Hukum's Rani Sa

48. Confession

___________》Happy Reading 《__________

The night before the fest passed in uneasy silence.

The Rajawat mansion, usually alive with laughter and late-night chatter, felt oddly still. Corridors glowed softly under dim lights, shadows stretching long across marble floors as if even the walls were holding their breath. Somewhere, a clock ticked steadily, marking time that no one seemed ready to move forward with.

In her room, Shree lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her phone rested face down beside her, untouched for hours. Every time she closed her eyes, the same images returned — Ishan’s calm face at dinner, the way he had said it so easily, “Maa, mujhe koi pasand hai.”

Not her name.
Who is she ?

She turned on her side, hugging her pillow tightly, pressing it against her chest as if trying to hold together something quietly breaking inside. There was a dull ache there, not sharp enough to make her cry, but heavy enough to make breathing feel like work. She wondered when exactly things had changed. Or maybe they hadn’t changed at all — maybe she had just been pretending they were something more.

Across the mansion, Ishan stood near the large window of his room, hands tucked into his pockets. The city lights flickered below, distant and indifferent. He hadn’t slept either. Every time he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, Shree’s laughter from the fest rehearsals echoed in his mind. Not the polite smile she gave everyone — the real one. The one she didn’t even realize she wore.

And it terrified him.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his skin. He didn’t understand himself anymore. The jealousy, the irritation, the restlessness — none of it made sense to him in words, only in feeling. And feelings were the one territory he had never learned to navigate.

By the time dawn broke, neither of them had truly slept.

Morning arrived dressed in colour.

The college campus transformed rapidly, as if the night had worked in secret to turn ordinary concrete into celebration. Drapes of marigold and fabric flowed from railings, fairy lights wrapped around tree trunks, banners announcing the annual fest fluttered proudly in the breeze. Music spilled from open doors — someone rehearsing steps, someone else tuning instruments, laughter bouncing from corner to corner.

Backstage was chaos in its most honest form.

Misha moved like a storm, clipboard in hand, voice rising above everything. Sid struggled with a tangled microphone wire, Ray sat on the floor fixing a torn costume with safety pins, and Daksh walked around with exaggerated seriousness, trying very hard to look like a responsible director while everyone else teased him mercilessly.

Amid all of it, there was excitement — nervous, electric, alive.

In the girls’ makeup room, the air was thick with hairspray and perfume. Mirrors lined the wall, reflecting faces in various stages of preparation. Ishqi stood calmly in front of one mirror, adjusting her dupatta with practiced ease. She wore a royal blue lehenga, the fabric rich and fluid, silver embroidery catching the light every time she moved. Her makeup was soft, luminous — confidence worn like second skin.

Shree sat a little apart.

Her wine-red anarkali flowed around her like a quiet flame. The colour suited her too well, highlighting the softness of her skin, the curve of her smile that hadn’t quite reached her eyes yet. Her curls fell over her shoulders, styled but natural, like her. She stared at her reflection, blinking slowly, as if trying to recognize herself.