The sun peeked timidly through scattered clouds the next day, casting a pale golden hue over the damp city streets. Riddhi adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she approached the gallery where the photography exhibition was being held. She felt out of place, her sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor as she stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and coffee, and the hum of murmured conversations filled the room.
"Why am I even here?” she muttered under her breath, clutching the invitation in her hand. The photographs lining the walls were stunning—moments frozen in time, each telling a story. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong.
A volunteer approached her, a polite smile on their face.
“Name, please?” they asked.
“Riddhi Sharma,” she replied hesitantly.
The volunteer scanned the list, frowned, and then quickly masked their confusion. “Ah, yes, here you are. Please enjoy the exhibition.”
Riddhi nodded, slipping past them and disappearing into the crowd. She had barely begun to explore when a familiar name on one of the placards caught her eye: Aarav Mehra.
“Isn’t he from my school?” she whispered, narrowing her eyes at the photograph attributed to him—a candid shot of a street vendor, vibrant with colors and emotion.
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Across town, Aarav stood awkwardly at the entrance to the poetry competition venue, clutching his mismatched invitation. The event was held in an elegant auditorium, its walls adorned with quotes from famous poets. Aarav had dressed casually, completely unaware of the semi-formal dress code.
The woman at the check-in desk raised an eyebrow when she saw his name. “Aarav Mehra?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he said, unsure of how else to respond.
"You’re a bit...early,” she said, scanning the list with an apologetic expression. “The competition starts in an hour. Feel free to explore the exhibits while you wait.”
Aarav nodded, muttering a thanks. As he wandered, he noticed participants with neatly bound notebooks and portfolios. His confidence wavered, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.
He stopped at a display of handwritten poems. One in particular caught his eye—its words raw and evocative, scrawled in messy ink. Riddhi Sharma, the name at the bottom read.
"Wait...isn’t she in my class?” Aarav muttered.
Later That Evening
Riddhi and Aarav both returned home with a sense of unease. The events of the day had been puzzling, leaving them with more questions than answers. Riddhi couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched at the gallery, as though she had stumbled into someone else’s story. Meanwhile, Aarav felt like a fish out of water among the poetic crowd, his fingers itching for the familiar feel of his camera.
They didn’t realize it yet, but their worlds were beginning to intertwine in ways neither could have anticipated.
As Riddhi opened her notebook to jot down her thoughts, she paused mid-sentence. A line from one of the gallery’s photographs came to mind: “Every frame tells a story, but not every story needs a frame.”
Across town, Aarav flipped through the poetry competition’s brochure. One of the featured quotes lingered in his mind: “The rhythm of life is found in the unexpected.”
The mix-up had set something in motion—a collision of perspectives, passions, and perhaps, destinies.
And so, both envelopes found their way back onto desks, waiting for the next chapter of their story to unfold.
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Hi guys!
The second chapter is finally here. Hope you guys would enjoy it.🩷
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