Chapter 2: The Pickup

Right after the call, my phone buzzed with a PayTM notification—Priya had sent me fifty thousand rupees, the message reading: "For your silence. Don’t test my patience."

Her next message popped up: "Add Meera’s number and send her your location. No flirting, haan?"

I added Meera and shot her my location. Her reply was a single word: "Okay." Typical Meera—no drama, just cool detachment that made me overthink everything I’d typed.

The night outside the terminal was quiet except for the laughter of airport workers and the flicker of orange streetlights. I waited, playing Candy Crush, my phone battery slipping dangerously close to single digits. A stray cat curled up near the glass, watching me with bored yellow eyes.

At last, a white Honda City rolled up. The headlights blinked, engine idling. Meera lowered the window, her hair fluttering in the AC breeze, a hint of jasmine in the air blending with Mumbai’s post-monsoon dampness. I saw her more clearly than ever before—the old school legend, now even more striking.

She stepped out in white kurta and kolhapuri chappals, her confidence making me shrink two steps back. "Are your legs numb?" she asked, laughter flickering in her eyes.

I jumped up, knees buckling, mumbling, "I do, I do," when she asked if I recognized her. I snatched my bag, trying not to meet her gaze, and slid into the passenger seat, feeling as stiff as a board monitor on inspection day.

Meera turned on a Kishore Kumar playlist, the car filling with 'Mere Sapno Ki Rani.' She asked, "How was your flight?"—her tone polite, but I could sense she was holding back a smile. Her phone buzzed with a man’s name; she ignored it, and I didn’t dare ask.

Suddenly, my friend sent a barrage of voice notes. My thumb slipped, and his voice blared: "Arrey yaar, my girlfriend is actually allergic to saliva!" The car went silent, Meera raised an eyebrow, hiding a smile behind her hand. Panicking, I fumbled for the volume, cursing the phone softly: "Saala, har waqt drama karta hai!"

The voice notes kept coming: "You have to try with your girlfriend first, or you’ll end up like me." I finally managed to switch it off, slumping in my seat as Kishore Kumar’s voice rescued my dignity.

I stole a glance at Meera. There was a faint, knowing smirk on her lips. My ears burned. I mentally replayed her smirk, wondering if she thought I was a total loser. I shot my friend a message: "Tu mujhe phasa diya, idiot!"

Meera broke the silence. "Is your girlfriend still that one from school?" I shook my head. "No. I don’t have a girlfriend."

My thoughts drifted to an old memory—one Diwali at school when Meera, in a blue salwar, had helped me light sparklers after I’d been too scared. That gentle confidence had always made her seem older, wiser.

As we reached home, I mumbled a hurried thanks and bolted up the stairs, heart still pounding.