An Inconvenient Flame

Chapter 60

Ishika's pov

The cursor blinks against the white of the screen, impatient. It's strange how a simple blinking line can feel like pressure.

I'm on the sofa, cross-legged, my laptop balanced on a cushion. The UPSC DAF form stares back at me. I've filled every section, every box. Except one.

Service Preference.

I bite the inside of my cheek, staring at the blinking cursor as if it'll tell me what to do.  IAS, IFS, IRS, IAAS. But only two really echo.

IFS. IAS.

It used to be so clear once.

I rest my chin on my palm. The me from a few years ago would have laughed at this hesitation. That Ishika always knew what she wanted. IFS.

I'd said it so many times, with that sense of pride, the kind that comes when you know you're chasing something that belongs to you alone. 

The girl who dreamt of embassies, languages, travel, the world beyond everyone's reach away from small fights, suffocating expectations, and people who measured love by obedience. The distance, the kind that couldn't be invaded by someone else's chaos.

But that was then.

The keys of Abhiraj's laptop click softly from the bed. The rhythmic sound mixes with Ivaan's faint giggles as he swipes through some animation on the iPad. The room smells faintly of lavender. 

I glance up. He's half-sitting, back propped against the headboard, shirt sleeves rolled up, the quiet seriousness that never leaves him.

There's a soft crease between his brows, like he's thinking about something heavier than whatever report he's reading. Ivaan leans against his arm, utterly at home.

I turn back to the screen and read the line again. First preference.

I tap my pen against my thigh, heart flicking through thoughts like a restless slideshow. IAS. IFS. IAS. IFS.

"Hmm," I murmur without meaning to, and before I realize it, the words spill out. "I'm confused between IAS and IFS."

The sound breaks the stillness. His hands pause. A beat of silence. Then he lifts his gaze toward me.

His eyes...that sea-green stillness I've come to know so well, meet mine. And for a fraction of a second, something flickers through them.

Something that you can't quite name but feel anyway, like a small wave rippling through calm water.

He masks it quickly. Too quickly.

"What's confusing?" he asks.

I shrug, smiling faintly. 

"IFS was always my first choice. I used to imagine myself posted somewhere  Europe maybe, or Asia learning a new language, handling diplomatic work. It sounded like life would finally be my own."

He leans back a little, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "And now?"

Now.

The word sits on my tongue for a while before I answer. 

"Now... it feels different. I still love the idea of it, but it's not the only version of happiness anymore."

He listens, completely still. His eyes are on me, but there's softness in his expression as if he is giving all his attention. The rare, unbroken kind that makes you want to keep talking.

"When I think of being away," I continue, voice quieter, "for years, from you... from Ivaan... from this..."

I gesture vaguely at the room, "...I don't feel free anymore. I feel hollow. I used to think peace meant independence, but maybe it's this instead.