Ishika Arora

Few years ago

I’m standing outside the little café near campus — the one with fairy lights hanging like fallen stars, glowing even in daylight. It opened just a week ago, and today feels like the perfect excuse to finally step in. I check my phone for the time. He’s only two minutes late. My heart is already acting like I’ve drunk three coffees on an empty stomach.

I smooth down the sides of my maroon kurti, pretending to adjust the sleeves even though they’re perfectly fine. I don’t usually get nervous around Siddhartha — it’s been two years of jokes, fights over playlists, and late-night walks back from the library. But today feels… different. And why wouldn't it be . This is my first time to be ready for someone , for Siddhartha. That idiot friend of mine whom I think won't be just my friend after all . My cheeks are warm a little right now . I know the cause of it . But I wouldn't like to admit it . Not even to myself . That idiot will get a ego boost saying ,I should have listened to him a month earlier when he first propose this idea .

While thinking all these when I finally spot him walking toward me, my breath catches. He stops mid-step, eyes wide. And then — dramatically, stupidly — he stumbles back a little and slaps a hand to his chest.

“Oh no,” he says, loud enough for a couple nearby to turn and stare. “I think I’m going to faint.”

I blink, half-confused, half-embarrassed. “What?!”

“You can’t just show up looking like that and expect me to stay conscious.” He grins, tilting his head. “Maroon? Seriously? You’re trying to kill me.”

That’s when I notice — he’s wearing a maroon shirt too, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open just enough to look easygoing but not too much. We match. My cheeks flush before I can stop them.

“You look… nice,” I mumble, because suddenly, I don’t know how to speak properly.

“Nice?” he repeats, mock-offended. “I just pulled off the coincidental color-coordination move of the year and all I get is nice?”

We both laugh — awkward and nervous. It’s strange. We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, but now every little gesture feels heavier. His smile lingers longer. Mine, too.

He opens the café door for me like a gentleman, with an exaggerated bow that earns him another eye-roll. Inside, it smells like vanilla and espresso, and the low buzz of chatter wraps around us. We pick the corner table by the window, both reaching for the same chair before awkwardly backing off with a “you first” and “no, you.”

The nervous energy is ridiculous.

“So,” he says, finally sitting across from me, fingers drumming lightly on the wooden table. “I finally dragged you out here. Is this a date ? Isn't it ? It should be a one though ".

I meet his eyes — warm brown, curious, a little amused.

“I guess it is,” I say softly. And somehow, saying it makes my heart race all over again.

He leans in, voice low. “Best first date of my life, and we haven’t even ordered yet.”

I lower my eyes and try to bite back the smile that threatening to surface after hearing him saying best first date of his life .

Siddhartha picks up the menu like he’s deciphering a mystery novel, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed in mock concentration.

“I’m sensing… coffee,” he says after a beat. “Maybe even—brace yourself—a sandwich.”

I smirk. “Wow. Sherlock Holmes would be jealous of your deduction skills.”

He tilts his head, grinning. “I do have a gift.”

Just then, the waiter walks up—a guy probably our age, polite smile, little notepad in hand. Siddhartha sits up straighter, suddenly too formal.

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” he says, pointing at the menu like it’s a high-stakes business deal. “And the cheese garlic toast.”

The waiter nods, turns to me.

“Cold coffee with hazelnut syrup,” I say quickly. “And the chicken puff, please.”

As the waiter walks away, Siddhartha leans on the table, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “Hazelnut, huh? You’ve got taste which I definitely haven't seen in past years ”

I shrug, pretending not to feel a little smug. “Told you I’ll be hard to impress.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, dramatically clutching his heart. “I’ve seen guys trying to impress you since I've known you . But you were flirting with everyone and friend zoning everyone. "

“only You were different from those guys . They thought being nice infront of me is the highest gift they can give to me . Bloody hypocrites . I've heard okay how lowly and easy they thought of me .”

" But you're obviously different. Instead of doing all those shts you were busy eating maggi before sleeping and working out to maintain that face of yours " I laugh trying to mask that I indirectly called him handsome. To the same guy whom I used to call rat .

“I am that guy,” he admits, grinning. “But today, I’m a guy who’s dressed up, skipped a nap, and is trying not to mess up what might be the most important two hours of his week.”

His voice softens just enough at the end to make me go still.

He catches the shift in my expression and quickly adds, “But no pressure! I mean, we could always talk about… the weather. Or lazy cats . Or dogs in bowties. Whatever keeps you from bolting.”

I laugh, too loud maybe, but it breaks the weird tension. “Dogs in bowties? Now that I’d talk about.”

“See?” he says, looking pleased. “We’re compatible.”

The waiter returns with a tray, placing the drinks and snacks gently in front of us. Everything looks perfect. Until it doesn’t.

Siddhartha reaches for my cold coffee—trying to be sweet, probably intending to hand it to me—and his elbow bumps the edge of his cappuccino cup. A slosh of steaming coffee splashes over the rim and spills onto the table between us.

I gasp as it nearly touches the corner of my phone, quickly lifting it away. Siddhartha freezes, eyes wide like he just knocked over a vase in an antique shop.

“Shit—sorry!” he blurts, grabbing the nearest napkin. “I didn’t mean to—damn, are you okay? Did it touch you?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” I hold up my phone like a trophy. “The real victim here is your cappuccino.”

He frowns, blotting the table like it’s his life mission. “I’m such an idiot. First date and I’m already creating disasters. This is why people shouldn’t let me touch things.”

I can’t help smiling as I reach across the table and still his hand. “Hey. It’s just coffee. Not a murder scene.”

His eyes flick to mine, a little sheepish, a lot grateful. “Still… I wanted this to be perfect.”

“It is,” I say, my voice softer than I expected. “Clumsy, chaotic, coffee-stained — but perfect.”

He lets out a short breath, a smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You sure you don’t secretly enjoy roasting me?”

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

“Then we’re good,” he says, finally relaxing as he sits back. “Because I’m going to give you plenty of reasons to keep doing that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, sipping my now-safe coffee. “But you owe me a full cappuccino. For emotional trauma.”

“Deal,” he says. “Next time, I’ll spill it after you drink it.”

We both laugh, and somehow, the warmth from that little accident settles into something more comfortable. The tension from earlier is gone. We’re back to us — messy, teasing, and maybe something new blooming in between.

We settle into an easy rhythm—sipping, teasing, stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels weirdly grown-up and childish all at once.

A small plate of bakery biscuits arrives mid-conversation. I hadn’t ordered them, but they look too cute to ignore—buttery golden rounds with a sugar glaze and the faintest hint of spice.

“These are on the house,” the waiter says with a smile. “New recipe.”

Siddhartha grins. “I’m not one to turn down free food.”

I pick one up and take a bite. It melts on my tongue, sweet and warm, with a little kick of cinnamon. “Mmm… this is so good.”

He eyes me, then the biscuits. “Let me see what the hype’s about.”

He picks one up, pops it in his mouth, and chews once.

Then twice.

And then—

His smile falters. His chewing stops. His throat works awkwardly, like he’s trying to swallow but can’t. His eyebrows draw together. He pushes his chair back slightly, eyes wide.

“Hey,” I say, my voice jumping an octave. “Siddhartha?”

He lifts a hand, pressing it to his chest. His breathing turns shallow. “Wait. Is there cinnamon in this?”

I blink, thrown by the question. “Yeah—just a little, I think. Why?”

His eyes close for half a second, and when they open, panic flickers behind them.

“Ishika,” he says, his voice tight, like it’s being squeezed through a narrow tunnel. “I have a severe allergy to cinnamon.”

My heart lurches.

“What? Are you serious?”

He nods, already looking pale. “Throat’s… closing up.”

Oh God. My brain blanks for a full second before adrenaline takes over. I shoot up from my chair, nearly knocking it over. “Waiter! Somebody—please, he needs help!”

The same guy who brought the biscuits rushes over, confusion turning into concern as he sees Siddhartha struggling to breathe.

“He’s having an allergic reaction,” I say quickly. “Cinnamon. He said he’s severely allergic—do you have an auto-injector? Or can you call for help?”

The waiter nods and bolts to the counter, shouting something in the kitchen. I move around to Siddhartha’s side of the table, crouching slightly.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me, okay?” I say, my voice trembling. “You’re gonna be fine. We’re getting help.”

He nods weakly, but I can tell it’s getting harder for him. His lips are starting to lose color, his breathing raspier. My hands are shaking, and I hate how helpless I feel.

Within moments, the waiter returns with another employee. “There’s a clinic just three minutes away. We’ll take him now.”

I don’t even think. I grab Siddhartha’s hand and sling his arm over my shoulder as the two waiters help lift him up. One of them grabs the car keys, and we rush out of the café.

My heart pounds in my ears. I’ve never seen him like this—Siddhartha, who jokes about everything, who turns every mistake into a punchline—now barely able to stay conscious. I grip his hand tighter in the backseat of the car, whispering anything just to keep him awake.

“You’re not dying today, okay?” I murmur. “Not on our first date, you idiot.”

His grip tightens slightly in mine.

Good. He’s still with me.

We race through traffic, and I silently make deals with every god I’ve ever half-believed in. Just let him be okay. Please.

Just let him be okay.

The clinic smells like antiseptic and panic. I sit in the waiting area, fingers tangled in each other, leg bouncing uncontrollably. They took Siddhartha in as soon as we arrived, the doctor barking quick instructions while nurses swarmed around him. I wasn’t allowed inside. Not even for a second.

He could barely breathe.

I keep replaying that image in my head—his lips paling, his chest rising too fast, the way he looked at me like he didn’t know if he’d make it. I didn’t even know. Cinnamon. Of all things. A biscuit. A damn biscuit.

I press my palms into my eyes and exhale, trying not to cry in the middle of a sterile hallway filled with strangers.

“Miss?”

I look up. The nurse gives me a kind smile. “You can go in. He’s stable now.”

I don’t even say thank you—I just move. My feet know the way before my brain catches up.

When I enter the room, he’s sitting up in bed, a cannula taped to his hand, an oxygen mask pushed up to his forehead. His face is still a little pale, but his eyes are alert again. Alive again.

He sees me and tries to grin. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

I don’t laugh. I can’t. I just walk to the side of the bed and look at him like I’m seeing him for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“For what? You didn’t bake the biscuit.”

“I should’ve known. Should’ve asked.”

He shakes his head gently. “I don’t go around announcing my allergy like it’s my star sign. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

“But I could’ve lost you,” I say, voice cracking despite myself.

He reaches out with one hand and lightly touches mine. “You didn’t. I’m here. Alive. Mostly embarrassed.”

I finally let out a shaky laugh, and a tear slips out at the same time. Great combo.

Siddhartha tilts his head. “So… does this mean the date’s over?”

I blink, caught off guard.

“Because I was kind of expecting dessert.”

I sniff, then laugh again, a broken sound that still somehow makes me feel better.

He smiles lazily, eyes soft. “Jokes aside, you really brought me here. You didn’t panic and freeze. You saved my life, Ishika.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“So was I,” he says, lips twitching. “Very on-brand.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “So, what now?”

He hums. “I think you owe me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Owe you?”

“Yeah.” He grins. “For turning our first date into a near-death experience. There has to be compensation.”

“Compensation, huh?” I sniff again. “What kind of compensation?”

“Another date,” he says simply. “A do-over. No cinnamon. No hospitals. Just you, me, and a normal café with boring biscuits.”

I nod slowly, a small smile forming through my tears. “Deal.”

We sit like that for a moment—his fingers brushing mine, the beep of the heart monitor steady in the background, the chaos finally fading.

He squeezes my hand once. “We’ll have better dates.”

I nod again, firmer this time. “A lot of better dates.”

🕛

Present time

My fingers wrap around his wrist before I even think.

The moment I recognize the faint scent wafting from the pastry — warm, sweet, spiced — my body moves on its own. My mind flashes back to the white hospital sheets, the way his chest had struggled for air, the panic in his eyes.

“Don’t—” I say, breath catching.

Siddhartha freezes, the forkful of cinnamon-glazed pastry hovering an inch from his lips.

Everyone at the table goes still.

Mr. Jha’s smile drops. Nidhi’s eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s almost comical — almost. Her mouth parts slightly, stunned. Even the waiter standing nearby seems to pause, caught mid-pour.

My hand is still on his. Tight. Too tight.

I feel the heat from his skin under my palm. His pulse, strong and steady, under my fingertips.

It lasts barely three seconds, but it feels like a lifetime — the kind you hold your breath through.

I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned. “Sorry. That has cinnamon,” I say, eyes darting everywhere but him. “You’re… allergic.”

There’s a silence. Heavy. Dense.

Siddhartha lowers his fork slowly. “Right,” he says, voice unreadable. “Didn’t notice.”

He doesn’t thank me. Doesn’t even look at me.

I nod like this was a normal interaction, like I didn’t just grip my ex’s wrist in a crowded café like it’s still my job to keep him alive. My eyes flick to Mr. Jha, who’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“She’s very… thorough,” Nidhi says finally, her tone light, forced. “Ishika’s practically a walking ingredient list.”

I offer a tight smile and reach for my coffee like it can anchor me. My fingers tremble slightly around the cup.

Mr. Jha chuckles awkwardly, cutting through the tension. “That’s… impressive. Good to know someone at the table pays that much attention.”

I murmur something polite, but my skin’s still buzzing where I touched him.

Siddhartha doesn’t say another word. He pushes the plate slightly away from himself, fingers resting neatly on the edge of the table.

Like nothing happened.

But I know what could’ve.

And no matter how much we hate each other now, that fear never really left me.

Mr. Jha clears his throat, his curious gaze shifting between Siddhartha and me like he’s trying to decode something invisible.

“You two know each other from before?” he asks casually, reaching for his cup.

Before I can find a neutral response, Nidhi jumps in with a bright smile.

“Yes! We were all in IIT Bombay together,” she says, placing her cup down gently. “Same batch. He was one of the brightest minds back then too.”

Siddhartha raises an eyebrow slightly, but says nothing.

Mr. Jha seems impressed. “Ah! IIT Bombay? No wonder you all carry yourselves with so much confidence. Must’ve been quite the experience.”

“It was,” Nidhi says, with a practiced smile. “A lot of growth, memories… lessons.”

She’s smooth. Too smooth. I can feel her eyes flick to me for a second — checking, maybe warning.

Mr. Jha chuckles. “I always admire people who’ve had that kind of discipline and exposure. Must be why your boutique’s doing so well. You bring professionalism and creativity.”

Nidhi nods politely, steering the conversation back toward work, but I’ve already checked out. Their words dissolve into a low buzz in the background.

I stare at the napkin on my lap, twisting it between my fingers. I want to leave. Every second here feels like I’m holding my breath underwater — pretending the past isn’t sitting two seats away from me, breathing, existing, untouched by cinnamon, untouched by the chaos in my chest.

My coffee is cold. My palms still sweat.

I glance at the clock above the counter. Ten more minutes. Fifteen, max.

Please.

When the meeting finally starts winding down, Mr. Jha shakes hands again, promises follow-up emails, and thanks Nidhi for her time. His eyes linger curiously on me again, but I dodge the glance with a stiff smile.

We all stand. I mutter something about needing to leave, and Nidhi is quick to excuse us.

“It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Jha,” she says smoothly. “We’ll talk soon.”

Outside the café, the early evening sun paints the sidewalk gold. I head straight for my car, my heels clicking a little too fast on the pavement. Nidhi trails behind me.

“I’ll drive,” she says softly once we reach the car. “You look… spaced.”

I nod, handing her the keys wordlessly.

We get in, and I sink into the passenger seat like my bones can finally let go. Nidhi starts the engine, and the low hum fills the silence.

As we pull out of the parking spot, I turn my head, instinctively, one last time.

Siddhartha is still outside the café. He’s talking to Mr. Jha, hands in his pockets, nodding at something the older man is saying. His profile is calm, collected — the kind of man who always looks in control, even when everything’s falling apart.

Then — as if he senses me — his eyes lift.

And for the briefest second, we lock eyes.

He stops mid-sentence. His lips move, saying something I can’t hear.

I look away first.

The glass of the window is cold against my forehead as I lean into it, eyes closing. My chest aches in a way that’s painfully familiar.

It’s been years.

And still — the cinnamon almost killed him.

And I still remembered.

Even after having that sudden encounter with him yesterday and telling him to stay the fvk away from my son .

Even after resenting him with passion.

Even after he all the things he  did to me at past .

Shame on you Ishika, Fvking Shame on you .