Samaira Lakshmi Deshpande is caught between two worlds, two masks. Amidst the hunt for her missing twin and the pressure to fit her family's mold of the perfect daughter facade, she's trapped in a life she despises.
Everything shifts when a strange...
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Bangalore, India September
Aryan's POV
Entering my home, utterly drained after a fascinating 36 hours, I drop my shoes on the shoe rack and carry my socks with me, plotting their course directly to the laundry basket.
My mom breezes past me without so much as a glance as she disappears into the living room.
I glance back, expecting at least a nod of acknowledgement, but she's already vanished. Ah, the joys of a mother's warm welcome!
Sighing dramatically, I mutter to myself, "No 'hi,' no 'hello,' or 'how are you?' Just ignorance." It's like I've entered an invisibility zone.
Deciding to shake off the exhaustion, I head to my room for a quick shower. The events of the day replay in my mind, and I can't help but wonder about the unexpected encounters with Adithya and his sister.
The warm water washes away the residue of the past day, leaving me feeling somewhat human again. I follow the sounds of hushed conversations into the living room, where I find her teaching a group of students.
"Mom, really?" I raise an eyebrow, feigning shock. "This is how you treat your own son after a long, tiring day?"
She shoots me a glare, motioning for me to keep it down. The students, familiar faces from the neighbourhood, giggle behind their textbooks. They immediately quieten at my mom's glare at them.
Unfazed, I retreat to a safe distance, plopping down a little away from my mom and pulling out my phone. I scroll through messages, keeping the wet towel from my earlier shower casually draped beside me.
Mom doesn't miss a beat as her eyes land on the wet towel on the sofa.
"Aryan!" she scolds in a hushed but scolding tone, drawing the attention of the students. "How many times have I told you not to leave wet towels on the furniture?"
I shoot her an incredulous look, silently questioning the severity of the crime. The students suppress laughter behind their books, finding amusement in the subtle family drama.
Oh, the joys of homecoming!
I shoot my mom an innocent grin, trying to downplay the wet towel situation. "Come on Mom, it's just a towel. No harm done."
She shoots me a look that could freeze lava. "Just a towel? Aryan, how many times do I have to tell you? This is not a hostel; this is our home!"
I chuckle, calling out in a playfully exasperated tone, "Geetha Khurana, calm down. It's not the end of the world."
Her response is swift and unexpected. Without missing a beat, she grabs a chalk or scale - I'm not sure which, I'm too busy preparing my escape - and hurls it in my direction. With a yelp, I dodge the incoming object. "Alright, alright, I get it! No wet towels on the sofa!" I exclaim, feigning surrender as I make a hasty retreat from the living room, a mixture of laughter and scolding echoing behind me.
