Gargi hated mannequins.
Not normal mannequins.
Dental mannequins.
Those horrifying phantom heads mounted in simulation labs with dead plastic eyes and permanently open mouths like they had witnessed something unspeakable in 1997 and never recovered.
At 8:05 a.m., she sat before one under cruel fluorescent lights while her classmates revised viva questions in panic.
“What are the types of gingival retraction?”
“Bro don’t ask me things before caffeine.”
“I’m going to fail crown prep.”
“You were born to fail crown prep.”
The lab sounded like collective psychological collapse.
Gargi adjusted her gloves and tried focusing on impression materials.
Polyether.
Addition silicone.
Condensation silicone.
Instead her brain replayed one sentence repeatedly.
You sound cute when angry.
Absolutely unacceptable.
For three entire days Aarav had behaved normally afterward. No awkwardness. No clarification. No mention of it again.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because now Gargi couldn’t decide whether she imagined the softness in his voice.
“You’re smiling at the typodont,” her roommate whispered suspiciously.
“I’m mentally unstable.”
“That’s fair.”
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown Mumbai number.
Gargi frowned before answering quietly.
“Hello?”
“Miss Gargi Deshmukh?”
Every nerve in her body froze.
“Yes?”
“Hi ma’am! We’re calling from CineFlash Digital regarding ongoing rumors connecting you with actor Aarav Kapoor. We’d love a small exclusive statement.”
Silence.
The lab noises disappeared.
Everything disappeared.
“How did you get this number?” she whispered.
“Oh sources ma’am, you know how media works! So are the dating rumors true?”
Click.
She disconnected instantly.
Her hands had started shaking.
Not violently. Tiny tremors.
Enough to ruin precision.
Professor Patwardhan chose that exact moment to appear.
“Why are your margins irregular again?”
Gargi stared blankly ahead.
“Miss Deshmukh?”
“I…”
Her throat suddenly felt tight.
The professor sighed impatiently.
“You students collapse under microscopic pressure.”
Microscopic.
Funny word.
Because suddenly Gargi felt like her entire hidden life had been shoved beneath one giant magnifying lens.
Another unknown number flashed.
Then another.
And another.
Her heartbeat lurched.
Someone had leaked her number.
By evening, things became worse.
Far worse.
A paparazzi page uploaded an article titled:
“WHO IS GARGI DESHMUKH?”
Below it sat old family photographs. Charity events. Business parties. One blurry image from a teenage birthday dinner where Aarav stood in the background looking at her unknowingly.
The comments multiplied endlessly.
“She’s prettier than actresses.”
“She looks too simple for him.”
“Rich people always date rich people.”
“Wait she’s studying dentistry in some village???”
“Why is that lowkey attractive.”
“Girl escaped Bollywood and still pulled Bollywood.”
Gargi sat on the hostel staircase reading them numbly while students passed around her laughing over reels.
Nobody recognized her.
Not yet.
Because the photographs were old and unclear. Because she wore oversized hoodies and spectacles now. Because nobody expected billionaire daughters to survive hostel bathrooms with broken taps.
Still…
The walls were closing slowly.
Her phone rang again.
Aarav.
This time she answered immediately.
“They leaked my number.”
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
Cold silence.
“What?”
“They’re calling continuously.”
Another pause.
“Send screenshots.”
“Aarav…”
“Now.”
Something in his voice made her obey instantly.
She forwarded everything.
Blue ticks appeared immediately.
Then nothing.
No reply.
No call.
Just silence.
And somehow that frightened her more than panic would have.
Mumbai.
11:13 p.m.
Inside a sea-facing penthouse glowing dim gold against the Arabian coast, Aarav Kapoor sat motionless while his manager spoke nervously across the room.
“We can contain this.”
“No.”
“We’ll release distraction articles.”
“No.”
“We can threaten smaller pages legally.”
“No.”
She stopped carefully.
Aarav rarely raised his voice.
That made him difficult to read.
Right now he looked terrifyingly calm.
“What do you want to do?” she asked quietly.
He scrolled through leaked photographs again.
Gargi at sixteen laughing beside Dhara.
Gargi hiding behind sunglasses at an airport.
Gargi half-visible at some ancient Diwali party.
Pieces.
Strangers were collecting pieces of her.
And he hated it with an intensity that surprised even himself.
“She didn’t choose this,” he said finally.
The manager softened slightly.
“Dating rumors happen.”
“She isn’t from this industry.”
“She’s adjacent enough.”
“No,” Aarav replied coldly. “You people don’t understand the difference.”
Adjacent.
Such a harmless word.
But Bollywood consumed people standing nearby too. Especially women. Especially private women.
The internet loved mystery until it got bored.
Then it loved destruction.
Aarav stood abruptly.
“Where’s the source?”
The manager hesitated.
“We think someone from an old event management company leaked guest records.”
“Name.”
“Aarav…”
“Name.”
She gave it quietly.
He nodded once.
Conversation over.
His manager watched him leave with growing concern.
Because everyone in Bollywood knew one thing about Aarav Kapoor:
He almost never reacted emotionally.
But when he did…
People disappeared from projects mysteriously afterward.
At 1:32 a.m., Gargi sat alone on the hostel terrace wrapped in a shawl.
The village slept early.
Unlike Mumbai, darkness existed properly here.
No flashing cameras.
No velvet parties.
No luxury cars gliding through midnight.
Just crickets.
Distant temple bells.
Cool wind carrying soil and rain smell.
Her phone buzzed softly.
Aarav.
“You should sleep,” she said quietly after answering.
“You’re on the terrace.”
She blinked.
“How do you know?”
“Wind sound.”
Of course.
He remembered ridiculous things.
Once during monsoon she had called him while standing outside pre-clinical labs and he identified the exact corridor from echo patterns. Another time he recognized she was crying before she spoke a single word.
Emotionally observant, Dhara called it once.
Dangerously observant, Gargi thought privately.
“You ate dinner?” he asked.
“No appetite.”
“Go downstairs and eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Gargi.”
There it was.
That tone.
Low. Calm. Firm enough to feel like fingertips around a wrist.
“I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you’re used to being obeyed.”
A tiny exhale escaped him.
“I am used to it.”
At least he was honest.
The wind rustled around her softly.
Far away dogs barked near the college gates.
“Aarav…”
“Hm?”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
Lie.
She could hear it.
Not loud anger. Not explosive anger.
Worse.
Controlled anger.
Like a locked room.
“They’re just rumors,” she whispered.
Another silence.
Then:
“They called you during college hours.”
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
“How do you know that?”
“You stopped replying around operative lab timing.”
Gargi stared into darkness.
He noticed everything.
Not grand things. Tiny things.
Schedule changes. Typing speed. Breathing pauses. Whether she used full stops in messages.
Once he remembered the date of her grandfather’s death despite her mentioning it only once years ago.
And somehow that frightened her more than his fame ever had.
“Nothing happened,” she said softly.
“You were shaking.”
This time she stopped breathing entirely.
“…what?”
“You tap your nail against your phone when anxious.”
“How would you even know that over call?”
“I heard it.”
The answer came instantly.
Like fact.
Like inevitability.
Gargi pressed cold fingers against her forehead.
This situation had crossed normal boundaries long ago without either of them noticing.
Or maybe they noticed.
And ignored it deliberately.
“Aarav,” she said carefully, “what exactly are we?”
For the first time since knowing him…
He had no immediate answer.
Only breathing.
Distant and quiet through speaker static.
Finally:
“I don’t know.”
Honest.
Dangerously honest.
Below the terrace, hostel lights flickered out one by one.
The village slept deeper.
And somewhere between Mumbai’s glittering chaos and a forgotten dental college under restless stars…
Something unnamed shifted shape between them silently.
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