The note in Shubman’s hand felt heavier than the world itself. He unfolded it, his sharp eyes scanning the words hastily scribbled in blue ink:
Shubman,
There are things I need to tell you—things that might change everything. But not here, not now. Meet me tomorrow at 5 p.m. near the old tea plantation by the cliff. Don’t tell anyone.
~Ishan.
Shubman leaned back against one of the wooden pews, his mind racing. Who had Ishan become over the years? Why the secrecy? A part of him wanted to storm out and demand answers, but another part—the part that still remembered Ishan’s soft laughter from their time in Kerala—knew he had to wait.
---
The next day, Shubman was up early. His routine of brewing coffee and flipping through his latest photographs was disrupted by thoughts of Ishan. As he poured the steaming liquid into his mug, he heard a familiar voice outside his window.
“Still brooding over your pictures, huh?” A tall, lean man with shaggy hair and a teasing grin leaned against the windowsill. His name was Abhishek, Shubman’s childhood friend and occasional troublemaker.
Shubman smirked but didn’t respond. Abhi had a knack for prying into his business, and today, Shubman wasn’t in the mood.
“Come on, man. You’re clearly distracted,” Abhi said, walking in uninvited. “Is it work? Or… something else?”
Shubman sighed. Abhi had the persistence of a journalist—which, coincidentally, he was. “It’s nothing,” Shubman replied, brushing past him to grab his coat.
“Nothing, my foot. You’ve got that look in your eyes,” Abhi teased. “Is it a girl? Wait, is it a guy? Oh, now I’m interested.”
Shubman turned, his dimples flashing in an amused but exasperated smile. “Abhi, if I tell you, will you promise not to poke around?”
“Depends on how juicy it is,” Abhi quipped.
Shubman rolled his eyes. “Fine. His name is Ishan. We met years ago, and he just… showed up again. There’s something about him I can’t shake.”
Abhi raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. And why do I feel like there’s more to this story?”
“There is,” Shubman admitted. “But I don’t even know what it is yet.”
---
Later that day, Shubman found himself near the old tea plantation, the earthy scent of tea leaves mingling with the crisp mountain air. Ishan was already there, seated on a fallen log. He looked up as Shubman approached, a nervous smile on his lips.
“You came,” Ishan said softly.
“Of course,” Shubman replied, sitting beside him. “You’ve got my attention, Ishan. Now tell me what’s going on.”
Ishan took a deep breath, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I… I’m sorry for being so mysterious. But there’s something you need to know. Do you remember why I left Kerala so abruptly back then?”
Shubman frowned, trying to recall. Their time together had ended suddenly, with Ishan leaving without a proper goodbye. “You said it was a family emergency.”
Ishan nodded, his eyes distant. “It was. My parents were in trouble. They’d gotten involved in something they shouldn’t have something dangerous.”
“What kind of trouble?” Shubman asked, his voice gentle but firm.
Ishan hesitated before speaking. “Debt. To people who don’t forgive or forget. After they passed away, those people came after me.”
Shubman’s jaw tightened. “And they still are?”
Ishan nodded. “I thought I’d escaped them. But recently, I started receiving threats again. That’s why I came here to hide. But when I saw your name in a local magazine article about your photography, I thought… maybe you could help me.”
Shubman felt a surge of protectiveness. “You should’ve come to me earlier,” he said. “I would’ve done anything to help.”
Ishan’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember me.”
Shubman placed a hand over Ishan’s, his touch warm and reassuring. “I could never forget you, Ishan.”
The moment hung between them, their connection deeper than words. But it was interrupted by a voice, low and menacing, coming from the shadows.
“Well, isn’t this touching?”
Shubman and Ishan turned sharply to see a man step out from the trees. He was tall and burly, with a scar running down his cheek. Behind him stood two other men, equally intimidating.
“Who are you?” Shubman demanded, rising to his feet.
The man smirked. “Let’s just say I’m an old friend of Ishan’s family. And I’m here to collect what’s owed.”
Ishan’s face paled. “I told you, I don’t have anything to give.”
“Then we’ll take *you* instead,” the man growled, stepping closer.
Shubman’s fists clenched. “Over my dead body,” he said, his voice like steel.
The man laughed. “Brave words, pretty boy. But you don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“Maybe not,” Shubman said, his dimpled smile returning, though this time it was cold. “But you don’t know me either.”
Before the men could react, Shubman grabbed Ishan’s hand and bolted into the forest. The two of them ran, their breaths ragged, the sound of footsteps and shouts close behind.
“Shubman,” Ishan gasped, “they’ll catch us!”
“Not if I can help it,” Shubman said, his grip on Ishan’s hand firm. He led them through the dense trees, his mind racing for a plan. Suddenly, he spotted a narrow cave hidden behind a thicket. He pulled Ishan inside, covering them both with fallen branches.
They sat in silence, their bodies pressed together, as the men’s voices grew fainter and finally disappeared. Ishan clung to Shubman, his small frame trembling.
“It’s okay,” Shubman whispered, wrapping his arms around him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
Ishan looked up at him, his heart-shaped lips quivering. “Why are you doing this for me?”
Shubman cupped Ishan’s face, his thumb brushing against his soft cheek. “Because you matter to me, Ishan. You always have.”
.
.
.
.
~To be continued
