Saiyaara

Sahil Agnihotri. A college super star heartthrob. He is passionate about music and bikes. Extremely privileged, handsome and broody.

Siya Joshi. She is the college topper, a huge nerd, soft and kind. She is hardworking and from a poor household trying to make it out.

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There she stood at the archway, wearing my powder blue shirt-half buttoned, barely hanging on her shoulder, sleeves swallowing her hands. My sunglasses, too big for her face, slipping slightly down her nose. And my guitar, slung across her like she was about to perform an arena show.

I blinked. "What..."

She strutted in like she owned the place.

She pulled off her sunglasses in slow motion, her voice husky and dramatic.

"You see, I woke up... and I was him. Sahil freakin' Agnihotri. Guitar-wielding prodigy. Man of mystery. Hair gel connoisseur."

I choked on a grape. "Siya."

She was swaying like a drunken rockstar, fake-belting notes that didn't exist in any scale, throwing her head back so hard my sunglasses flew off her face and clattered to the ground.

I had tears in my eyes from holding in the laughter.

I just couldn't take it anymore.

She was still hopping around the furniture like an unhinged squirrel, doing a full-blown mockery of my performance from last gig-microphone hand gestures, dramatic hair flips, even the fake broody guitar solo that had the crowd roaring.

I chased her across the room, dodging a throw pillow she hurled at me, until I finally caught her mid-bounce and tackled her onto the armchair in a heap of limbs and laughter.

She was breathless, still fully in character.

"Hey," she panted, her voice deepening into a mock baritone. "Do you want to ride on my big bike? I'll teach you cricket... maybe show you my tattoo..."