The last morning in Bhavnagar felt like leaving a movie set I wasn't done shooting on. My suitcase was bursting, my emotions were overpacked, and my brain was doing full Olympic-level somersaults like it had chugged ten energy drinks. The streets looked exactly the same, but suddenly they felt softer—like they were whispering, "Come back soon, drama queen." Or maybe that was just me being the overly emotional disaster that I am.
The moment I dragged myself into the train with my parents, the entire Bhavnagar montage started playing in my head like a badly edited YouTube vlog—pani puri competitions, roaming until our legs gave up, laughing like absolute idiots with Kiara, and embarrassing myself in public every two hours. I pressed my forehead against the train window dramatically—because yes, I am the main character—and whispered, "Goodbye, world. Mumbai awaits."
My mom gave me that look mothers reserve specifically for their most dramatic children. "Misha, why are you whispering like you're in some tragic climax?"
"Because I am in a tragic climax."
"Sit properly."
"No one understands the depth of my sorrow."
She ignored me. She's experienced.
The train rattled forward and the further we went, the heavier I felt. Or maybe my emotional damage was just being extra clingy. Somewhere between two stations and a vendor screaming "chai-chai-chai," my brain did the thing it definitely shouldn't have done.
It thought of him.
Aarav.
WHY. WHY WOULD MY BRAIN DO THAT. Who signed the permission slip for this mental torture? One moment I was thinking about Kiara's laugh, and the next—BAM—his stupid, peaceful, annoyingly calm face floated into my mind like a slow-motion K-drama scene no one asked for.
I slapped my forehead. "STOP."
My dad looked up from his newspaper. "Stop what?"
"Thinking."
He nodded. "Good idea. Try it more often."
Hilarious. My whole family thinks they're stand-up comedians.
By the time the train rolled into Mumbai, my emotions felt like they had been put through a washing machine on turbo mode. The familiar rush of people, the noise, the humidity—it all felt like home wrapping itself around me. And when I stepped out, the smell of Mumbai vada pav hit me like a warm hug from the universe. Nothing overpriced, nothing fancy, just pure Mumbai comfort.
But inside? Inside I felt like an overdramatic biscuit dipped too long in tea—soft, broken, unnecessary.
New semester. New beginning. New chaos.
Same confused brain. Same overthinking. Same emotional circus.
And somewhere, buried in all the chaos, was a name I really didn't want to think about.
Aarav.
Ugh. Why.
For three days straight, I was the living, breathing definition of a depressed potato. I wandered around the house wearing oversized T-shirts that could double as tents, staring at the ceiling like it owed me emotional healing. Every corner of the house felt extra dramatic, probably because my brain kept replaying Bhavnagar moments like a chaotic highlight reel. And every single time—like an ad you cannot skip—Aarav's face would suddenly appear. Why was he in my mind? He wasn't rent-free. He was rent-raising, adding mental GST and emotional interest for no valid reason.
And the worst part? Whenever his name appeared in my thoughts, I felt... something. Not butterflies—those are cute. These felt more like confused pigeons flapping inside my ribcage, slamming into each other, making a mess. I hated it with full passion. I kept telling myself it was nothing, just leftover brain chemicals from Bhavnagar, but the stupid pigeons refused to sit still.
I missed Kiara too. The constant noise. The chaos. The way we laughed like hyenas in public and embarrassed ourselves proudly. Without her, Mumbai felt too quiet. Too normal. Like a horror movie where nothing happens but you feel like something might happen. I wasn't made for silence; I was made for nonsense.
One night, my mom walked past my room and found me staring at the wall with the emotional intensity of a ghost from a low-budget serial. She stood at the door, confused and slightly concerned. "What happened to you?" she asked.
"I'm... emotional," I said dramatically, like I was acting in a tragic monologue.
"Why?" she asked, already regretting the question.
"I don't know," I said, even more dramatically.
She muttered, "Drama queen," and walked away.
Honestly? Accurate.
By the fourth day, I realized I was one dramatic sigh away from writing sad poetry and listening to heartbreak songs I couldn't relate to. I needed human contact before I emotionally disintegrated. I needed someone who would understand my chaos without judging me. Someone who would handle my overthinking, my emotional pigeons, and my brain's nonsense.
Which meant only one thing.
I needed Nidhi.
The moment I saw Nidhi standing at her door, all my emotions exploded like a cheap D-Mart water balloon made in some illegal factory. I didn't walk—I launched toward her like a Bollywood heroine reunited with her long-lost sister after a dramatic plastic-surgery plot twist.
"NIDHHHIIIIIIII!" I screamed, arms flapping like a dying pigeon.
Nidhi jumped back. "WHY are you screaming like someone chased you?"
"Because I MISSED YOUUUU," I wailed, clutching my heart like it personally broke.
She blinked. "You saw me before leaving. You didn't shift to Antarctica."
"It FELT like Antarctica! EMOTIONALLY! MENTALLY! SPIRITUALLY! I WAS A FROZEN PEAS PACKET!"
She exhaled hard, already regretting being friends with me. "Okay drama queen, calm down."
"I CAN'T. I PHYSICALLY CAN'T."
She groaned. "What happened now?"
I flicked an imaginary shawl like a full Ekta Kapoor vamp. "Sit. This is a long story."
She deadpanned. "We are already sitting."
"Emotionally sit also."
She stared at me like I was a software update her brain couldn't download.
"Misha..."
"FINE, LISTEN," I declared, pacing dramatically like a TED Talk speaker possessed by caffeine and trauma.
"I had the BEST time in Bhavnagar. PEAK MISHA ERA. Kiara and I were absolute psychopaths. I embarrassed myself five hundred times. One near-death experiences—because of cow that looked at me like I owed h money. I ate pani puri like it was prasad. I lost UNO to three boys who personally attacked my confidence and my entire existence."
Nidhi smiled softly. "Aww, that sounds—"
"I'M NOT FINISHED!" I snapped so violently even God flinched in heaven.
"Oh god," she muttered.
"And THEN," I pointed at the ceiling like lodging an FIR with God, "my brain BETRAYED me."
"How?"
"AARAV."
She choked. "What about him?"
I grabbed a cushion like it was CPR equipment.
"HE WAS IN MY HEAD. CONSTANTLY. UNINVITED. LIKE A POP-UP AD FOR HAIR TRANSPLANT."
Nidhi started wheezing. "WHAT?!"
"YES!" I yelled. "I'd be vibing, living my best life, and suddenly—BOOM—his stupid face would jump at me like some 3AM horror jumpscare."
She slapped her thigh laughing. "Mishaaa—"
"I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!" I yelled. "Why am I thinking about him?! Do I LIKE him? Am I sick? Is this a disease? Did the heat FRY my brain cells?!"
"MISHA STOP—"
"I'm having an identity crisis," I whispered, collapsing onto her sofa like I was auditioning for a tragic TV serial.
She smirked. "You just miss him."
I pointed at her like a dramatic lawyer. "NO. I miss my BRAIN when it worked."
She crossed her arms. "Be honest. Do you LIKE like him?"
"NO," I said confidently.
She stared.
"...Maybe," I whispered.
She stared harder.
"FINE. I DON'T KNOWWWW!" I screamed, throwing myself into her lap like a fainting princess.
Nidhi started laughing so hard she nearly fell off the sofa.
"STOP LAUGHING AT MY PAIN!" I shrieked.
"I can't," she wheezed. "You look like someone stole your snacks."
"THEY STOLE MY PEACE!"
I threw myself dramatically on the floor. "I AM A BROKEN WOMAN."
Nidhi rolled her eyes. "You're a broken brain."
But suddenly, the chaos inside me softened a bit.
I looked at her with big tragic Bollywood eyes.
"I also... miss Bhavnagar. And Kiara. And roaming like idiots. And laughing so much my lungs filed a resignation letter. Now I'm just here... rotting like leftover pizza."
She patted my head like one pats an emotionally unstable street puppy.
"You'll be fine. College is starting. Your girl gang is coming. Your idiots will annoy you. You'll forget this Aarav nonsense."
I sniffed. "Promise?"
"Yes, dumbass."
And just like that, I actually felt... lighter.
Because as the next few days passed, Mumbai life slowly rebooted. My brain didn't instantly forget Aarav—no, it still betrayed me sometimes—but my group chat started blowing up with messages, memes, and nonsense from my college friends. The chaos returned. The familiar madness came running back like a lost dog.
And suddenly... Aarav wasn't the center of my emotional solar system anymore.
Maybe it really was infatuation.
Temporary.
Situational.
A brain glitch caused by too much pani puri and Kiara's madness aura.
And just like that, something inside me unclenched.
Maybe I wasn't heartbroken—just emotionally constipated.
And maybe the chaos I was born for was already sprinting toward me like a dramatic Bollywood train scene.
But one thing was clear:
The moment my college reopened...
The real chaos was about to begin.