"Main toh tere rang mein rang chuka hoon
Bas tera ban chuka hoon
Mera mujh mein kuch nahi
Sab tera"
~Sab Tera: - Armaan Malik, Shraddha Kapoor

~August~

I had two weeks.

Aadyant's birthday was August 9th. I had two weeks and a plan and Aadya, who shared the penthouse with us and was therefore both my greatest asset and my greatest liability in the keeping-secrets department.

She lasted four days.

"I told Vihaan," she said, appearing in the kitchen doorway with the specific expression of someone confessing before being caught.

"AADYA—"

"He guessed. He said you're keeping something and I panicked under pressure—"

"That's not how guessing works—"

"I'm not built for deception! I have a very readable face—"

"You are Aadyant's twin. You have been deceiving him about things since you were four years old."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. "That's sibling deception. Different muscles."

I pointed at her. "Aadyant gets nothing from either of you. Or I will tell Rishvik about the—"

"OKAY. Sealed. Done. Vihaan gets nothing more." She disappeared back into her room.

Aadyant got nothing.

For thirteen days, which was a personal record for thishousehold.

~

I had been thinking about the gift for weeks.

He had everything. He was not a person who wanted things for their own sake. The gifts that worked for him were the ones that showed he had been listened to, that something he had said in passing had been heard and kept.

It came to me at two in the morning.

He had a notebook.

Not for designing. He wrote things down in longhand when something mattered: thoughts he was working through, quotes he wanted to keep, observations from books. He had been filling the same notebook for two years and I had watched him reach for it dozens of times, and I had noticed, because I noticed everything, that he was almost at the last page.

I had a new one made.

Custom. Bound in dark navy leather, his initials embossed on the cover. The pages were the specific weight he preferred—I had checked his existing notebook quietly one morning. And on the inside front cover, I had one line printed.

His own words, from a Tuesday night in the kitchen seven months ago, when I had asked him why he kept writing things down and he'd said:

"Because some thoughts are too important to let stay only in your head. They deserve to exist somewhere permanent."

His handwriting. His words. On the inside of a book thatwas now his to fill.

~

~ August 9th ~

The plan was this: Aadyant believed I had a late studio session. Aadya's job was to keep him occupied until eight. Her interpretation was to start an argument about a movie they'd watched six years ago that she claimed he'd been wrong about, which was both very Aadya and, from the sounds coming from the living room when I arrived home at six-thirty, extremely effective.

I had forty minutes.

I changed first. The dress was new—bought specifically for tonight, hidden in the back of the closet for a week. Short, a deep arterial red, fitted through the waist with a slight flare at the hem. Thin straps. Low enough at the back to be interesting. The kind of dress that looked simple until someone actually looked at it.

I had been going back and forth about it for days.

I put it on. Looked in the mirror. Sent Aadya a text:

Me: Tell him ten minutes.

Her response:

Aadya: OHHH YOU CHANGED 👀👀

Aadya: I'm telling him fifteen, you need the reaction time.

Then the living room.

I'd sent Aadya a list three days ago of everything he liked and had done the cooking myself. Lamb chops the way he'd mentioned once, offhand, that his grandmother used to make. Roasted vegetables. The bread from the specific bakery two streets over that I had sourced the recipe for and recreated over three practice attempts while he was at class.

Table properly set. Candles. Flowers I had arranged that morning, which Aadya had rearranged twice with strong opinions and then rearranged back when I pointed out, she had made them worse.

The gift at his place, wrapped simply.

I stood back. Sent the text.

Me: Send him in.

~

Aadya stopped mid-sentence, which was notable because Aadya mid-argument had the stopping-momentum of a freight train.

"You should—" She pointed at the living room. "Go check on Kashvi. She just got back."

"I heard the door—"

"Go. Check. On her."

She was wearing the expression of someone who had been waiting for a cue and had just received it.

"BIRTHDAY," she said, and pointed harder.

I went.

The living room—

I stopped in the doorway.

Kashvi was standing by the table. The table that had been set for two with candles and flowers and something that smelled extraordinary coming from the kitchen.

And Kashvi.

In a red dress.

Short and fitted and red, and she was looking at me with the composed expression she used when she was watching for a reaction and trying not to show it.

"Happy birthday, Aan," she said.

I stood in the doorway.

"The dress," I said.

"The dinner," she said, gesturing at the table. "That's the point of this."

"I'm momentarily unable to process the dinner—"

"Aadyant."

"The dress is very—"

"There is food. Come and sit—"

"Jaan." I walked into the room. "The dress is very red."

"Thank you for that observation." She pulled out his chair with complete dignity. "Sit down."

I sat. Looked at the table properly.

"Is that—" I looked up. "Is that the lamb dish—"

"Your grandmother's recipe. You mentioned it once. I found it."

"How did you find the recipe—"

"I called Dadi."

I stared at her.

"You called my grandmother for a recipe."

"She was very enthusiastic. We were on the phone for forty minutes. She told me three other things I have now written down."

From behind her door, audible because it was Aadya: a muffled celebratory sound.

Kashvi looked at the ceiling briefly. "Happy birthday," she said again.

~

The gift came after dinner. She put it in front of me without preamble—wrapped simply, tied with a single ribbon.

I unwrapped it. A notebook. Leather, navy, my initials embossed on the cover.

I opened it.

And there, on the inside front cover:

"Because some thoughts are too important to let stay only in your head. They deserve to exist somewhere permanent."

My words.

From a Tuesday night seven months ago that I barely remembered and she had kept.

"You kept that," I said.

"I keep everything you say." She looked slightly flustered. "It felt right. For a new notebook."

"Kashv."

"If it's too much I can—"

"Come here," I said.

She came around the table. I stood and pulled her in completely.

"It's perfect," I said, into her hair. "You're infuriating and perfect."

"Why am I infuriating—"

"Because you make everything impossible to compare to."

She laughed into my shoulder.

"That's not what infuriating means—"

"It is when it's you."

From behind her door, Aadya knocked twice in a clearly celebratory rhythm.

"AADYA—"

"I'M IN MY ROOM," she called. "MINDING MY BUSINESS. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRO."

Kashvi looked at me.

I looked at her. In the red dress. In the candlelight. In this penthouse that was hers and mine and exactly right.

"Happy birthday, Aan," she said.

It was, without question, my best one.

~

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