The village of Nandipur had always been quiet — the kind of place where time slowed to match the pace of the wind, and dreams were meant to be buried beneath fields and family expectations. For Anika, that silence had always been deafening.

She stood barefoot on the edge of the pond behind her house, the cool morning dew soaking into her skin. A faded medical entrance result printout was clutched tightly in her hand. Her name glared back at her from the top of the list.

Anika Sen — Rank 12 — Capital Medical University.

She should have been ecstatic. This was what she’d worked for since she was old enough to pronounce “neurosurgeon.” But instead of joy, there was a knot in her chest. Not because she doubted herself. But because she knew — deep in her bones — that no one in this village would ever celebrate this with her.

“Amma says the priest is coming tomorrow,” Aadesh said, approaching quietly from behind.

Her twin brother. Her shadow. Her only ally.

“She wants to set the wedding date.”

Anika didn’t look at him. Her jaw clenched. “I’m eighteen, not livestock.”

“She won’t see it that way,” he murmured, hands in his pockets. “And neither will appa.”

They both knew how this would play out. Her acceptance letter would be dismissed as nonsense. Her future sold off for a few gold bangles and a land deal. Their father had made the decision weeks ago, before the results were even announced.

But what none of them expected — not even Aadesh — was that Anika had already packed her bag.

“I’m leaving,” she said suddenly.

He stared. “What?”

“Tonight. For the capital. My session starts in four months. I’ll figure it out. Get a job. Rent a place. I don’t care how hard it is.”

Aadesh was silent. And then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile — crooked and rebellious.

“I guess I better come with you then.”

By midnight, the village slept under a blanket of monsoon clouds. Anika and Aadesh moved like shadows between the houses, their backpacks slung low, their steps quiet but certain.

No goodbye to their parents. No notes left behind. Just the wind, the moon, and their decision.

They reached the train station just after one. The last train to the capital was already on the platform, hissing with steam and murmuring with tired passengers.

Anika hesitated only once — when the train gave its final whistle.

“If you want to go back—” Aadesh started.

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I’d rather die in the streets of the city than rot in a marriage I didn’t choose.”

And with that, they stepped on board.

The capital was everything Anika had dreamed of and feared. Towering buildings swallowed the horizon. Horns blared in chaotic symphony. People rushed past like the city was on fire.

She was tired. Hungry. Overwhelmed. But she was free.

They checked into a budget lodge near the university. It was barely a room — a fan that creaked louder than it spun, a mattress that sank in the middle, and a shared bathroom down the hall. But it was theirs.

For now.

They had only one night together before Aadesh left. He had a student visa to Canada, something he’d kept secret until she confessed her plan.

Now, with just a day left, they sat side by side on the rooftop of the lodge, their legs dangling off the edge, staring at the city that didn’t know them yet.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Aadesh asked.

“I have to be,” Anika whispered.

And though she smiled, her hands trembled slightly as she thought of the next four months — alone, hidden, waiting.

But it was her life now. And she had chosen it.

No one could take that away from her again.

By the time Aadesh boarded his flight the next morning, the hotel room felt colder — and emptier.

Anika stood at the window, watching the distant blinking lights of planes taking off. She had walked him to the bus terminal that would take him to the airport, exchanged a tight hug and half a dozen promises. They didn’t cry. They didn’t need to. Their bond wasn’t made of words — it was made of the years they had survived side by side, of secrets whispered across pillows in the dead of night.

Now, it was just her.

Alone in a city that didn’t know her name, with only a merit letter and two thousand rupees in her wallet.

The reality of what she had done was beginning to settle in. She had no dorm yet — student accommodation would only be available closer to the term start. She had no job. No one here she could trust.

Her phone buzzed.

Low battery — 5% remaining.

She pulled up her contact list, thumb hovering. She had deleted almost every number connected to the village before she left — a clean cut. No way back.

Except one.

Aasha.

Her childhood best friend. They had shared more than just classes and mango trees — they'd dreamed together. About city lights. About medicine. About being women who wrote their own futures.

Aasha had moved away two years ago on a scholarship. They hadn’t spoken in months. Still…

Anika tapped the call button and held her breath.

It rang twice before a groggy voice answered. “H-Hello?”

“Aasha?” Anika whispered.

“Wait. Ani? Anika? Is that you?”

Tears pricked at the corners of Anika’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m in the capital. I— I left home.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Wait, what?! Where are you? Are you okay? What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “But I’m fine. Sort of. I just need a place to stay. Just for a few months until college starts.”

“I wish I was there!” Aasha exclaimed. “But I moved to the UK. I started my internship here last month.”

Of course.

“But listen,” Aasha continued, “my brother still lives near your college. He has a place. He could help.”

Anika’s heart skipped. “Your brother?”

“Yeah. Remember him?”

Sort of. He had always been a quiet, distant presence in Aasha’s house. Older. Moody. Eyes like cold steel and headphones always on. She remembered once walking in on him surrounded by open laptops and wires, typing faster than her eyes could follow.

“You think he’d help me?”

“I already texted him,” Aasha replied. “He’ll be there in an hour. He said yes.”

Anika blinked. “Just like that?”

“He doesn’t say no to me,” Aasha said confidently, then added, “But… be prepared. He’s weird. A bit of a recluse. Doesn’t talk much.”

“That’s okay,” Anika said. “I’m not looking for conversation.”

“I’m proud of you, Ani,” Aasha added softly. “You did what most of us only dreamed of. You actually walked away.”

Anika looked out at the city — at the traffic, the smog, the relentless noise. It wasn’t a dream yet. It was barely survival.

But she had no regrets.

“Thanks, Aasha. I owe you.”

“You don’t. Just promise you’ll be okay.”

“I’ll try.”

They hung up.

Anika checked her reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes. Dust-streaked cheeks. Determined chin.

She didn’t look like a girl who was about to meet a stranger. She looked like someone on the edge of something — a life, a war, or maybe both.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the street, where the capital hummed like a living beast. Somewhere out there, Aasha’s brother — the mysterious Rayan — was on his way.

She didn’t know it yet, but this meeting would change everything.

The capital had many faces. In daylight, it was loud and fast — all glass towers and honking cars. But as the sun dipped behind the skyline and shadows thickened across the streets, it became something else entirely. Sharper. Colder. As if it were watching.

Anika waited on the corner of West Marlow Road, her backpack snug against her side. She stood under a flickering streetlamp, heart pounding harder with every minute that passed. Aasha had told her to wait here. That her brother would come.

That was twenty-three minutes ago.

Her phone had died long ago. No way to check if he was running late. No way to call anyone. She chewed her lip and resisted the urge to pace.

She was about to give up and walk back to the dingy lodge when she noticed the motorbike.

It turned the corner in one smooth, silent curve — matte black, sleek, and powerful. The man riding it wore a dark jacket and a helmet that reflected none of the streetlight. He pulled up beside her without a word.

Anika froze. The rider didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he lifted the visor.

Sharp jawline. Dispassionate grey eyes. A faint scar near the right temple. He didn’t smile.

“Anika?” His voice was low, almost too calm.

She swallowed. “Rayan?”

He nodded once. No further greeting. No questions.

“I don’t have a license,” she said awkwardly. “Never rode one of these.”

“I’m not asking you to drive.”

He handed her the spare helmet. When she hesitated, he tilted his head, just a fraction. “You coming or not?”

Something in his voice — not rude, but final — made it clear this wasn’t a negotiation.

She put the helmet on and climbed on behind him, arms unsure until he said, “Hold on. Tight.”

The bike roared to life and surged into motion. Wind whipped against her face as they weaved through the late-night traffic like water cutting through stone. Rayan didn’t speak. He didn’t ask why she had run away, or where she’d come from. It was as if he didn’t need to.

They reached his place twenty minutes later — an apartment building tucked between a closed bakery and an unlit bookstore. The building was old, but not run-down. Tall iron gates guarded the entrance, and a keypad buzzed at the door. He keyed in the code without hesitation.

The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust. Third floor. Room 302.

The apartment surprised her.

Clean. Sparse. Minimal. No family photos, no clutter. A dark couch. A kitchen she suspected hadn’t been used in weeks. A wall full of screens in a room adjacent to the living space, visible only when he didn’t close the door fast enough.

“Your room’s down the hall. Left door. You can lock it from inside.”

She turned. “Aasha said it’d only be for a while. Until college starts.”

“I know.”

“Thank you… for letting me stay.”

He paused. For a heartbeat, he just stared at her — not cruelly, not kindly, just observing. Then: “Rules.”

She blinked.

“No entering my room. Don’t touch anything with wires. No guests. Don’t ask questions about what I do. And keep the noise down after ten.”

“Okay,” she said quickly. “I can follow rules.”

He nodded once, then walked past her to his room and shut the door without another word.

Anika stood there, in the middle of a stranger’s apartment, her body still humming from the ride, her mind catching up with everything.

So this was it.

Her new life had begun.

Not with warmth or welcome — but with a locked door, cold silence, and the faint hum of machines behind the wall.

She was no longer in Nandipur. She was no longer anyone’s daughter or bride-to-be.

She was simply Anika.