THEM 'Ishman'

Giggles and Tangles

The night draped itself over the city like a soft, heavy quilt. 

The clouds hung low, dark yet plush, as if whispering lullabies to the restless souls below. 

The air was a contradiction—warm yet crisp, the kind that made you want to curl up under a thick blanket, surrendering to its comforting embrace. 

Raindrops kissed the earth in rhythmic patterns, their scent—fresh, earthy, nostalgic—wrapping around the city like a familiar memory, urging people to slow down, close their eyes, and drift into the corners of their best dreams.

But in the heart of Mumbai, amidst towering buildings standing like silent watchers in the night, one apartment pulsed with life.

This wasn't just any apartment. 

This was their apartment. 

The one bursting with midnight cravings that turned into full-fledged kitchen disasters. The one where sleepy kisses were exchanged like absentminded habits. 

Where siblings coded their antics in unspoken glances, and boyfriends turned their chaos into something poetic. 

Sparkly taunts flew like arrows, only to be soothed by warm, whispered confessions moments later.

Tonight, the apartment felt like a world of its own, cocooned in a bubble of warmth. 

The scent of rain mixed with the faint lavender fragrance of a candle Ishan had insisted on lighting earlier—"For the vibe," he'd declared with dramatic hand gestures, before Shubman rolled his eyes and let him do whatever made him happy.

The night had settled into a tranquil lull, the soft hum of the ceiling fan blending with the distant rhythm of raindrops tapping against the window. 

Beneath the covers, wrapped in the golden glow of the bedside lamp, two figures lay sprawled on the bed—one lost in the depths of sleep, the other trapped in the restless abyss of midnight musings.

Shubman lay on his back, his breathing slow and even, his handsome face relaxed, the slight furrow of his brows the only trace of his usual grumpiness. 

His body radiated warmth, tucked securely within the confines of the thick, cozy blanket that shielded him from the cool air.

Ishan, however, was a different story altogether.

For the past twenty minutes, he had been rolling—rolling like a lost hamster who had no idea what to do with his energy. 

He flopped onto his side with a dramatic sigh. 

Then, dissatisfied, he flipped onto his stomach, his legs kicking the blanket off like an annoyed cat. The room was too hot.

But within moments, the air felt too cold, and with a huff, Ishan yanked the blanket back up. 

This vicious cycle repeated a few times, each sigh growing louder, each movement more exaggerated, until finally, he lay on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

And that's when his brain betrayed him.

"What if yeh pankha gir jaye?"

Ishan's eyes fixated on the ceiling fan, which moved at a torturously slow pace—Shubman ki galti. 

Shubman always felt cold at night, so the fan was practically crawling. Meanwhile, Ishan was burning alive, suffering.

His brain, of course, latched onto an even worse scenario.

"Agar pankha gira toh seedha mujhpe hi girega."

He gulped, already mentally writing his will. His dramatic suffering had reached its peak, and drastic times called for drastic measures.