The roar of the metro above was as constant as the city itself. Aarvi Kapoor stood on the edge of the platform at Rajiv Chowk, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes cast downward. Her headphones rested over her ears, but no music played. She liked the barrier they gave her—an invisible shield between her and the chaos that was Delhi.
The crowd moved around her like waves, pressing in, breathing too close. She didn't hate people. She just couldn't stand the noise—the noise beneath the noise, the invisible weight of all those lives crammed together.
Her skin tingled, a faint static that made her pull her sleeves down further over her arms. It was subtle, but persistent. She tried to ignore it.
A man beside her laughed loudly into his phone, bragging about a lie he'd told at work. "She totally bought it! I said I was working overtime—spent the whole day watching the match!"
The moment the words left his mouth, a sharp sting jumped along her forearm.
She flinched.
Her breath caught.
She glanced at him. He looked normal—smiling, carefree. But her skin disagreed. A lie. That's what it had felt like. Not heard. Not understood. Felt.
She looked away.
The train screeched open, and Aarvi was swept inside with the others. As she gripped the overhead rail, her hand brushed against someone's. Just a fleeting touch. But it sent a jolt through her, like electricity skittering up her arm.
She looked up and caught a glimpse of him at the far end of the car.
Tall.
Still.
A camera slung over his shoulder.
He wasn't looking at her—no, it was deeper than that. His eyes seemed to see into her.
Her chest tightened. Her grip slipped.
And then, as if instinctively, she turned away—shoulders drawn inward, heart hammering, retreating into the safety of the crowd.
That night, in her small second-floor room tucked inside a crumbling yellow house in Hauz Khas Village, Aarvi sat cross-legged on her bed with her sketchbook resting on her lap. The room overlooked a narrow street lined with vendors and graffiti-covered walls. Fairy lights framed the only window, which was cracked open to let in the smell of fried pakoras and distant car smoke.
The rest of the house creaked with age and silence.
She lived with her uncle and aunt, who mostly stayed to themselves. Her parents? They had moved to Canada a year ago. Her choice to stay behind in Delhi had been… complicated. The official reason was her college admission. The real reason was harder to name. Maybe it was unfinished business. Maybe it was just not wanting to feel even more misplaced.
She hardly spoke to her relatives. Not out of anger—but because words felt heavy lately. They treated her kindly, but distantly. As though she were a guest who'd overstayed her visit, floating in and out like a shadow.
Aarvi didn't plan to draw.
She rarely did anymore.
But her hand moved on its own, pencil gliding like it had something to say. Her fingers remembered something her mind hadn't caught.
When she finally looked down, her breath hitched.
She'd sketched him—the boy with the camera, the strange eyes. Without meaning to. Without even realizing.
"What is happening to me?" she whispered.
She dropped the pencil and flexed her fingers. They tingled. Still. As if electricity had chosen to stay behind in her skin.
The night refused to offer her sleep.
Every rustle of fabric, every tap of water in the pipes—it all felt close, pressing against her senses. Not loud. Heavy. She curled under her blanket, eyes wide, watching the fan circle above.
What did I touch? she thought. Or… what touched me?
The next day, she skipped class. Not out of rebellion, but out of self-preservation. The thought of sitting in a hall packed with strangers, with whispers and body heat and breaths that carried memories—they made her skin feel too thin.
She wandered aimlessly.
Connaught Place was its usual blur of honks, heels, and voices. Hawkers shouted half-sung prices. Pigeons scattered as a scooter zigzagged past. But through it all, something cut through—the gentle sound of guitar strings, soft and searching, coming from a stairwell beside a café with faded signage.
Curious, she descended.
At the bottom sat a boy with curly hair, headphones around his neck, fingers gently strumming his guitar. No stage. No audience. Just him and the notes.
She paused a few steps away. The sound… it wasn't perfect. A little offbeat. But it was honest. It didn't demand attention; it offered it.
His eyes flicked up and met hers.
"Hey," he said, voice warm but not too loud.
She nodded. No words.
"You're welcome to sit. I'm not charging," he added with a crooked grin.
"I'm just listening," she said softly.
"Best kind of audience."
She almost smiled.
But before her body could decide to stay, her mind tugged her up and away. She turned and left, feet finding the surface before her skin could start buzzing again.
But the notes lingered. All the way home.
That night, brushing her teeth in the cramped bathroom with peeling seafoam paint, Aarvi caught her reflection in the slightly foggy mirror. She looked the same—dark curls pulled back, quiet eyes, sleeves tugged down. But something in her gaze had changed. Not sharper. Not softer. Awake.
She touched her forearm.
And a memory not her own flashed.
A woman's scent.
A door slamming.
A child's sob, soft and alone.
Aarvi dropped her toothbrush, her heart leaping.
"No," she whispered, pressing her palms to the cold sink. "That wasn't mine."
She backed away from the mirror like it had betrayed her.
But her skin wouldn't stop humming.
Later, past midnight, she sat again with her sketchbook. Her fingers hovered, then moved without command. A metro train. A blurred face in the crowd. Curly hair and a guitar.
The boy from the café.
Why did her body know them before her mind did?
She closed the book abruptly and whispered to no one, "Something's wrong with me."
But deep down, she already knew—
Something was coming alive.