Two days later.

It was a typical busy Tuesday morning.

Ahana stood at the kitchen counter, half-dressed for work, absently spreading butter on toast that was already cold. The news played faintly from the living room TV, the anchor's voice blending into the clatter of utensils and pressure cooker whistles.

And then-Mallika Aunty arrived.

The front door flew open with the familiarity of old neighbors and older friendships, and in swept her signature storm of energy.

"Have a rosogolla, Ramya di!" she beamed, eyes shining. "Arko has topped the country!"

"What?" Ahana's mother gasped, her face lighting up instantly. "Congratulations!" she exclaimed, rushing to take the sweet.

Her father looked up from the newspaper, a chuckle already forming. "What will he study now? Would he ever stop?" he teased.

"God help me!" Mallika Aunty laughed, holding out the mātir hanri filled with fresh rosogollas. "Dada, please-just one mishti!"

Ahana forced a smile. "Congratulations, Kakima," she said politely, reaching for the lid of her lunchbox.

But inside, her stomach clenched.

Another trophy. Another headline. Another reminder.

Now her parents had one more reason to sigh at the dinner table. One more shining star to measure her against.

She slipped out of the room unnoticed, packing the rest of her lunch with quick, robotic hands. She knew this conversation. She'd grown up with it-Arko's medals, Arko's speeches, Arko's brilliance. Her life had often felt like the silence that followed his applause.

She never tried to interact. Never wanted to. Never felt like interacting ever.

Their exchanges were minimal-occasional nods, shared staircases, stiff exchange of pleasantries. He was always the overachiever with too many degrees. MBBS. Then MD. Now something more. Something prestigious. Whatever. She didn't care.

Except... she did. Not about him. But about what followed every such celebration.

Later that night, her parents' door would stay slightly open. Voices would rise and fall. And somewhere between whispered concerns and loud sighs, it would come:

"We should get Ahana married."
"She's grown up now."
"I don't like her working till midnight."

Like clockwork.

She grabbed her bag, her helmet, and her keys. Slipped out the gate quietly, the muffler of her scooty the only sound breaking the morning calm.

The rosogolla sweetness still lingered in the air.

But for Ahana, the taste in her mouth was bitterness. Old. Familiar. Sharp.

The scooty ride through the city didn't clear her head the way it usually did.

By the time she reached the production house in Behala, her face had settled into a blankness perfected over years-neither irritated nor excited. Just functional.

Ahana worked as an assistant screenwriter for Sondhyabela, a daily Bengali soap that had been running for four straight years and refused to die. The office smelled of coffee, stress, and half-done paperwork. Writers scribbled on whiteboards while directors shouted into phones. It was loud, rushed, repetitive.

But it paid the bills.

She sat through edits, patched together the next week's plot twists, and fixed clumsy lines like a mechanic tightening loose bolts. Love triangles, in-law conspiracies, hospital beds-it all blurred.

By six-thirty, her official job was done.

But the day wasn't over.

She took a cab to the radio studio across the city-her other identity waiting in the shadows.

Jasmine.

The night voice.

Today, she was early. Too early.

The security guard nodded as she walked in, flashing her pass. She could already hear the unmistakable thrum of the ongoing show.

It was Mudith on-air.

Charismatic. Effortlessly smooth. The kind of voice that made tired office workers smile on their ride home. His show was a magnet-fun, flirtatious, always buzzing. The phone lines lit up like fireflies when he spoke.

Ahana lingered near the glass wall, watching him through it.

He leaned into the mic, laughing at a caller's joke, one hand adjusting the fader with the kind of ease she envied. The red "ON AIR" sign glowed above him like a crown.

She sighed.

Her show had no such frenzy. No nonstop callers. Just occasional heartbreaks, dedications, and long silences she had to dress up with poetry and warmth. Night with Jasmine was intimate, raw-lonelier too.

She turned away and headed to the small cafeteria.

It was empty except for a young intern watching something on mute and sipping watery tea. Ahana grabbed the corner chair by the window and dropped her bag beside her.

The city outside looked blurry. Like it was moving without her.

She checked the time. Still fifteen minutes to go.

She didn't open her phone. Didn't scroll. Just sat. Thinking of rosogollas. Arko. Her parents' inevitable conversation.

Ahana took another sip of the bitter vending machine coffee. It did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.

Would he call again?

Vee.

The name alone made her pulse flicker.

She shook her head, cursed softly under her breath. What was wrong with her? Why was she even thinking about a stranger-a voice?

That voice.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Zinia dropped into the chair opposite her, all sunshine and gloss.

"Heyyy, what's up, Jasmine?" she grinned, brushing her sleek hair behind one ear. Her voice still had the slight echo of the mic, like she never quite left the booth.

Ahana managed a weak smile. "Nothing... not really."

Zinia tilted her head. "Still overthinking about the show?"

"It's not that."

Her fingers tapped against the paper cup. Then, without looking up, she muttered, "Zinia... what would you do if a listener flirts with you?"

Zinia burst out laughing, tossing her head back dramatically. "God! Happens all the time."

She waved a manicured hand. "You gotta let it slip. Smile, steer it back to the show, move on. We have a policy, remember?"

Ahana nodded faintly.

Zinia leaned in suddenly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Wait. What's going on?"

Ahana looked up. Zinia's face was close, her curiosity practically dancing across her features.

"I mean..." Zinia narrowed her eyes, whispering now. "Did someone sexy call you or something? Oh my god, did you flirt back?"

"No!" Ahana snapped-too fast, too defensive.

Zinia arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. "Girl."

Ahana groaned softly, pressing the heel of her palm to her temple.

"It was just this one guy... last week. Deep voice. Said weird things. Intense. And I didn't record the call."

Zinia's eyes widened. "You what?"

Ahana winced. "I forgot."

"You never forget. You're like... the most rule-obsessed person here."

"I know."

Zinia leaned back, assessing her like a case study. "So you liked it."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

There was a pause. The hum of the studio beyond the corridor filled the air. Mudith's voice drifted faintly through the walls, still charming his caller of the moment.

Ahana looked away.

"I just... I keep thinking he'll call again."

Zinia smirked. "And what if he does?"

Ahana didn't answer.

Because honestly, she didn't know what she'd do.

But her show started in eight minutes.

And somewhere between rosogollas and loneliness, her heart was quietly waiting-for a voice that had no face.

The show had been running smooth, quieter than usual.

Ahana was midway through reading out a listener's dedication when the light on Line 3 blinked.

Her stomach dipped.

She hit the button. The familiar, sultry voice curled into her ears like smoke.

"Hello, Jasmine."

Her spine stiffened. Her fingers hovered near the console.

Vee.

Just past 11:30. Like a clockwork sin.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Heat bloomed on her cheeks-unwelcome, involuntary.

She could almost hear Zinia's voice in her head: You liked it.

This time, she wouldn't mess up. Her thumb slid to the record switch.

She forced a smile into her voice. "Vee, today we're on air. Please request your song."

There was a beat of silence.

Then that same velvety chuckle, low and amused, sent a shiver up her spine.

"Jasmine, you're breaking my heart."

Her fingers clenched around the mic base.

Stay in control.

"Rules are rules," she replied lightly, with just enough warmth to hide the tremble. "You've got sixty seconds. Make it count."

He didn't rush.

"Fine," he said, drawing out the word. "Play me 'Tere bina zindagi mei koi shikwa-'."

A beat. Then, "But only if you promise to think of me while it plays."

Ahana's breath hitched.

Her nails tapped the console.

She should shut it down. Should steer it back. Should laugh it off.

But instead, her voice dipped lower-just slightly. "Song is on the way. And Vee... I don't take friendship requests lightly."

"Give me a chance to make it heavy, then-" the voice dipped lower, "will coffee do?"

She chuckled.

Vee's voice dropped even more, "I'd like to order ninety nine cupcakes, eighty seven waffles, thirty two cappuccino, ten blueberry muffins, and ten cookies, then."

She blushed. Her fingers grabbed the pen, scribing down his number.

"Alright, coming up with next song-" she cleared her throat.

His chuckle-God, that chuckle-was the last thing she heard before she clicked play.

The studio dimmed under Kishore Kumar's haunting melody. But inside her, everything was wide awake.