Right TimingIsha wiped counters at Coffee Junction, replaying the spill in her head for the tenth time. Idiot. First cute guy in weeks, and I baptize him in latte. Her phone was blowing up with Instagram notifications—another reel about "5 Mumbai Date Fails" edging toward 1K views. Content creation paid the bills, barely, but real life? Total flop.She'd texted the number on his coffee cup receipt, heart pounding like a bad Bollywood chase scene. No reply. Figures. He probably thinks I'm a klutz stalker. Her shift dragged; her mom's latest call echoed: "Beta, marriage proposals are piling up. When will you settle?"Settle? With who, Mr. Latte Stain? Isha sighed, scrolling her DMs—thirsty comments, no substance.Then, buzz: Unknown number: Voucher accepted. But only if you explain why baristas weaponize coffee. - Spill Survivor.She grinned, thumbs flying. Weapon? Nah, just testing your reflexes. Passable. Tomorrow, 4 PM? My treat, no spills promised.Spill Survivor: Bold claim. You're on. But if I show up coffee-free, you owe me a story. Why the apron life?It's complicated. Stories over coffee. Deal?Their texts pinged back and forth—light jabs about Mumbai traffic, her "caffeine terrorism," his "survival skills." By midnight, it felt easy. Too easy.Aarav tossed his phone aside, staring at the ceiling. This is dumb. Wrong number means nothing. But he couldn't stop smiling. One coffee. What's the harm?Then his screen lit up: her last text. Night, survivor. Don't ghost. 😏
Ghost? He was the king of it. So why did that feel like a challenge he wanted to lose?