Shant hadn't slept.
He'd been lying in bed since 5 AM, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream over and over. Her face. Her voice. The way she'd looked at him and said goodbye.
"Shant, this is goodbye."
His chest ached like something physical had been ripped out of him.
He rolled over, grabbed his phone from the nightstand. 6:47 AM.
He'd cried himself out hours ago. Now there was just emptiness. And beneath the emptiness, something harder. Determination. Or maybe desperation. He didn't know the difference anymore.
He should sleep. He needed to sleep.
But his mind wouldn't stop.
She's real. She has to be real.
And then, in the spiral of exhausted, desperate thoughts, something clicked.
She was from Delhi. Or nearby. The collision had happened near his college. The flower shop was close to campus. She had to be a student. Local. Somewhere within reach.
Shant sat up.
His psychology training, buried under layers of grief and obsession, surfaced. Think logically. Break it down.
DU has multiple campuses. South Campus, North Campus. Nearby colleges. If she's a student, she's findable.
He opened Instagram.
His hands were shaking as he typed into the search bar.
Aradhya
Dozens of results. He scrolled, heart pounding.
Not her. Not her. Not her.
He added: DU South Campus
And there.
Third result.
A profile picture. Long dark hair. Brown eyes. The same face.
His breath stopped.
He clicked.
Aradhya Mourya
The bio read: "🌸 Finding meaning in petals and patterns | Botany Major | DU South Campus"
Shant stared at the screen.
She was real.
She was a botany student. That explained the flowers. The way she talked about them in the dreams like they meant something more than just color and petals.
She's going to be at my campus.
His hands were trembling so badly he almost dropped the phone.
He scrolled through her profile. A few photos. Her with friends at a botanical garden. Her holding a potted plant, smiling. Her sitting in a greenhouse, surrounded by greenery.
Every photo confirmed it.
It was her.
The girl from his dreams.
Aradhya.
Shant stared at the photos for a long time. Her smile. The way she held flowers like they were fragile and precious. The light in her eyes.
She looked happy.
Alive.
Real.
He took a screenshot of her profile, then immediately felt like a creep and deleted it.
Then he just sat there, phone in hand, staring at her face.
She's real. She's real. She's real.
But that didn't answer the bigger question.
Why am I dreaming about her?
By the time the sun rose, Shant had given up on sleep entirely.
He dragged himself out of bed, showered, got dressed. His mother was already in the kitchen when he came out, making tea.
"You're up early," she said, glancing at him.
"Couldn't sleep."
She studied his face, her expression softening. "Another bad dream?"
"Yeah."
She poured him a cup of tea and set it in front of him. "You've been having a lot of those lately."
Shant nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
His mother hesitated, then sat down across from him.
"You know," she said quietly, "when I was your age, I had terrible dreams too. Always the same one. I kept dreaming I'd lost something important, but I could never remember what it was."
Shant looked up. "Did you ever figure it out?"
She smiled sadly. "Eventually. But by then it was too late to get it back."
The words hung in the air.
Shant stared at his tea. "What was it?"
"Myself," she said softly. "I lost myself. Forgot who I was before... before everything else."
She reached out and squeezed his hand.
"Don't do that, Shant. Don't lose yourself trying to hold onto something that might not be real. Or trying to fix something that isn't yours to fix."
Shant nodded, his throat tight.
But he didn't know if he could follow that advice.
Because the something he was trying to hold onto felt more real than anything else in his life.
His father's door was still closed. He hadn't come out since the night before.
Shant finished his tea in silence, grabbed his bag, and left.
He went to college.
But he didn't go to class.
He spent the morning walking. Campus. Nearby cafés. The park across the street. Anywhere she might be.
He scanned every face. Every girl with long dark hair made his heart jump.
But none of them were her.
By noon, he was exhausted. Frustrated. On edge.
Rishi found him sitting on a bench near the library, staring at nothing.
"There you are," Rishi said, dropping onto the bench beside him. "I've been looking for you. You weren't in class."
"I know."
Rishi studied him. "You look like shit, man. Seriously. What's going on?"
Shant didn't answer.
"Is this about that girl? The one you mentioned?"
Shant's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"Did you find her?"
"I saw her. Once. But I didn't... I couldn't..."
"Couldn't what?"
"Talk to her."
Rishi frowned. "Why not?"
Shant shook his head. "It's complicated."
"Everything's complicated with you lately." Rishi leaned back, crossing his arms. "Look, I'm worried about you. You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're obsessing over someone you don't even know. This isn't healthy."
"I know."
"Then do something about it. Come to Noida with me this weekend. My cousin's throwing a party. Get out of your head for a few hours. Just... take a break."
Shant shook his head. "I can't. Not right now."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
Rishi sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. But you need to focus on yourself, Shant. Don't lose yourself in this. Whatever this is. I've seen people do that, and it doesn't end well."
Shant nodded, but he wasn't listening.
He was already thinking about where to search next.
Rishi stood up, looking down at him with something like pity.
"Let me know if you need anything, okay? Even if it's just someone to talk to."
"Thanks," Shant said quietly.
Rishi walked away, and Shant was alone again.
By afternoon, Shant found himself at Sunder Nursery.
It was one of the few places in Delhi where flowers grew in abundance. Gardens and pathways lined with roses, jasmine, marigolds. The kind of place that felt removed from the chaos of the city.
He'd been here before. Years ago, maybe. But walking through the gates now, something felt different.
Familiar.
He walked slowly, scanning the paths, the benches, the trees.
And then he saw it.
A bench under a sprawling tree. Flowers blooming all around.
Shant stopped.
The bench was old, weathered. Someone had carved initials into the armrest. He stepped closer, squinting at the letters.
A + S
His heart stuttered.
In the dream, had those initials been there? He couldn't remember. But the bench was the same. The tree was the same. Everything was the same.
His chest tightened.
This is where we met. Where everything started.
And this is where everything will end too.
Her voice, from the dream, echoed in his head.
This was the place.
The botanical garden from the breakup dream.
Sunder Nursery.
Shant walked toward the bench, his legs heavy. He sat down, staring at the flowers.
Yellow. White. Red.
"Both. Why choose when you can have both?"
He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
The dream wasn't just a dream.
It was this place. This exact place.
And if the place was real, then what else was real?
The breakup?
The white lilies?
"Shant, this is goodbye."
He opened his eyes, his throat tight.
Am I supposed to meet her here? Or am I supposed to lose her here?
Or maybe both. Maybe I meet her here, and then lose her here. Maybe that's the pattern. The wheel turning. Beginning and ending in the same place.
He didn't know.
By the time Shant left Sunder Nursery, the sun was low in the sky. Golden light stretched across the pathways, casting long shadows.
He walked slowly, his mind heavy.
He passed cafés. Street vendors. Students laughing and talking.
And then he turned onto the familiar street.
The flower shop.
The fortune teller's stall beside it.
Shant slowed.
He hadn't planned to come here. But his feet had carried him anyway.
And then he saw her.
Aradhya.
She was standing in front of the flower shop, looking at the buckets of flowers. Yellow marigolds. White roses.
Shant froze.
She was here. Right here. Just like in the dream.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the petals of a white rose. Then she turned to the yellow marigolds, her expression thoughtful.
She was trying to decide.
Yellow or white.
Shant's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
Go. Talk to her. Say something.
But his legs wouldn't move.
Because if he approached her now, if he talked to her, then what?
Did that mean the rest of the dream came true too?
The breakup. The white lilies. The goodbye.
What if staying away is the only way to change it?
Aradhya picked up a bouquet of white roses, then set them down. She looked at the yellow marigolds again, her brow furrowed.
A voice called out. "Aradhya! Come on, we're going to be late!"
A girl, maybe a friend, was waving from down the street.
Aradhya glanced back at the flowers one more time, then sighed.
"I still can't decide," she said softly, almost to herself.
And then she turned and walked away.
Shant stood there, frozen, watching her go.
She didn't see him. She had no idea he was standing there, ten feet away, heart pounding, unable to move. To her, he didn't exist. Not yet.
But just before she disappeared around the corner, she stopped.
She glanced back.
At the fortune teller's stall.
Her expression shifted. Curious. Drawn.
For a moment, Shant thought she might go inside.
But her friend called again, and Aradhya turned away.
She was gone.
Shant exhaled, his chest aching.
And then it hit him.
In the dream, they'd chosen the flowers together. Both yellow and white.
And then they'd gone to the fortune teller together.
The pattern is repeating.
She wanted to go. Just like in the dream.
Which means the meeting is near.
But he hadn't approached her.
He'd let her walk away.
Did I just change it? Or did I make it worse?
Shant stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she'd been.
Then he turned and walked toward the fortune teller's stall.
The woman looked up as he approached. The same woman from before. Red shawl. Dark, knowing eyes.
She gestured for him to sit.
Shant sat.
"You came back," she said.
"I need to know something."
"Ask."
Shant hesitated, then said, "Can I change the repeating past?"
The woman tilted her head, studying him.
"The wheel has turned before," she said slowly. "But each turn is not the same. You are not the same. She is not the same. The river flows, but the water is always new."
Shant frowned. "So I can change it?"
"You can choose differently," she said. "But choosing nothing is also a choice. Running is also a choice. And every choice has consequences."
Shant stared at her. "What if I choose wrong?"
The woman smiled, sad and knowing.
"Then you will have chosen," she said. "And the wheel will turn again."
She waved her hand, dismissing him.
Shant stood slowly and walked away, her words echoing in his head.
The water is always new.
Did that mean he could change it? Or that he was doomed to try and fail, over and over, like water flowing in circles?
He didn't know.
But one thing was clear: doing nothing wasn't protecting him. It was just another way of choosing.
By the time Shant got home, it was late.
The apartment was quiet. His mother was in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner. His father's door was closed.
"You're home late," his mother said.
"Yeah. Just... walking."
She gave him a concerned look but didn't press.
Shant went to his room, dropped his bag, and sat at his desk.
He stared at his diary but didn't open it.
He couldn't write. Not yet.
His mind was too full.
I saw her. I didn't talk to her. The pattern is repeating. The meeting is near.
But what do I do?
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
And then he heard it.
The front door opening. His father's voice.
"You're still up?"
His mother's voice, tight. "It's eleven. Where were you?"
"Work ran late."
"Work." Her voice was sharp. Cold. "You've been saying that a lot lately."
"Because it's true."
"Is it?"
Silence.
Then his father's voice, defensive. "What are you implying?"
"You know exactly what I'm implying."
"I'm not doing this again."
"Then tell me the truth!" Her voice cracked. Not angry now. Breaking. "Just tell me the truth. Please. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep pretending everything is fine when I know it's not."
A long pause.
Then his father's voice, quieter. Colder.
"You don't want the truth. You want someone to blame."
"That's not..."
"I'm done talking about this."
A crash. Something hitting the wall. A plate, maybe.
"Don't you walk away from me!"
But the door slammed anyway.
And then silence.
Shant pressed his hands over his ears, but it didn't help.
He could still hear his mother crying in the kitchen. Soft, broken sobs.
He buried his face in his pillow, trying to drown it out.
He was so tired.
Tired of the dreams. Tired of the fighting. Tired of not knowing what was real and what wasn't. Tired of being afraid. Tired of carrying his parents' pain and his own. Tired of everything repeating, over and over, with no way out.
He closed his eyes.
And slowly, finally, he fell asleep.
The dream started quietly.
He was walking down a familiar street. The flower shop. The fortune teller's stall.
And she was beside him.
Aradhya.
They were holding flowers. Yellow marigolds and white roses, wrapped in brown paper.
She smiled at him, and his chest ached.
"Let's go in," she said, nodding toward the fortune teller's stall.
Shant hesitated. "You really believe in this stuff?"
She laughed softly. "I believe in trying everything once."
They walked toward the stall.
The air smelled of incense. Candles flickered in glass jars.
The fortune teller looked up as they approached.
She gestured for them to sit.
Aradhya sat first, setting the flowers beside her.
Shant sat beside her.
The fortune teller reached for their hands.