Zero Personal Space

It was one of those lazy, hot afternoons that made the whole neighborhood feel drowsy and slow — like even the sun was napping. Ceiling fans whirred like grumbling grandmas, and the air smelt of mangoes and melting glue sticks.

Timtim Mishra, who was very much not napping, was standing in front of the TV cabinet downstairs, remote in hand, eyebrows furrowed like she’d just been personally betrayed.

“Nothing’s working, Maa!” she shouted. “The cable’s dead!”

Her mother, from inside the kitchen, shouted back, “Good! Focus on your future instead!”

“I already passed the boards. Let me live!”

She banged the remote once on the wall — gently, like a polite threat — and then narrowed her eyes toward the upstairs.

That tenant.

Mister Intense. Mr. Secret-Jawline. The man who had mocked her math skills just yesterday.

He definitely had working cable.

She knew it.

Her mind lit up like a Bollywood background score.

If he got to steal her room, her view, and her dreams… he could also share his television.

---

Five minutes later, Aariz Sheikh Pataudi opened the door of his room to find Timtim standing there, holding a bowl of mango slices, a USB fan, and a wild look of determination.

“Move,” she said. “Your room has working cable. Mine doesn’t. I need to watch my serial.”

He blinked at her. Once. Twice.

“No.”

“Please,” she said sweetly, batting her lashes. “You owe me. You embarrassed me in front of myself yesterday.”

He leaned on the doorframe. “You embarrassed yourself. I just observed.”

She huffed, brushed past him, and entered anyway.

Before he could protest, she was already on the sofa, folding her legs beneath her, switching channels with the remote like she owned the place.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be gone before you miss me.”

“I already miss my peace,” he muttered.

But… he didn’t kick her out.

He watched as she settled in — adjusting the volume, peeling a mango slice like she was born to irritate him.

She was wearing a loose sky-blue cotton kurti and pajama set, her hair tied in a sloppy braid, tiny earrings dangling every time she turned her head. Her nose scrunched cutely when she concentrated. A small silver bangle clinked on her wrist, matching the lone anklet she still wore on her left foot.

Why was he noticing all this?

He sat at the opposite end of the sofa, arms crossed, pretending to be absorbed in his phone.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Neither spoke.

Until the volume went up — a dramatic slap echoed on screen.

Timtim gasped. “Oof! He slapped her again! He’s such a toxic man, but she still loves him. Ugh.”

Aariz raised an eyebrow. “Sounds unhealthy.”

“Don’t act superior,” she scoffed. “This is pure emotional cinema. Pain. Passion. Betrayal. It’s art.”

He side-eyed the screen. “He just pushed her into a well.”

“Plot twist.”

“She’s drowning.”

“She’ll float. She’s the heroine.”

He smirked under his breath.

She caught it. “Are you smiling, Mr. Mysterious?”

“No.”

“You are! See? I’m the only one who can make you react like a human.”

He looked at her fully this time. “You make me question evolution.”

She stuck out her tongue.

He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

—

Thirty minutes later, they were still on the sofa.

Except now… their shoulders were a little too close.

The fan buzzed softly. Her mango bowl was empty. The soap opera was paused on mute.

And the only sound was the quiet hum of the TV — and her soft breathing beside him.

Timtim hadn’t noticed the shift.

But Aariz had.

The moment their elbows brushed.

The faint scent of her coconut hair oil.

The way she rested her chin on her palm, totally relaxed — in his room, his space, like she belonged there.

It unsettled him.

He didn’t do closeness.

He didn’t let people linger.

But she was sitting next to him with complete ease. Like she wasn’t afraid of him. Like she never had been.

And for some reason…

He didn’t want her to move.

Suddenly, she turned to him, eyes bright. “Hey, do you have any chocolate?”

“Do I look like a man who stores chocolate?”

“You look like a man who needs some.”

Before he could respond, she stood up and stretched, her dupatta falling slightly off one shoulder.

And just then — she tripped on the corner of the carpet.

He reached out instinctively, grabbing her wrist before she fell over him.

They froze.

Her fingers on his chest.

His hand on her wrist.

Their faces way too close.

Both stared at each other.

She blinked first.

“Thanks,” she whispered awkwardly.

He didn’t let go.

Not immediately.

Then he did.

She grabbed her dupatta, cleared her throat, and muttered, “I should… go. The heroine must be rescued from the well.”

He nodded, but didn’t move from the sofa.

And as she walked out, barefoot and flustered, she didn't realize…

She'd left behind the small silver ring from her fallen anklet, sitting silently near the leg of his couch.

He picked it up slowly.

Turned it in his fingers.

And for the first time in years…

He didn’t feel alone.