Then she’d leave. Finish her degree. Build a career on her own merit. The ache she felt when he mentioned Riya Sharma was irrelevant.
Temporary.
She finished her notes, closed her notebook with steady hands, and stood. “I’ll send the final schedule by tonight.”
“Thank you,” he said, still looking at his phone.
She walked out of the van, down the three metal steps, across the set toward the production office.
Only when she was alone in the bathroom with the door locked, did she allow herself to lean against the sink.
She removed her glasses and rubbed the faint marks on her nose. The mirror reflected a familiar face. Simple. Serious. Sensible. Not the kind of girl men like Vikram Khanna fell in love with.
“Crushes are meant to be crushed,” she whispered to her reflection.
The words sounded firm. Like strategy. Like protection.
Tomorrow she would wear them like armor when he smiled unexpectedly. When his fingers brushed hers taking a file. When Riya’s name entered another conversation.
The girl in the mirror looked back. Unconvinced. But trying.
Chapter 6
The leather strap of her bag dug into Divya’s shoulder like a reminder.
Fourteen hours on her feet, running between set locations, makeup trailers, and production offices. Her glasses slipped down her nose for the hundredth time. She pushed them up.
Andheri West met her with its familiar evening chaos.
Honking rickshaws. Vendors shouting last prices. The smell of cumin and garlic hitting hot oil from open kitchen windows. A pressure cooker whistling somewhere above street level. News anchors arguing through thin walls.
It was loud. Comforting. Real.
Her building came into view. Shanti Niwas Cooperative Housing Society, seven stories of peeling paint and practical living. Not pretty, but solid.
The watchman straightened slightly when he saw her. “Late today, Divya didi.”
“Shoot went long.” The fewest words possible. Her energy had limits.
The ground floor aunties sat in their usual formation. Four women sat on the bench by the entrance, sharp eyes missing nothing. Their conversation stopped when they saw her. Standard procedure. They’d resume the moment she passed, adding her to whatever they were dissecting.
“How is the job going, beta?” Mrs. Deshmukh called out.
What she meant: Tell us everything about Vikram Khanna so we can discuss it for days.
“Fine, Aunty. Very busy.”
What Divya meant: Not now. Maybe not ever.
The stairs loomed. Three flights, no elevator today. Again. The “Out of Order” sign had become a permanent décor. Her calves protested each step.
First floor.
Second floor.
The building’s yellow lights flickered overhead.
Third floor finally.