29-06-2026, 04:18 PM
(This post was last modified: 29-06-2026, 04:48 PM by rehanalina. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter: Loud Nights
Alina and Armaan’s relationship was never warm, but it wasn’t hateful either. It was a quiet, awkward dislike — the kind that builds slowly through small irritations and uncomfortable moments. They were civil when they met, but there was always a slight distance between them.
Armaan was twenty, extremely rich, and lived alone because his parents were abroad. He often had friends over, and because of that, small tensions kept arising between him and Alina.
The first real friction started with the music.
It happened on a Friday night. Rehan was in Bangalore, so Alina was alone. The music had been going for forty minutes. Not background music, not even party music she could have reasoned with — but the kind of bass that found its way through walls and into your chest and sat there. Rehan was in Bangalore. She had a client call at eight. She had tried a pillow over her head, which solved nothing, and then she had tried lying very still and being furious about it, which also solved nothing.
At one-twenty she got up, crossed the corridor, and rang the bell.
Armaan opened the door after the second ring. He was in a half-unbuttoned shirt and the expression of someone who had forgotten the world outside his flat existed.
When he saw her, something crossed his face — not quite guilt, but adjacent to it.
"Alina didi," he said. "Hi. Everything okay?"
She looked at him. Behind him the music was doing things to the air.
"The music," she said. "It's very loud. I have an early morning."
"Sorry, didi. I didn't realize." He turned immediately. "I'll lower it. Sorry."
He did — quickly, without argument, which she had not expected and so filed away. The bass dropped to a murmur. He turned back to her.
"Better?"
"Yes," she said. "Thank you."
She went back to her flat. Slept. The call went fine.
The next morning he was at the elevator when she came out, and he gave her a small, direct smile. Not the performance she'd been bracing for. Just — acknowledgment.
"Sorry about last night," he said.
"It's fine," she said, and meant it, and got into the elevator.
Fine, she thought on the way down. He can be fine. Fine is manageable.
A week later, they had a slightly friendlier moment.
Alina was struggling with two heavy grocery bags near the lift. Armaan happened to come out of his flat at the same time. Without being asked, he walked over and took one bag from her hand.
“Let me help, didi,” he said with a small smile.
Alina was surprised but nodded. “Thank you.”
They walked together till her door. Armaan didn’t try to make much conversation, but he was polite. When she thanked him again at her door, he simply nodded and went back to his flat.
For a brief moment, Alina thought maybe he wasn’t so bad.
But that small goodwill didn’t last long.
A few days later, Alina was returning home in the evening when she saw Armaan and two of his friends standing near the stairs, talking loudly and blocking the way. She waited for a few seconds, but they didn’t move. Finally, she said in a slightly sharp voice,
“Excuse me.”
Armaan turned, saw her, and quickly moved aside. One of his friends laughed and said something in a low voice. Armaan didn’t reply to his friend, but he also didn’t apologize to Alina. He just gave her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Alina walked past them without saying anything, but she felt irritated. She didn’t like how comfortable he was becoming in the building.
She'd done the Saturday morning run — Big Basket had failed her twice that week and she'd run out of patience with technology — and was coming back from Shreeji with two cloth bags that had, in her optimism, been packed for a person with longer arms. Her fingers were white by the second floor.
Armaan came out of 4B as she stepped off the elevator.
He saw the bags. He didn't make a production of it — didn't ask, didn't announce himself, just walked over and lifted one from her hand with the efficiency of someone who'd decided this was happening.
"Let me help," he said. She didn't argue. Arguing would have required putting both bags down first.
They walked to her door. He didn't try to fill the silence with conversation, which she noted. He was quieter than he usually was around her — not nervous, just — present. Like he'd decided that carrying the bag was the whole point and he wasn't going to ruin it by talking around it.
At her door, she took the bag from him.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded. Went back to his flat.
She stood in her kitchen unpacking dal and tomatoes and a packet of jeera she didn't need but had bought because it was on sale, and thought: okay. He can carry things. That doesn't mean anything. People carry things.
It didn't mean anything. She put the jeera in the cabinet with the other jeera.
—————————————————————————-
The second time, it was two-thirty in the morning and the music was louder and she could hear girls laughing and she lay in her bed for twenty minutes longer than she had the first time, telling herself she was above this, she was an adult, she was going back to sleep.
She was not going back to sleep. She crossed the corridor again. This time she had not thought about the nightie again, She was wearing her light blue cotton nightie and didn’t bother with a robe, just put on her veil loose around her head.
Armaan opened the door and he was, she noticed immediately, slightly drunk. Not unsteady. Just — slower. Eyes a degree warmer than usual.
"Alina didi," he said. "Again?"
The again landed differently than it should have. Not rude, exactly. More like — surprised. That she kept showing up. That she kept being real.
"Yes, again," she said. "It's two-thirty. Please."
From somewhere inside, one of his friends called out — yaar, kaun hai?
Armaan half-turned and said something back that she didn't catch fully, something casual and dismissive, the way you'd speak about something you were handling. She heard the word Hitler land clearly in the air before he had turned back around.
She was already facing away.
She walked back to her flat without showing him her face, which was doing something she didn't want observed. Not tears — she was not a person who cried over a twenty-year-old's opinion of her in a corridor at two-thirty in the morning. Something tighter than that.
She locked her door. Stood with her back against it.
Hitler, she thought. Because I asked twice for eight hours of sleep.
She went to bed. Stared at the ceiling for longer than she'd have liked to admit.
The next night, over dinner, she told Rehan about the stairwell.
He listened the way he listened — with his full attention, which she had always liked about him, the way he didn't pretend to hear while doing something else.
"You shouldn't be so friendly with him," she said.
Rehan looked up. "With Armaan?"
"He's becoming too comfortable in this building. The balcony, the corridor, his friends blocking stairwells. He does whatever he wants because no one's telling him he can't." She set her fork down. "His parents are abroad. There's no one to — "
"He's not a child."
"He called me Hitler."
"He also carried your groceries."
She looked at her husband. He was eating with the careful neutrality of a man who had an opinion he wasn't ready to offer.
"You're defending him," she said.
A few days after that, something happened that made Alina deeply uncomfortable.
It was around 10:30 at night. Rehan was sitting on the balcony smoking. Armaan and two of his friends were also smoking on their side. After some time, Armaan casually jumped over the low partition between the two balconies and sat with Rehan.
Alina was in the living room at that time, wearing just a loose lounge shirt. Open hair cascading across her shoulders and the lounge shirt though loose was made of silk that clung to her bodies shape and barely covered her thighs, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath except her panties. She had no veil on. She was busy dusting — wiping the shelves, the TV unit, and the coffee table. As she moved around, bending and reaching, her breasts shifted naturally under the thin fabric.
She had no idea Armaan had jumped over.
For several minutes, Armaan sat on their balcony, talking to Rehan while his eyes kept drifting inside. He had a clear view of Alina moving around in just the lounge shirt — her bare legs completely visible, and the way her breasts moved as she dusted.
Alina remained completely unaware at first. Only when she turned toward the balcony while dusting did she notice Armaan sitting there. Their eyes met for a brief second. She followed his gaze and realized exactly where he had been looking.
Her face burned with shame.
She abruptly dropped the duster, turned around, and quickly walked into the bedroom without saying a word. She didn’t come out at all after that — not even when Rehan called her. She stayed inside until she was sure Armaan had gone back to his flat.
Later, when she finally came out, she had changed into track pants and wore the lounge shirt with a veil loosely on her head.
The next morning, while Rehan was having tea, Alina spoke in a low but firm voice.
“You shouldn’t be so friendly with him.”
Rehan looked up. “With Armaan?”
“Yes,” Alina said. “He jumps over to our balcony like it’s nothing. Last night he was sitting right here while I was dusting in just a lounge shirt. No veil. He was staring. I felt exposed.”
Rehan shrugged. “He’s just a kid. Maybe he didn’t even notice.”
Alina’s voice became sharper. “He did notice. And you shouldn’t encourage that spoilt brat. His parents are abroad, so he does whatever he wants — loud music, girls over, jumping between balconies. I don’t like it, Rehan.”
Rehan didn’t argue. He just nodded and went back to his phone.
But something had shifted.
Their relationship remained one of dislike — not strong hate, but a clear, growing discomfort on Alina’s side, and something more complicated on Armaan’s.
Alina and Armaan’s relationship was never warm, but it wasn’t hateful either. It was a quiet, awkward dislike — the kind that builds slowly through small irritations and uncomfortable moments. They were civil when they met, but there was always a slight distance between them.
Armaan was twenty, extremely rich, and lived alone because his parents were abroad. He often had friends over, and because of that, small tensions kept arising between him and Alina.
The first real friction started with the music.
It happened on a Friday night. Rehan was in Bangalore, so Alina was alone. The music had been going for forty minutes. Not background music, not even party music she could have reasoned with — but the kind of bass that found its way through walls and into your chest and sat there. Rehan was in Bangalore. She had a client call at eight. She had tried a pillow over her head, which solved nothing, and then she had tried lying very still and being furious about it, which also solved nothing.
At one-twenty she got up, crossed the corridor, and rang the bell.
Armaan opened the door after the second ring. He was in a half-unbuttoned shirt and the expression of someone who had forgotten the world outside his flat existed.
When he saw her, something crossed his face — not quite guilt, but adjacent to it.
"Alina didi," he said. "Hi. Everything okay?"
She looked at him. Behind him the music was doing things to the air.
"The music," she said. "It's very loud. I have an early morning."
"Sorry, didi. I didn't realize." He turned immediately. "I'll lower it. Sorry."
He did — quickly, without argument, which she had not expected and so filed away. The bass dropped to a murmur. He turned back to her.
"Better?"
"Yes," she said. "Thank you."
She went back to her flat. Slept. The call went fine.
The next morning he was at the elevator when she came out, and he gave her a small, direct smile. Not the performance she'd been bracing for. Just — acknowledgment.
"Sorry about last night," he said.
"It's fine," she said, and meant it, and got into the elevator.
Fine, she thought on the way down. He can be fine. Fine is manageable.
A week later, they had a slightly friendlier moment.
Alina was struggling with two heavy grocery bags near the lift. Armaan happened to come out of his flat at the same time. Without being asked, he walked over and took one bag from her hand.
“Let me help, didi,” he said with a small smile.
Alina was surprised but nodded. “Thank you.”
They walked together till her door. Armaan didn’t try to make much conversation, but he was polite. When she thanked him again at her door, he simply nodded and went back to his flat.
For a brief moment, Alina thought maybe he wasn’t so bad.
But that small goodwill didn’t last long.
A few days later, Alina was returning home in the evening when she saw Armaan and two of his friends standing near the stairs, talking loudly and blocking the way. She waited for a few seconds, but they didn’t move. Finally, she said in a slightly sharp voice,
“Excuse me.”
Armaan turned, saw her, and quickly moved aside. One of his friends laughed and said something in a low voice. Armaan didn’t reply to his friend, but he also didn’t apologize to Alina. He just gave her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Alina walked past them without saying anything, but she felt irritated. She didn’t like how comfortable he was becoming in the building.
She'd done the Saturday morning run — Big Basket had failed her twice that week and she'd run out of patience with technology — and was coming back from Shreeji with two cloth bags that had, in her optimism, been packed for a person with longer arms. Her fingers were white by the second floor.
Armaan came out of 4B as she stepped off the elevator.
He saw the bags. He didn't make a production of it — didn't ask, didn't announce himself, just walked over and lifted one from her hand with the efficiency of someone who'd decided this was happening.
"Let me help," he said. She didn't argue. Arguing would have required putting both bags down first.
They walked to her door. He didn't try to fill the silence with conversation, which she noted. He was quieter than he usually was around her — not nervous, just — present. Like he'd decided that carrying the bag was the whole point and he wasn't going to ruin it by talking around it.
At her door, she took the bag from him.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded. Went back to his flat.
She stood in her kitchen unpacking dal and tomatoes and a packet of jeera she didn't need but had bought because it was on sale, and thought: okay. He can carry things. That doesn't mean anything. People carry things.
It didn't mean anything. She put the jeera in the cabinet with the other jeera.
—————————————————————————-
The second time, it was two-thirty in the morning and the music was louder and she could hear girls laughing and she lay in her bed for twenty minutes longer than she had the first time, telling herself she was above this, she was an adult, she was going back to sleep.
She was not going back to sleep. She crossed the corridor again. This time she had not thought about the nightie again, She was wearing her light blue cotton nightie and didn’t bother with a robe, just put on her veil loose around her head.
Armaan opened the door and he was, she noticed immediately, slightly drunk. Not unsteady. Just — slower. Eyes a degree warmer than usual.
"Alina didi," he said. "Again?"
The again landed differently than it should have. Not rude, exactly. More like — surprised. That she kept showing up. That she kept being real.
"Yes, again," she said. "It's two-thirty. Please."
From somewhere inside, one of his friends called out — yaar, kaun hai?
Armaan half-turned and said something back that she didn't catch fully, something casual and dismissive, the way you'd speak about something you were handling. She heard the word Hitler land clearly in the air before he had turned back around.
She was already facing away.
She walked back to her flat without showing him her face, which was doing something she didn't want observed. Not tears — she was not a person who cried over a twenty-year-old's opinion of her in a corridor at two-thirty in the morning. Something tighter than that.
She locked her door. Stood with her back against it.
Hitler, she thought. Because I asked twice for eight hours of sleep.
She went to bed. Stared at the ceiling for longer than she'd have liked to admit.
The next night, over dinner, she told Rehan about the stairwell.
He listened the way he listened — with his full attention, which she had always liked about him, the way he didn't pretend to hear while doing something else.
"You shouldn't be so friendly with him," she said.
Rehan looked up. "With Armaan?"
"He's becoming too comfortable in this building. The balcony, the corridor, his friends blocking stairwells. He does whatever he wants because no one's telling him he can't." She set her fork down. "His parents are abroad. There's no one to — "
"He's not a child."
"He called me Hitler."
"He also carried your groceries."
She looked at her husband. He was eating with the careful neutrality of a man who had an opinion he wasn't ready to offer.
"You're defending him," she said.
A few days after that, something happened that made Alina deeply uncomfortable.
It was around 10:30 at night. Rehan was sitting on the balcony smoking. Armaan and two of his friends were also smoking on their side. After some time, Armaan casually jumped over the low partition between the two balconies and sat with Rehan.
Alina was in the living room at that time, wearing just a loose lounge shirt. Open hair cascading across her shoulders and the lounge shirt though loose was made of silk that clung to her bodies shape and barely covered her thighs, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath except her panties. She had no veil on. She was busy dusting — wiping the shelves, the TV unit, and the coffee table. As she moved around, bending and reaching, her breasts shifted naturally under the thin fabric.
She had no idea Armaan had jumped over.
For several minutes, Armaan sat on their balcony, talking to Rehan while his eyes kept drifting inside. He had a clear view of Alina moving around in just the lounge shirt — her bare legs completely visible, and the way her breasts moved as she dusted.
Alina remained completely unaware at first. Only when she turned toward the balcony while dusting did she notice Armaan sitting there. Their eyes met for a brief second. She followed his gaze and realized exactly where he had been looking.
Her face burned with shame.
She abruptly dropped the duster, turned around, and quickly walked into the bedroom without saying a word. She didn’t come out at all after that — not even when Rehan called her. She stayed inside until she was sure Armaan had gone back to his flat.
Later, when she finally came out, she had changed into track pants and wore the lounge shirt with a veil loosely on her head.
The next morning, while Rehan was having tea, Alina spoke in a low but firm voice.
“You shouldn’t be so friendly with him.”
Rehan looked up. “With Armaan?”
“Yes,” Alina said. “He jumps over to our balcony like it’s nothing. Last night he was sitting right here while I was dusting in just a lounge shirt. No veil. He was staring. I felt exposed.”
Rehan shrugged. “He’s just a kid. Maybe he didn’t even notice.”
Alina’s voice became sharper. “He did notice. And you shouldn’t encourage that spoilt brat. His parents are abroad, so he does whatever he wants — loud music, girls over, jumping between balconies. I don’t like it, Rehan.”
Rehan didn’t argue. He just nodded and went back to his phone.
But something had shifted.
Their relationship remained one of dislike — not strong hate, but a clear, growing discomfort on Alina’s side, and something more complicated on Armaan’s.
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