bed just in case. They shared jokes, food, and midnight walks to the nearby pan shop for chai and smokes. He travels a lot, so mostly his room kept locked.
Madhavi would appear every few days—watering plants in her balcony, walking down in a simple kurti to collect parcels, or pausing for a few words near the elevator.
Each time, there was nothing overt. But Abhi noticed the details—her eyes lingering just a second too long, the way her voice softened when speaking to him, how her saree would sometimes slide off the shoulder before she gently adjusted it, giving him a wonderful view he could never take his eyes off.
Once, as she carried a small carton of milk and groceries up the stairs, Abhi offered to help.
“You don’t have to,” she said, but didn’t object when he took the bag.
“I don’t mind.”
She smiled, letting him walk with her. Their hands brushed once as he passed the bag back. That was it. But that single touch stayed with him for hours.
One Saturday, Abhi visited his family on the outskirts. The house was full of laughter and relatives. One of his distant cousins had also come along—Shravya, 20, a college student from Vijayawada, staying for a few weeks while attending coaching nearby. Friendly, bubbly, full of youth and maybe just a bit too playful.
She hugged him from the side and said, “You look different now, Abhi anna. Grown-up, but still the same moody eyes.”
He chuckled. “You're still talking too much.”
She stuck her tongue out, but her smile lingered longer than it should have. He didn’t think much of it—yet.
Back in the apartment, a new tenant had moved into the floor above—a divorced woman named Sahana, 30, who taught classical dance. She was rarely seen during the day, but in the evenings, Abhi could sometimes hear soft music and rhythmic beats coming from her flat.
Once, they bumped into each other near the staircase. She was drenched slightly from the rain, holding a shawl around her shoulders. She gave him a graceful nod.
“Hi, you must be from 203?”
“Yes, I’m Abhiram.”
“I’m Sahana. 303. Let me know if my music’s ever too loud.”
“Not at all,” he smiled. “Actually... I kind of like it.”
Her eyebrow raised slightly. “Good to know.”
By the end of the week, Abhi sat on his bed, earphones in, scrolling through his phone. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window. He wasn’t chasing anything… but doors were opening around him. Some innocent. Some charged. Some quietly dangerous.
He didn’t know yet where it would lead.
But he could feel it: life was about to become very, very complicated.
----
He was sharp for his age— 6 feet tall, with an easy smile and a voice that people tended to listen to. Not overly muscular, but lean and well-kept. He wasn't trying to impress anyone… but he often did without knowing.
He also had a roommate—Karthik, 23, extroverted and carefree, the kind who’d wear cologne to bed just in case. They shared jokes, food, and midnight walks to the nearby pan shop for chai and smokes. He travels a lot, so mostly his room kept locked.
Madhavi would appear every few days—watering plants in her balcony, walking down in a simple kurti to collect parcels, or pausing for a few words near the elevator.
Each time, there was nothing overt. But Abhi noticed the details—her eyes lingering just a second too long, the way her voice softened when speaking to him, how her saree would sometimes slide off the shoulder before she gently adjusted it, giving him a wonderful view he could never take his eyes off.
Once, as she carried a small carton of milk and groceries up the stairs, Abhi offered to help.
“You don’t have to,” she said, but didn’t object when he took the bag.
“I don’t mind.”
She smiled, letting him walk with her. Their hands brushed once as he passed the bag back. That was it. But that single touch stayed with him for hours.
One Saturday, Abhi visited his family on the outskirts. The house was full of laughter and relatives. One of his distant cousins had also come along—Shravya, 20, a college student from Vijayawada, staying for a few weeks while attending coaching nearby. Friendly, bubbly, full of youth and maybe just a bit too playful.
She hugged him from the side and said, “You look different now, Abhi anna. Grown-up, but still the same moody eyes.”
He chuckled. “You're still talking too much.”
She stuck her tongue out, but her smile lingered longer than it should have. He didn’t think much of it—yet.
Back in the apartment, a new tenant had moved into the floor above—a divorced woman named Sahana, 30, who taught classical dance. She was rarely seen during the day, but in the evenings, Abhi could sometimes hear soft music and rhythmic beats coming from her flat.
Once, they bumped into each other near the staircase. She was drenched slightly from the rain, holding a shawl around her shoulders. She gave him a graceful nod.
“Hi, you must be from 203?”
“Yes, I’m Abhiram.”
“I’m Sahana. 303. Let me know if my music’s ever too loud.”
“Not at all,” he smiled. “Actually... I kind of like it.”
Her eyebrow raised slightly. “Good to know.”
By the end of the week, Abhi sat on his bed, earphones in, scrolling through his phone. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window. He wasn’t chasing anything… but doors were opening around him. Some innocent. Some charged. Some quietly dangerous.
He didn’t know yet where it would lead.
But he could feel it: life was about to become very, very complicated.
----
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