Priya sighed and wheeled her luggage down the hallway to her room. As she stood gazing at the twin bed pressed against the wall, she was flooded with recollections of the past—journaling at her desk when she was too overwhelmed to talk to anyone; sprawling across the bed with Brooke, their giggles filling the room. Dropping her bags, Priya collapsed on the bed with a sigh. Her room was just as she had left it: lavender walls, her old backpack and computer collecting dust under the desk, the scent of budget-friendly detergent still clinging to the sheets.
Priya’s eyes drifted to the corkboard above the desk, decorated with medals from summers at computer camp. She rememberedthe thrill of earning her first one, and then, immediately, the sadness that followed. Her eyes prickled with tears, but she pushed the memory aside, drew in a deep breath, and rose to her feet.
She could still hear her parents frantically tidying down the hall. Unzipping her old backpack, she idly rummaged through it and pulled out a worn textbook. Flipping it open, she stared at the outdated diagrams. But her mind wasn’t on the pages—it was on an earlier conversation.
The offer to buy Moksha.
The funeral home had consumed Priya’s parents for as long as she could remember, draining them of their energy, their finances, and their joy. Selling it would give them a chance to breathe, to slow things down and experience life beyond its walls. It would also mean freedom for her and her sisters—freedom from the duty that always loomed over them, freedom to live the lives they wanted. Selling Moksha wasn’t just a good idea. It was the only way out. If her parents didn’t accept the offer, they’d all be stuck in an endless cycle.
“This ends now,” Priya muttered, slamming the textbook shut. “I have to convince them to sell it. If I show them what it costs to…”
But then it hit her—a quiet, unexpected thought that stopped her cold.
Maybe I don’t need to convince them at all.
The loan hadn’t come through. Her parents couldn’t fix what they couldn’t afford. Once the renovation deadline passed and the required upgrades weren’t met, they would have no choice but to shut down. Whether she pushed or not, her parents would end up facing the truth on their own.
Priya let out a slow exhale, the fight to fix things draining from her. She rubbed her eyes, surrendering to the fatigue she’d beentoo restless to feel until now. After fishing out her contact lens kit from her bag, she removed her lenses and slipped on her glasses. Shrugging out of her travel-worn clothes, she dug through her closet until she found an old high school sweatshirt and a pair of faded sweatpants. It wasn’t the most flattering outfit, but it felt comfortable and familiar.
Welcome home, her reflection seemed to whisper as she stared into the mirror, seeing traces of the teenage girl she used to be. A pang of bittersweet emotion shot through Priya’s heart, but she ignored it. Securing her hair into a loose bun, she made her way to the bathroom.
“Are you done, Mumma?” she asked.
“In a minute,” Mumma replied, rummaging through the medicine cabinet. “Last time Hemabenwas here, she saw a tube of cream for your dad’s toenail infection and thought I had a feminine infection.”
Priya wrinkled her nose. “Okay, that’s weird.” She leaned against the wall in the hallway, waiting for her mother to finish. The apartment felt quiet without Meghna and Deepa. Growing up, she never imagined she’d miss the bickering and chaos; now Priya found herself wishing for her sisters’ presence.
She wandered into Meghna’s room—pale green walls, a simple bed, river stones resting on a faded magazine on the nightstand, everything perfectly in its place. Deepa’s room, by contrast, looked like a teenage fever dream—pink faux-fur pillows, a metallic banner with her name, indie band posters taped haphazardly to every wall. Priya’s eyes landed on Deepa’s celebrity collage, and her breath caught in her throat.
Ethan Knight.
The past crashed into her, sharp and unexpected, as if he had swept into the room himself. His voice curled at the edges ofher mind, the heat of his body seeping through layers of fabric. Priya recalled the smell of the earth that night, fresh from a rainstorm. Headlights cut through the slick road ahead. Fields stretched endlessly into the darkness. The air was cool and damp, but Priya’s skin burned with exhilaration. She had never felt more alive, clinging to his back as the motorcycle roared beneath them.
The doorbell rang through the apartment. “Brooke’s here!” Mumma called.
Shaking off the memory, Priya headed down the narrow stairs and swung open the front door. There stood Brooke, a vision from the runways of Milan. Her sun-kissed skin exuded jet-set luxury, mojitos in Saint-Tropez, skiing down the Alps. Though life had pulled them in different directions and different cities, she was still Priya’s childhood best friend.
Brooke beamed as she enveloped Priya in a hug. “Pri, I can’t believe it’s been so long! You’ve forgotten the girl next door.”
Priya pulled back and tugged at Brooke’s hair. “We may be neighbors, but you’ll never be the girl next door,” she teased. “Look at you!”
“Isn’t it fabulous?” Brooke grinned, spinning to flaunt her dress. “I’m off to Tulum, then heading straight to Bali, but I couldn’t leave without stopping by.”
Priya smiled as she admired the dress—airy and vibrant, as if it was made for dancing barefoot on the beach. Brooke truly had an outfit to match every occasion.
“Guess who I brought along?” Brooke said cheerily, nodding to the left of her, just beyond Priya’s view.
Priya craned her neck and looked to the ground, expecting to see Lady Whiskerbottom, Brooke’s famous cat—a feline influencer who had traveled to more countries than Priya could ever hope to visit. But instead of Lady Whiskerbottom’s carrier, hergaze landed on a pair of sneakers, sleek and effortlessly cool. Her eyes drifted upward, trailing the length of well-worn denim that clung in all the right places, over a lean, sculpted torso, and shoulders broad enough to carry the world.
A jolt of recognition surged through Priya before she even saw his face. The lazy confidence, the easy swagger—a silhouette etched deep in her memory. As she took in the rugged angles of his jaw, Priya’s breath dissolved into an elusive wisp.
Ethan Knight stood before her, his presence crackling like stardust in the center of a storm. There was a weight to him, not just of fame but something deeper, something impossible to ignore. The air bristled with his energy, and for a second, Priya swore she could feel the static dance along her skin. Then, just as her pulse started to trip over itself, his lips quirked into an easy, devastating smile.
“Hello, Priya,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “It’s been a while.”
Two
Priya wanted toreach back in time and shake her younger self. Why couldn’t her first crush have been Rahul, the math whiz, or Raj, the cricket champ, or Lorenzo, who played the accordion at the farmers market? No, she had gone straight for the most impossible option of all. Ethan Larger-Than-Life Knight.
