It started with a simple plan: “Let’s work late today and order food.”
It ended with six people passed out across Vihan’s living room — tangled in blankets, guitars, sketchpads, poetry, and each other’s hearts in ways none of them fully realized yet.
The idea came from Jeel, surprisingly.
She slammed her laptop shut around 6 PM and said, “Okay, this project is officially turning into emotional labor. I’m hungry.”
Parth perked up instantly. “Same. Canteen or chaos?”
Jinal looked up from her poem draft. “Chaos?”
“Order food, eat too much, regret nothing,” Parth replied, already pulling out his phone.
Shikha giggled. “Only if there’s dessert.”
“There’s always dessert,” said Vihan from the corner, eyes still on his sketchpad.
Vishwa leaned back in his chair. “We could order from that rooftop place near my place. And—” He paused. “Actually... I live five minutes from here. Vihan, right?”
Vihan nodded.
Jeel blinked. “You live nearby? Wait. Vihan. You have a house here?”
“Flat,” he corrected. “I stay alone. It’s quiet. Good for work.”
“Did you just say the most dangerous sentence in the group?” Parth leaned forward dramatically. “You… stay… alone?”
Jeel’s eyes widened. “He stays alone.”
Vishwa grinned. “Oh no.”
Shikha gasped. “Oh yes.”
And that was it.
---
Within an hour, they were all in Vihan’s flat — a cozy 2BHK filled with art, sunlight lamps, and a surprisingly well-stocked snack shelf.
“How is your kitchen neater than my soul?” Jeel asked as she walked in.
“Because I don’t cook with drama,” Vihan replied dryly.
“Touché.”
Parth sprawled across the couch like he owned it. “Bro. You didn’t tell us you had taste. This place is aesthetic and smells like cinnamon.”
“I lit a candle.”
“Of course you did.”
Jinal wandered toward the bookshelf in the corner, her fingers gently brushing the spines. “You have handwritten notes on art theory?”
Vihan shrugged. “It helps me think.”
“You’re secretly 80 years old,” she said, smiling softly.
“I know.”
---
Food arrived, shoes were tossed aside, and someone played music — Shikha’s mellow playlist mixed with Parth’s spontaneous guitar strumming.
They sat cross-legged on the floor with paper plates, devouring everything from fries to biryani to chocolate cake.
At one point, Parth challenged Jeel to a samosa-eating contest. She won. Barely.
“Okay,” he panted, defeated. “You might be tiny, but your hunger is terrifying.”
“Fear me,” Jeel said, licking chutney off her fingers like a villain.
Jinal and Shikha were doubled over laughing. Even Vishwa cracked up — rare, but beautiful.
---
As the night stretched on, things slowed down.
Parth brought out cards. Jeel suggested truth or dare. Shikha played quiet background music. Vihan sat sketching everyone like a live scene from memory. Jinal wrote a poem about the way light hit Jeel’s hair when she laughed.
At 2 AM, someone dimmed the lights. Pillows and blankets appeared from nowhere.
And just like that… it became a sleepover.
---
They all sat in a loose circle, half asleep, half awake, wrapped in blankets and shadows. The laughter had died down into soft murmurs, the kind that only come out in the silence of 3 AM.
Jeel whispered, “Let’s do confessions.”
Parth raised a brow. “Truth or trauma?”
Jeel shrugged. “Somewhere in between.”
Jinal went first. “I didn’t think I’d make real friends here. I always thought I’d stay quiet, finish my degree, and leave.”
Vihan nodded beside her, saying nothing — but he gently bumped her shoulder. She smiled.
Shikha spoke next. “I used to be terrified of group work. I thought no one would hear me. But here, I don’t feel small.”
“You’re not,” Vishwa said, quietly but firmly. “You hold the room even when you whisper.”
She turned pink but held his gaze.
Parth stretched his arms over his head. “I pretend I’m okay more than I actually am. Making people laugh is easier than asking for help.”
Jeel, without teasing for once, leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re still Noise Pollution, but you’re ours.”
Jeel then confessed, “I act tough, but I panic when people leave. So I keep pushing first. Safer that way.”
Nobody said anything — just reached out, one by one, and pulled her into a soft group hug.
Vishwa, last to speak, said, “I document everyone’s stories because I don’t know how to tell my own.”
“You just did,” Jinal whispered.
---
By 4 AM, they were half-asleep — heads resting on each other, bodies tangled in blankets like vines. Jinal curled next to Vihan, a notebook still in her lap. Shikha leaned against Vishwa’s shoulder, her music still playing on low volume. Parth lay on the floor like a fallen soldier. Jeel had claimed the armrest of the sofa like a queen, arms crossed and snoring lightly.
It wasn’t planned.
But it felt like it was always meant to happen.
In the darkness, someone mumbled: “We’re kind of… a found family, huh?”
No one replied.
But everyone felt it.
---
End of Chapter 4 ✅
---
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