The city never slept. From the 42nd floor, where lights shimmered like constellations trapped in glass towers, one could almost believe the world was endless. But not him—not Aarav Mehra.
He stood by the large window of his penthouse, hands buried in the pockets of a cashmere coat he didn't notice wearing. The party behind him echoed with laughter and expensive music, but it couldn't touch him. Not tonight. Not on this date.
He looked out. Down there, somewhere, was the little apartment she once lived in. The one she invited him to, just to make instant noodles and complain about the lack of Netflix.
He smiled.
And then he remembered her laugh. The way she'd say, "You rich people never know what to do with a quiet night."
She wasn't wrong.
His hand slid into his coat pocket, closing around a thin silver bracelet. Cheap. Faded. The only thing she ever gave him.
It was ten years old.
And yet, tonight, it weighed more than the world.