Michael Jackson.

Words usually came easy to her. Quick replies, teasing comebacks, long-winded thoughts stretched across late nights. But that day, she paused.

I had sent a message—romantic, maybe a little too much. I knew it the moment I hit send. The kind of message that makes a person hesitate, that makes them wonder if they should match the feeling or deflect it.

She was typing. Then she wasn’t. Then she was again.

And then—an emoji.

I stared at it, then smiled.

It wasn’t avoidance. It wasn’t dismissal. It was something else. A place beyond words, where language doesn’t stretch far enough, where feelings can’t always be shaped into sentences.

I knew that place. I had been there too.

So I told her—"Michael Jackson."

She sent a question mark.

"That’s what I say when I’m out of words," I explained. "In a good way."

She laughed. "Why Michael Jackson?"

"You know how he used to go—‘Hee-hee!’ That sound? That’s how it feels."

She typed, then stopped. Then, finally—"Idiot."

I knew she was smiling.

Days later, I caught her off guard. Not even with something romantic. Just with something that made her pause.

She typed. Deleted. Typed again.

"Michael Jackson."

I stared at the words.

It was a small thing. A phrase. A joke. Nothing serious.

But in that moment, I knew she understood me in a way no one else did.

Not a Stranger

I shouldn’t have come.

The moment I stepped into the wedding venue, I knew it. The crowd moved like a tide, pulling people into conversations, laughter, inside jokes I didn’t understand. It was warm—too warm. The mix of perfume, incense, and wedding food thickened the air. Everywhere, clusters of people stood in tight circles, talking, leaning into each other with familiarity. But none of them were mine.

A lone guy at an Indian wedding stands out. Not in an obvious way, not like people stare or point—but they notice. A glance from an uncle, a fleeting look from an auntie, a whispered something followed by a quick laugh. Who is he with? Bride’s side or groom’s? Whose friend?

I reached for my phone. Nothing. No notifications. No messages. No escape.

Maybe it was the bhang. The prashad from Shivratri, the one I had taken before coming here, had settled into my body, making my head feel light, my thoughts slightly out of sync. Not dizzy, not exactly lost—just… floating.

I needed something to hold on to.

And then I saw her.

It wasn’t sudden, not a dramatic entrance, no slow-motion turn. It was quieter than that. My body just knew before my eyes did. The moment she entered my line of sight, my heartbeat, which had been racing all evening, slowed down. My shoulders eased. The fire in my chest, the twisting in my stomach—all of it settled.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was moving through the crowd, adjusting the bangles on her wrist, brushing strands of hair away from her face. She belonged here. This was her world—her family, her friends, her night.

I wanted to go to her, but before I could take a step, someone called her name. She turned, laughing, disappearing into a group of cousins. Then another voice pulled her away. A friend, a relative, another familiar face.

Of course. It was her brother’s wedding. She was everywhere, but never in one place for too long.

And me? I was still standing there, a guest with no real reason to be here except for the fact that I knew the groom's sister.

I shook off the hesitation and did the only thing I could—I became a part of the wedding. Not completely, not seamlessly, but enough. I introduced myself to her mother, to her brother. Not with full introductions, no formalities, just my name and the fact that I was her friend. They nodded, smiled, moved on. It was a small thing, but it helped. I wasn’t a stranger anymore.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Then, just as I started convincing myself that I should step aside, let the wedding carry on without me in the way, she turned—and this time, she saw me.

Her smile didn’t fade. She didn’t rush over, didn’t call out my name. She just held my gaze for a second, and that was enough. That was all it took.

I exhaled.

The tension that had been sitting in my chest all evening melted away. The noise, the strangers, the weight of being here alone—none of it mattered anymore.

She walked toward me, slow, unhurried. "You actually came."

"You thought I wouldn’t?"

"You don’t like weddings," she said, tilting her head slightly.

"I don’t like being alone at weddings."

Her lips twitched, like she wanted to say something but held back. Instead, she glanced at the drink in my hand. "That’s not alcohol, is it?"

"No." I paused. "But I did have some bhang before coming here."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait. What?"

"The prashad," I clarified. "From Shivratri."

She blinked. Then, after a moment, she laughed. "Oh my God. You’re high?"

"Not high," I corrected. "Just… temporarily disconnected from my physical form."

Her laughter deepened, eyes crinkling at the corners. "How much did you take?"

"Enough to feel like my soul left my body and just came back now."

She shook her head, still smiling. "Come on. Let’s get you something to eat before you start levitating."

I followed her, the crowd still there, the noise still loud, the world still spinning—but none of it touched me anymore.

Coming here was the right decision.

Choco Teddy Breaks

The package arrived in the afternoon. Wrapped neatly, the corners tucked in with the kind of care that wasn’t hurried. It was from her—chocolates from my favorite bakery. A small, thoughtful gesture, nothing grand, nothing extravagant. But it was enough to make my heart falter.

I ran my fingers along the ribbon before opening it, letting the weight of the moment settle. I had told myself a thousand times—I love her, not for what she could be to me, but for what she is. I had promised myself that my love was free of expectations, that it did not ask for anything in return.

But today, as I looked at the chocolates, something twisted inside me.

A voice—one I had buried deep—whispered, What happens when she sends a box like this to someone else? When she carefully selects flavors for another person?

I shook my head. No. I knew her. She had never lied to me. Never given me false hope. Never asked for this love. It was mine, my burden, my blessing.

I picked up my phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Thank you. This means a lot."

Simple. Safe.

Her reply came almost instantly. "I knew you'd like it. Happy Valentine's Day."

I stared at the screen, my mind slipping back to an old conversation.

"I want to protect you," she had once said. "I don't want you to get hurt later, not even a little."

"Mennu tera bhana meetha laage," I had told her back then, smiling. "Whatever you do, I love it."

And I had meant it. I still did.

But today… today, I wasn’t sure if my heart was strong enough to bear it.

I leaned back, closing my eyes.

I had always known this love was one-sided. That was never the problem.

The problem was realizing that, someday, she might love someone else.

And I wouldn't know what to do with all this love that had nowhere to go.

---

---

x

I placed the chocolates on the table and took a deep breath, shaking off the weight pressing against my ribs. Not today, I told myself. You knew this would happen. You prepared for it.

The phone buzzed again.

"Did you eat them yet?"

She knew me too well. Knew that I would sit there, staring at them, overthinking. I smiled at the message, shaking my head.

"Not yet. Should I?" I typed back.

"Of course. They're your favorite, aren’t they?"

I unwrapped one, letting the dark chocolate melt on my tongue, waiting for it to taste the same as it always did. But something was different. It wasn't the chocolate. It was me.

I had built a world where I loved her in silence, without demand. And I had been content. But suddenly, I wasn't. Suddenly, I imagined a day when she would introduce someone else, when she would laugh while buying chocolates for someone else, and the thought made the sweetness taste bitter.

The phone rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. Her name flashed on the screen.

I answered. "So impatient? Couldn’t wait for my review?"

She chuckled. "You take forever to reply, and I was curious. Did you like them?"

"They're perfect," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I'm glad," she said. "I was worried about the packaging. The bakery messed up the last time I ordered something."

She was talking about the details, about the effort she had put in. And for a moment, I let myself believe that this love was enough.

But then, she said something that made my fingers tighten around the phone.

"Oh, by the way, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I said, exhaling slowly.

She hesitated for a second. "You remember that guy I mentioned before? The one from work?"

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"He… uh… asked me out. And I don’t know what to do."

Silence.

I felt it before I could think it—the sharp sting in my chest, the weight of everything I had ignored crashing down on me at once.

I had known this day would come. I had prepared for it. I had told myself it wouldn’t matter.

But it did.

It did.

And suddenly, those chocolates, that neatly wrapped package, didn’t feel like a small, thoughtful gesture anymore. It felt like a farewell gift.

I forced a chuckle. "I don't see the problem. If you like him, say yes."

She was quiet. "But what if—" She paused, choosing her words. "What if it changes things between us?"

There it was.

The one thread of hope I had left.

That maybe, just maybe, I was something more than a friend to her.

That maybe she hadn't figured it out yet.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to push.

But I had spent too many years pretending. Pretending that it didn’t hurt when she called me her best friend. Pretending that I didn’t wonder what it would be like if she loved me back. Pretending that I was okay with just this.

So I did what I always did.

I feigned ignorance.

I smiled through the pain.

"You’re overthinking," I said lightly. "Nothing will change."

"Promise?" she asked, her voice softer now.

"Promise."

That night, I sat with the chocolates, eating them slowly, forcing myself to taste every bite, forcing myself to remember why I had loved them in the first place.

I picked up my phone again, my fingers typing before I could stop myself.

"Mennu tera bhana meetha laage."

Whatever you do, I love it.

Even if it breaks me.

Will you be my Valentine?

 February 7th, 8:13 PM — Sector 17, Chandigarh

“Will you be my Valentine?”

She choked on her iced coffee. A full-blown, dramatic cough attack right in the middle of the bustling Sector 17 plaza. People turned to stare. I patted her back, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

“You—” She wiped the corner of her mouth. “You absolute idiot.”

I grinned. “What? What did I do?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t just throw that question at me like that!”

“Why not?” I shrugged, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. “It’s a fair question.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

That’s what she always said. And she was right—I was ridiculous. For still loving her. For standing here beside her after more than a decade, pretending that every casual touch didn’t set my heart on fire.

She was my best friend. And I was just her… friend.

A friend who had spent his school years falling for her, his college years swallowing that love whole, and his adult years perfecting the art of pretending it didn’t exist.

So when she recovered from her dramatic coughing fit and nudged my arm, I let out a chuckle like it was all a joke.

“Relax,” I said. “I didn’t mean it seriously.”

Lie.

I meant it with everything I had.

She rolled her eyes, still suspicious. “Hmm. I don’t trust you.”

I smirked. “Then let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

I turned to her, stuffing down the hesitation creeping up my throat.

“There’s something I want from you.”

She frowned. “What is it?”

“Promise me you’ll give it.”

She hesitated for a second, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I promise.”

I exhaled, letting the tension slide off my shoulders. She didn’t know what she had just agreed to.

And she didn’t need to know. Not yet.

---

February 14th, 7:45 PM — Sector 17, Chandigarh

If Sector 17 was lively on normal days, it was a full-blown carnival today. The plaza was glowing with golden lights, couples sat on benches sharing ice cream, and flower vendors called out their best prices. The air was thick with the scent of fresh roses, cheap perfumes, and chocolate waffles.

I spotted her near the fountains, flipping through a book from one of the roadside stalls. She looked the same as she always did—casual, effortless, a little too lost in the pages to notice me walking up.

I let the moment linger.

Then—

"Oi," I called out.

She looked up, her face breaking into a smile. "You’re late."

"You’re early," I shot back.

She huffed, tucking the book under her arm. I stepped closer, letting the weight of the evening settle between us.

For a second, neither of us spoke. The world around us was loud—laughter, music, honking, the occasional whistle from a street vendor. But in this little pocket of space, it was just her and me.

I studied her face—the way the fairy lights above flickered in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips as she suppressed a knowing smirk.

I knew I didn’t have this moment forever. But for the next few seconds, she was mine.

Taking a slow breath, I tilted my head and spoke, voice softer than usual.

"You remember your promise, right?"

She blinked, caught off guard. "What promise?"

"The one you made last week."

She frowned for a moment, then realization hit. "Oh. Right." She squinted at me suspiciously. "What do you want?"

I smiled.

And then, without warning, I reached out.

My hand found her waist, pulling her closer—not forcefully, just enough to feel her warmth against me. Her breath hitched, eyes flickering up to mine in surprise.

She didn’t step back.

I leaned in, just enough that my lips hovered near her ear, my breath brushing against her skin. She tensed for a second, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.

I wasn’t going to kiss her.

I just wanted her to think I would.

Then, in a voice only she could hear, I whispered—

"Remember you promised", I said blowing a little on her ear giving her chill to her bone. "Give me a nickname." I said finally after a pause.

She went completely still.

I could feel her confusion, the slight furrow of her brows, the way she processed my words as if expecting something entirely different.

"A… nickname?" she echoed, her voice barely above a breath.

I nodded, my nose nearly grazing the side of her cheek. "That’s all I want."

Her fingers twitched against my jacket. I felt her exhale slowly, steadying herself.

Then—just like that—she ruined it.

She shoved me.

Not too hard, just enough to put space between us, her lips twisting into an exasperated smile.

"You are such a drama queen," she muttered.

I laughed. "What? You promised."

She crossed her arms, pretending to be annoyed. "Fine, fine. Let me think."

She tapped her chin, eyes narrowing like she was about to say something profound. Then, with a teasing grin—

"Mr. Coffee."

I blinked.

She smirked. "That’s your new name."

I tilted my head. "Why?"

"Because you can’t function without it," she said matter-of-factly. "And because you’re warm and bitter."

I stared at her. "Bitter?"

She grinned. "Just a little."

I let out a laugh, shaking my head. "Mr. Coffee, huh?"

"Yup. You like it?"

I exhaled, letting the name settle in my chest.

"I love it," I said.

And I did.

Because she didn’t know.

She didn’t know that I had spent days crafting the perfect way to ask for something—something small, something she wouldn’t refuse—so I could keep a piece of her forever.

She didn’t know that while she had ignored my love for years, I had spent just as long feigning ignorance that it didn’t hurt me anymore.

Ignorance is a bliss.

Feigning ignorance is a skill.

And I had mastered it perfectly.