There were exactly three versions of Aarav Kapoor.
The first belonged to the public.
India’s newest obsession.
Box-office prince.
Cold-faced heartbreaker with unfair eyelashes and a dangerous silence interviewers mistook for mystery.
The second belonged to Bollywood.
Disciplined. Ruthless. Untouchable.
The actor who remembered camera lenses, producer contracts, staff birthdays, and every insult ever spoken to him.
The third version existed nowhere publicly.
Only in late-night phone calls.
In half-typed messages.
In pauses stretched across cities.
That version asked Gargi whether she had eaten lunch.
“YOUR HAND STABILITY IS IMPROVING.”
Professor Patwardhan sounded personally disappointed about it.
Gargi looked up from her cavity preparation suspiciously.
“Thank you?”
“Still weak margins.”
Never mind.
Back to suffering.
The phantom lab buzzed with handpiece sounds. Students leaned over artificial mouths under harsh fluorescent lights while Bollywood gossip played softly from someone’s phone in the background.
The nation had not moved on from “G.”
In fact, things had become worse.
Someone online had compiled a three-minute video titled:
“Every Time Aarav Kapoor Said Gargi’s Name.”
The clip already had twelve million views.
Gargi wished to evaporate.
“Bro,” muttered a classmate nearby, “this is true love behavior.”
“Imagine being secretly loved by Aarav Kapoor.”
“I would never complain again in life.”
Gargi aggressively carved amalgam margins.
If only these girls knew that Aarav Kapoor mostly called to ask whether she was sleeping enough and occasionally threatened professors on her behalf.
Romantic disaster.
Her phone buzzed beneath the table.
She ignored it.
Buzz.
Ignored.
Buzz buzz.
Finally she checked.
Aarav:
What are you doing?
She typed without looking up.
Destroying tooth structure legally.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Video call.
Absolutely not.
Gargi rejected it instantly.
Five seconds later another message arrived.
Answer properly.
She stared at the screen in disbelief.
The audacity.
I AM IN LAB.
Then show me lab.
Psychopath.
She rolled her eyes so hard her roommate almost noticed.
Hundreds of kilometers away, Aarav Kapoor sat inside a vanity van while makeup artists hovered around him like exhausted angels.
Outside, massive studio lights illuminated the set of his next film.
Inside, he looked profoundly uninterested in stardom.
“Sir,” the stylist pleaded gently, “please stop moving.”
Aarav ignored him entirely.
His attention remained fixed on Gargi’s blurry lab photographs.
Rows of phantom heads.
Messy instruments.
A half-eaten packet of Parle-G near her notes.
He zoomed in instinctively.
“You’re smiling again,” Agastya observed from the opposite couch.
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“I literally am not.”
Agastya took a sip of coffee.
“Your denial skills are weak.”
Aarav finally looked up.
“You started this.”
“By accidentally saying one letter?”
“You said her nickname.”
“I said G.”
“You never call her Gargi.”
Agastya considered that.
Fair point.
Nobody close to Gargi actually called her Gargi fully. Dhara called her Garu. Alizeh preferred Gags. Aarav mostly used strange variations depending on mood.
Dr. Disaster.
Molarmukh.
Zombie girl.
Dentist sahiba.
The first time he accidentally said “Gargi” properly had been after she cried during a phone call in second year.
He had never forgotten the sound.
“You know what your issue is?” Agastya said calmly.
Aarav returned to his script.
“I don’t care.”
“You care too early.”
That sentence lingered.
Outside, assistant directors screamed instructions. Spot boys rushed through fake rain setups. Somewhere nearby, fans waited outside studio gates hoping for one blurry glimpse of Aarav stepping out of his car.
A life built entirely on being watched.
And somehow the only person who never watched him like a celebrity was a dental student who routinely forgot his movie release dates.
“Your scene is ready, sir,” an assistant announced nervously.
Aarav stood.
Then paused.
“Agastya.”
“Hm?”
“If media reaches her college…”
Agastya’s expression changed slightly.
“They won’t.”
“And if they do?”
For the first time since the interview disaster, something dangerous flickered beneath Aarav’s calm face.
“I’ll handle it.”
Agastya studied him carefully.
Bollywood had seen possessive men before. Violent men too. Powerful men especially.
But Aarav’s protectiveness carried a frightening quietness to it. No dramatics. No declarations.
Just certainty.
Like a locked door.
Three days later, the media finally found a clue.
A photograph.
Old. Grainy. Cropped badly.
A charity gala from years ago.
In one corner stood Aarav at nineteen beside Dhara Deshmukh. And behind them, almost hidden near a floral arrangement, was a girl in spectacles holding a plate of dessert.
The internet exploded.
“THAT’S HER.”
“THAT HAS TO BE G.”
“ZOOM INTO THE BRACELET.”
“She’s actually pretty.”
“She looks so normal?”
“She’s giving academic weapon energy.”
“She looks like she reads tragic Russian literature.”
Gargi nearly fainted when Alizeh sent the screenshot.
Alizeh Khanna:
CONGRATULATIONS BABE U LOOK DEPRESSED AND MYSTERIOUS. INTERNET LOVES IT.
Gargi:
I hate everyone.
Alizeh:
No seriously this is iconic. Your face isn’t even visible properly and men are already writing poetry edits.
Gargi:
Delete my number.
Alizeh:
Too late. Nation’s bhabhi.
Gargi threw the phone across the hostel bed.
Her roommate looked up from notes.
“You okay?”
“Perfect,” Gargi replied hollowly.
At that exact moment another message appeared.
From Aarav.
Don’t read comments.
She immediately called him.
He picked up on first ring.
“This is your fault.”
“Interesting theory.”
“They found a PHOTO.”
“You barely exist in it.”
“That’s somehow worse!”
A tiny laugh escaped him.
Gargi paused.
There it was again.
That invisible softness in his voice reserved only for her.
And suddenly she became aware of something uncomfortable.
They talked too much.
Not flirting.
Not technically.
But normal people did not call each other after interviews. Or discuss failed practical exams at midnight. Or remember each other’s caffeine preferences from years ago.
Normal people definitely did not recognize breathing patterns over phone silence.
“Why are you laughing?” she muttered.
“Because you sound cute when angry.”
Dead silence.
Then:
“…what?”
Aarav went equally still.
The sentence had slipped out accidentally.
Rare for him.
Dangerous too.
Gargi sat upright slowly on her hostel bed.
Rain tapped softly against metal window grills. Somewhere downstairs, girls argued over bucket water timings. A pressure cooker whistled from the mess kitchen.
Everything suddenly felt hyper-real.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“You literally said I sound cute.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You did.”
A pause.
Then, very calm:
“Maybe you hallucinated.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
Gargi pressed cold fingers against her burning face.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Because Aarav Kapoor never spoke carelessly.
Every interview answer calculated. Every public appearance controlled. Every expression measured down to muscle memory.
If something escaped him accidentally…
It meant he had already been thinking it privately.
And somehow that realization frightened her more than the entire internet investigation.
“You should study,” he said abruptly.
Coward.
“You should stop emotionally terrorizing me.”
“Impossible.”
“Bye.”
“Eat dinner first.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Click.
Call ended.
Gargi stared at her reflection in the dark hostel window.
Then immediately buried her face inside a pillow and screamed silently.
That same night, in Mumbai, Dhara Deshmukh attended a luxury brand launch where actresses floated through chandeliers wearing diamonds worth small countries.
She smiled elegantly through conversations until someone casually asked:
“So when are we meeting your mysterious little sister?”
Dhara’s smile froze microscopically.
There it was.
The shift.
The industry had started circling.
Not openly yet.
Not cruelly yet.
But Bollywood could smell hidden stories like sharks smelled blood.
And Gargi…
Gargi was not built for this world.
Dhara knew it better than anyone.
Because unlike herself, Gargi still believed kindness was real even when nobody was watching.
That kind of softness did not survive Mumbai easily.
Across the ballroom, Aarav entered surrounded by security and camera flashes.
Instantly the room tilted toward him.
Actors greeted him louder. Producers straightened. Influencers adjusted poses. People always reacted to Aarav like weather entering a room.
But the strange thing was…
The moment he spotted Dhara, his first expression wasn’t annoyance.
It was one silent question.
Is she okay?
Dhara answered with the tiniest nod.
For a fraction of a second, relief crossed his face.
Then vanished completely before anyone else noticed.
Everyone watched Aarav Kapoor.
Nobody realized he was always watching someone else instead.
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