The sun in Delhi doesn't just rise; it interrogates. By 7:00 AM, the light was pouring through the thin curtains of Ishani's apartment, landing directly on her eyelids like a reminder of everything she was supposed to be doing.
Ishani woke up with her hand clamped shut. Inside her palm, the brass edges of Kabir's compass had left a red, circular dent. It was cold, heavy, and felt like a secret weapon.
She shoved it under her pillow just as the door handle turned.
The Breakfast Inquisition
Mrs. Rao didn't believe in "slow mornings." She entered with a tray of poha and the sharp scent of ginger tea. She looked at Ishani—not with a mother's warmth, but with the analytical gaze of a site foreman checking for cracks in the foundation.
"You look like you haven't slept," Mrs. Rao said, setting the tray down with a deliberate clack. "I heard the floorboards creaking at midnight. Were you studying, or were you staring at the walls again?"
"I was… thinking about the haveli project, Ma," Ishani lied, her voice thick with sleep. "The drainage systems. Like you said."
"Good." Her mother sat at the foot of the bed. "Because I spoke to your father this morning. The Sharmas want to do a video call on Sunday. Sameer—the boy from Dubai—is visiting his parents. He's a lead engineer. He understands the 'technical' side of things. He can help you finish your degree and then you can practice architecture there. It's a perfect plan."
The plan. It was always the plan. A series of pre-drawn lines that Ishani was expected to trace until she died.
The Crack in the Foundation
Ishani felt the compass under her pillow. It felt like it was burning a hole through the mattress.
"I don't want to go to Dubai, Ma," Ishani said softly. She reached for her tea, her hand trembling just enough for her mother to notice. "I want to finish my project here. I want to see if I can actually build something that matters in this city."
Mrs. Rao's face hardened. "What matters is security, Ishani. You think this city cares about your 'vision'? Look at that boy downstairs—the one with the wrench. He has 'vision' too, I'm sure. And where is he? Living in a box, fixing other people's trash. Is that the life you want? To be the wife of a man who smells like a petrol pump?"
"He's a pilot," Ishani snapped, the words out before she could stop them.
The silence that followed was sharp. Mrs. Rao stood up slowly.
"So, you were out there last night." Her mother's voice was a whisper now, which was much worse than shouting. "You were with the mechanic. You're risking everything—your reputation, your father's hard work, this entire degree—for a man who won't even be here in a week?"
The Internal War
Ishani didn't back down. She stood up, the compass now gripped firmly in her pocket.
"He's leaving for Bangalore on Monday, Ma. He's not 'staying' anywhere. But he's the only person who looked at my blueprints and didn't ask me how much money they would make. He asked me how the wind would move through the halls."
"Wind doesn't pay the rent!" her mother shouted, finally breaking. "You are being a child. Give me your phone. Until that video call on Sunday, you are focusing on nothing but your college modules. No more 'venturi effects.' No more neighbors."
Mrs. Rao held out her hand.
Ishani felt the strings tightening. She could hand over the phone, play the part of the "good daughter," and let Kabir fly away into a different life. Or she could use the compass.
"I'm going to the library," Ishani said, her voice surprisingly steady. "To study. Alone."
She walked past her mother, her heart hammering a rhythm that felt like takeoff. She didn't take her phone, but as she reached the door, she felt the weight of the brass in her pocket. It was pointing south.
Kabir was downstairs, packing a life into a single bag. And she had forty-eight hours before the "Dubai Engineer" became her reality.
Ishani told herself she was going to the library. She even had her heavy History of Architecture textbook tucked under her arm as a shield. But when she reached the landing of the third floor, her feet simply stopped.
She didn't think. She just knocked on the door of 3B.
When Kabir opened it, he looked like a man who had already started to disappear. His apartment was mostly shadows and cardboard boxes. He was wearing a faded t-shirt with a grease stain near the hem, and for a second, they just stood there, caught in the silent space between "goodbye" and "not yet."
"The library is that way," Kabir said, his voice a low vibration in the small hallway. He gestured toward the street.
"I know," Ishani breathed. "But I think I'm allergic to load-bearing walls today. And my mother is currently auditing my soul. If I stay there, I'm going to turn into a blueprint."
Kabir looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the frantic energy in her eyes. He reached behind the door and grabbed a pair of keys. "I have a beat-up Splendor and six liters of petrol. It's not a Gulfstream, but it moves. You want to go?"
The Unscheduled Flight
They didn't go to the Upper Lake where the tourists went. Kabir took her toward the outskirts, where the city started to fray at the edges and the sky opened up.
Ishani sat on the back of the bike, her hands hovering near his waist before she finally gripped the metal rail. The wind in Delhi in February is deceptive—it's cool enough to make you shiver but carries the scent of sun-baked dust and flowering neem trees.
The View from the Edge
They ended up on a rocky hill overlooking the airport perimeter. Below them, the runway was a long, grey ribbon cutting through the scrubland.
"This is where I come when I need to remember that the world is bigger than a broken generator," Kabir said, kicking the kickstand down.
They sat on a flat rock, sharing a packet of spicy chana jor garam they'd bought from a roadside vendor. For three hours, the "Plan" didn't exist. There was no Sameer in Dubai, no Delhi exams, and no Monday morning train.
"You know," Ishani said, tracing the jagged line of a rock with her charcoal-stained thumb. "I spent my whole life thinking architecture was about making things stay still. But watching you... I think it's about making things survive the movement."
Kabir looked out at a plane taxiing in the distance.
"And I spent my life thinking flight was about leaving. But today? Today is the first time I've actually felt like I'm standing on solid ground."
It wasn't a perfect day.
The bike stalled twice on the way back.
Ishani got a smudge of oil on her favorite kurta.
The reality of the sunset started to itch at the back of their minds.
But it was theirs.
As they rode back into the chaotic heart of Delhi, the streetlights flickering on like a string of mismatched amber pearls, Ishani leaned her forehead against Kabir's back for just five seconds. It wasn't a confession. It was an anchor.
The Return
When they reached the apartment block, the silence returned. Kabir walked her to the bottom of the stairwell.
"Monday is tomorrow, Kabir," she whispered.
"I know," he said. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray hair from her forehead. His hand was rough, smelling faintly of petrol and the spicy lemon of the snack they'd shared.
"But Sunday isn't over yet. And you still have that compass."
"My mother is waiting upstairs," Ishani said, her heart sinking as she saw the light on in 4B.
"Then go be a 'good daughter' for the next hour," Kabir said with a sad, knowing smirk. "But remember the runway, Ishani. You're at the point of no return now."
The door to 4B didn't creak, but the silence inside was so heavy it felt like a physical barrier.
Ishani stepped in, her sandals clicking too loudly on the tile. She felt light—her head still filled with the roar of the wind and the smell of Kabir's faded t-shirt. She was ready to slip into her room, wash the oil smudge off her arm, and pretend the last four hours had been spent in the quiet company of dead architects.
Then she saw the dining table.
Mrs. Rao was sitting there, her back perfectly straight. In front of her, centered on the polished wood like a piece of evidence in a murder trial, was Ishani's History of Architecture textbook. Beside it lay her library card.
"The library closes at five on Sundays, Ishani," her mother said. She didn't turn around. Her voice was flat, devoid of the usual sharp irritation. This was worse. This was the voice of someone who had already finished the math.
"I... I must have stayed at a friend's place to finish the notes," Ishani stammered, her hand reflexively clutching the brass compass in her pocket.
"Which friend?" Mrs. Rao turned now. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her face was a mask of cold iron. "The one who rides a motorcycle that sounds like a tractor? The one who leaves the smell of cheap petrol and street food on your skin?"
Ishani froze. The "day of freedom" suddenly felt like a fever dream that was breaking.
"I saw you from the balcony," her mother continued, standing up. The chair scraped against the floor—a harsh, jagged sound. "I saw you clinging to that man. A man who has nothing. A man who is leaving tomorrow. You lied to me, Ishani. You looked me in the eye and you fabricated a story about a library so you could spend time with a laborer."
"He's not a laborer, Ma! He's—"
"He is a distraction!" Mrs. Rao's voice finally broke, rising into a sharp, wounded crescendo. "Do you think I enjoy being the jailer? Do you think your father works fourteen-hour shifts so you can throw your future away on a boy who fixes pipes? You have the Sharmas calling in twelve hours.
You have a life waiting for you in Dubai that most girls in this city would kill for."
She walked over to Ishshani, her gaze dropping to Ishani's pocket where her hand was still clenched.
"What is in your hand?"
"Nothing," Ishani whispered, stepping back.
"Give it to me."
"No."
The word hung in the air, vibrating. It was the first time Ishani had ever said it with that much weight. It wasn't a pout or a complaint; it was a boundary.
Mrs. Rao stared at her daughter as if she were a building she had designed that had suddenly, inexplicably, grown wings and tried to fly away.
"Fine," her mother said, her voice turning dangerously quiet again. "Keep your secrets. But the door stays locked tonight. And tomorrow morning, you will sit for that call. If you don't, I will call the university and withdraw your enrollment myself. I won't let you ruin your life for a 'feeling' that will be gone the moment his train pulls out of the station."
Mrs. Rao walked to the kitchen, the sound of the evening tea kettle beginning to hiss—a domestic sound that felt like a scream.
Ishani retreated to her room and locked the door. She pulled out the compass. The needle was spinning wildly, unable to find North in the middle of the storm.
The laptop screen glowed a clinical, unforgiving blue. It was 8:55 AM.
Ishani sat at the small desk, her college textbooks pushed to the far corner like a pile of discarded dreams. Her mother stood by the door, arms crossed, wearing her best silk saree—the one she only wore for weddings and funerals. Today felt like a bit of both.
"Smile, Ishani," her mother whispered. "Don't let him see your eyes look like that."
The Skype ringtone pierced the room—a digital bird chirp that set Ishani's teeth on edge. Then, the screen flickered to life.
Sameer was "perfect." He was framed by a floor-to-ceiling window in Dubai, the Burj Khalifa a shimmering needle in the background. He looked like a stock photo of success—neatly trimmed beard, a watch that probably cost more than Ishani's tuition, and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes because it was too busy being professional.
"Hello, Ishani," Sameer said. His voice was smooth, like expensive leather. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. My parents haven't stopped talking about your portfolio. They say you have a 'vision' for modernizing traditional spaces."
Ishani opened her mouth, but her throat felt like she'd been swallowing sawdust. "Hello, Sameer."
"I was looking at the plans for our new villa development here," Sameer continued, oblivious. He started sharing his screen, showing a 3D render of a glass-and-steel monstrosity. "I thought you might have some input on the interior flow. It's very 'future-forward."
Thud.
Ishani flinched. The sound didn't come from the laptop. It came from the stairwell outside her door. It was the heavy, unmistakable sound of a duffel bag hitting the concrete landing of the third floor.
Kabir was leaving.
The Two Worlds
"Ishani? Are you still there?" Sameer asked, his pixelated face tilting in concern.
"Yes," she managed. "I'm just… processing the scale."
Downstairs, a door slammed. Then, the rhythmic clomp-clomp of heavy work boots began descending the stairs. Each step felt like a hammer hitting a nail into the coffin of her weekend. She could almost see him—the grease-stained jacket, the mess of hair, the compass's twin etched in his mind.
"We have a very stable life planned," Sameer was saying, his voice competing with the sound of a motorcycle engine kicking to life in the courtyard below. Vroom. Vroom-vroom. The beat-up Splendor was struggling with the morning cold.
"Sameer seems so lovely, doesn't he?" Mrs. Rao chimed in from the shadows, her hand gripping the back of Ishani's chair.
Ishani's hand was in her pocket, her fingers white-knuckled around the brass compass. The needle was surely spinning. He's at the gate, she thought. He's putting on his helmet. He's looking up at my window.
"Ishani," Sameer said, leaning closer to his camera. "I know this is a lot. But I believe in structures. I believe in things that are built to last. Don't you?"
The motorcycle engine finally caught. It hummed—a low, vibrating growl that Ishani felt in her marrow. It was the sound of the "point of no return."
The Breaking Point
Ishani looked at Sameer. He was a blueprint of a life she was supposed to want. He was "Safe." He was "Solid."
Then she looked at the door.
"I'm sorry, Sameer," Ishani said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through his presentation on 'market-value aesthetics' like a knife.
"Sorry? For what?"
"The flow," Ishani said, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up. "The flow of your villa. It's wrong. It's completely aerodynamic-neutral. There's no wind. No one can breathe in a house like that."
Mrs. Rao's hand tightened on the chair until the wood creaked. "Ishani, shut up."
"And I can't live in a building that doesn't know how to fly,"
Ishani stood up, the chair screeching back. She didn't look at her mother. She didn't look at the confused engineer in Dubai.
She looked at the laptop camera. "You're a good man, Sameer. But you're a ceiling. And I think I've spent too much time looking at the floor."
She reached out and slammed the laptop shut. The blue light died instantly, leaving the room in a sudden, dusty grey.
"Ishani Rao! What have you done?" her mother shrieked.
Ishani didn't answer. She was already at the door, her sandals in her hand, her college degree, her mother's pride, and the "Dubai dream" falling away like discarded scaffolding.
She hit the stairs at a run.