At 2:07 a.m., I was crying in a public washroom at Phoenix Mall because my eyeliner had officially betrayed me.
Not because of heartbreak.
Not because of love.
Because my UPI payment failed for the third time and the washroom lady outside was knocking like I owed her ancestral property.
"Madam jaldi," she said.
As if I wasn't already late to life.
I stared at my phone screen.
₹183.
One hundred eighty-three rupees.
That's all it took to turn adulthood into a public embarrassment.
My Instagram feed refreshed on its own, like it enjoyed my suffering.
Girls my age were glowing under concert lights, screaming lyrics, posting mirror selfies with captions like healing era while dating the same red flag in different fonts. Everyone was either:
in a gym
in a relationship
in therapy
or pretending they were healed
I was in a mall washroom, holding back tears, wearing a fake Zara top from Sarojini that smelled like struggle and broken confidence.
Welcome to Gen-Z adulthood.
Where you're body-positive but still hate your stomach.
Where you say situationships are toxic but still reply "hmm" at 1:43 a.m.
Where skincare is a personality and emotional damage is a lifestyle.
I wiped my face with tissue so thin it felt like emotional symbolism.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
> You left your resume at the café.
I frowned.
I hadn't applied anywhere today.
Another message came immediately.
> Also… you cried on the wrong floor.
My soul left my body.
I stepped out.
That's when I saw him.
Not dramatic.
Not slow-motion cinematic.
He was leaning against the railing, scrolling calmly, wearing something so simple it screamed expensive. No logos. No flex. Just quiet money.
The kind of man who didn't chase trends—
trends waited for his approval.
Our eyes met.
I looked away first.
Because people like him didn't notice people like me.
I was the girl who counted steps instead of calories because therapy costs money. The girl who knew gym supplements by price, not results. The girl who believed in hard work because privilege had already rejected me.
He walked closer.
"You dropped this," he said.
He was holding my resume.
I laughed.
"That's trash."
He tilted his head.
"No. That's effort."
No one had ever said that to me.
Ever.
I grabbed the paper, embarrassed.
"I wasn't crying because of that," I blurted.
"I mean—I was—but also I wasn't. It's complicated."
He smiled slightly.
"Everything real is."
My phone buzzed again.
LOW BALANCE.
The universe really said, Let's humble her publicly.
I locked my screen like it had personally attacked me.
Too late.
He saw it.
"How much?" he asked, way too calmly.
I laughed.
The kind of laugh you make when your dignity is already dead.
"Relax," I said. "I'm not buying diamonds. It's a washroom. I'm financially stable enough to pee."
He raised an eyebrow.
I kept talking.
Because silence would've killed me.
"It's ₹183," I added. "Which is nothing. Except when your bank account has decided to practice minimalism."
He pulled out his phone.
"No—" I said instantly.
"No no no. Absolutely not. I'm not adding 'sponsored pee' to my trauma list."
He smiled.
Actually smiled.
"Too late."
Before I could stop him, he scanned the QR and paid.
₹183.
Just like that.
The washroom lady nodded like she'd witnessed a business transaction.
I stared at him.
"This is humiliating," I said.
"You're welcome."
"I don't take money from strangers."
"Good," he said. "Then consider this an investment."
"In what?"
"In your future TED Talk," he replied.
"Title: How ₹183 Changed My Life."
I snorted.
I actually snorted.
I hated that he made me laugh when I was one inconvenience away from crying again.
"Why would you do that?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"Because someday you'll earn way more than this and forget today completely."
"I doubt that," I said.
"I remember every embarrassing thing I've ever done. This just joined the Top Five."
He checked his watch.
"I'm late."
Then he looked at me again, eyes calm but sharp.
"You're not invisible," he said.
"You're just underpaid."
That line hit harder than poetry ever could.
He turned and walked away.
Leaving behind ₹183…
and the most emotionally confusing washroom experience of my life.
I stood there for a long second, heart racing, resume shaking in my hand.
I didn't know his name.
I didn't know his world.
But I knew one thing.
This man had no idea he'd just ruined every emotionally unavailable boy for me forever.
And somewhere deep inside, a terrifying thought formed—
If he was the richest man in the world…
Why did it feel like I was the one who couldn't afford to meet him?