Main Hoon. Na -

But he had split it. He had turned the question into a promise.

She froze. Not because the words were unfamiliar—they were her mother tongue, Hindi, the language of her childhood—but because of how he said them. Not as a statement. As an anchor.

“You’re right. I can’t know your creature. But I know mine.” He finally moved, sitting down cross-legged on the damp concrete, still keeping distance. “Mine tells me I’m invisible. That no one would notice if I stopped showing up. That every smile I give is just a performance.” main hoon. na

The rain had stopped three hours ago, but the world still smelled of wet earth and rust. Arjun leaned against the crumbling wall of the abandoned bus shelter, his reflection a ghost in the puddle at his feet. The last bus had left at midnight. It was now 2:17 a.m.

“What if I can’t?” she whispered.

She turned fully now, eyes red and swollen. “You never said.”

“Neither did you. Until tonight.”

And that, for tonight, was a kind of miracle.