The first thing Riva felt was pain—sharp, pulsing, and entirely in her head. The second was the sunlight, far too cheerful for her condition, slipping in through the hostel curtains like a nosy neighbour. She turned over with a grunt, hoping to escape it, but it was no use.
Everything ached. Her tongue was dry, her back stiff, and her memory? Foggy at best.
But somehow, her roommates were already arguing, their voices slicing through the quiet.
"I told you not to make us drink, Tara! My head is about to burst, and Riva is still not awake. You never listen!" Mamta scolded, holding her head with one hand, clearly regretting last night.
Tara grinned mischievously. "Relax, Mamta. I just thought we needed to celebrate a little after our winnings. And I've never seen Riva waking up early."
Hearing this, Riva groggily sat up, still half-dazed but ready to defend herself.
"Oh please! It's you who sleeps till noon, so how would you know when I wake up?!" she shot back, a hint of sass in her voice despite the headache.
Tara, completely unfazed, turned to Riva with a grin the moment she saw her sit up.
"Well, well, look who's awake! Our sweet, innocent pahadi girl was on fire last night!" she teased, walking over and ruffling Riva's messy hair. "You were dancing like nobody was watching—and then asking for more juice like a baby!"
Riva gave her a sleepy glare and swatted her hand away. "Tara, shut up! You're the one who made me drink. I barely remember anything."
She rubbed her temples, trying to piece the night together. Bits and pieces flashed in her mind—music, laughter, strobe lights. But then, something else.
A face.
Megha?
Riva frowned, leaning back against the wall. She saw Megha again, in flickers. Her hand around Riva's waist. Her voice soft. Riva being led from the bathroom to the sofa—carried, maybe? But everything was foggy.
"Was that… real?" she murmured to herself, unsure if it was a memory or just another dream.
She was lost in thought when Mamta walked over, holding a glass of water and a strip of headache pills, her soft blue night suit wrinkled and her messy bun hanging on for dear life.
"Take this. And seriously, next time I say yes to Tara's ideas—stop me. Just slap me."
Tara smirked from the bed, arms behind her head. "Oh come on, admit it—I bring spice to your boring lives!"
Riva glanced at her friends, rubbing her temple, then asked hesitantly,
"Guys… was Megha Sinha at the club last night?"
Mamta, still nursing her headache and dignity, sighed.
"I was too drunk to notice anything, yaar. I barely remember getting into the cab."
She let out a tired sigh, rubbing her temples.
"Honestly, I'm not even sure how we got back. I was too drunk to notice anything—because of someone." She gave a side-eye to that someone, who just smirked while admiring their nails.
Tara scoffed from her bed, not even looking up.
"Oh please. Megha Sinha? In that club? I would've smelled the overconfidence from the entrance. And no, she wasn't there. I was totally sober last night."
(Author Spoiler: She was definitely not sober.)
"Maybe you thought that DJ with curly hair was Megha," Tara said with a smirk, tossing a pillow in the air like she'd cracked the world's best joke.
Mamta, despite her throbbing head, chuckled. "Honestly, with those disco lights, anyone could look like anyone."
Riva glared at both of them, clearly offended. "Shut up! She was there. She helped me walk back from the bathroom... I remember!"
Tara raised an eyebrow. "Bathroom? You never moved from that sofa, madam. You were practically part of the furniture."
Mamta nodded thoughtfully. "Also, let's be real—if Megha had been at that club, people would've been screaming, taking selfies, and throwing themselves at her like it's the finale."
She looked at Riva pointedly. "You see Megha even when you're fully sober. So dreaming about her after a few drinks? Not exactly shocking."
Riva opened her mouth to argue but paused. Okay... fair point. Both of them did make sense.
She sighed and leaned back against the pillow, a soft smile on her face.
"Okay, maybe it was just my imagination… but it was such a nice dream."
"Sweet?" Tara smirked. "You imagined the Ice Queen helping you from the bathroom like some romantic hero. What's next? Megha singing a love song for you?"
Mamta chuckled. Riva groaned, blushing furiously before chucking a pillow straight at Tara's face.
"Ugh, I hate you," she muttered, grinning despite herself.
And with that, the dreamy Megha faded into the background, replaced by the real chaos of friendship and morning madness.
A few minutes passed, and the room was filled with the girls' chatter and giggles. But just as Riva leaned back into her pillow, a knock interrupted them.
Kabir Mehta peeked in — sweet, shy Kabir, with his usual neatly combed hair and awkward smile that always lingered a beat longer on Tara. Right behind him stood Pratham Singh — broad, confident, and freshly showered, as if last night's chaos had never touched him.
"Why aren't you girls ready?" Kabir asked, eyebrows shooting up. "We have to be at the rehearsal hall in fifteen minutes. There's a group discussion with all the contestants and the judges!"
All three girls froze. Mamta's eyes widened in horror. "What?! Nobody told me!"
"It's on the official group!" Pratham added, shrugging. "The contestant manager posted it this morning. We thought you guys knew... especially since Mamta was with you."
Mamta let out a string of muffled curses and bolted towards the bathroom like her life depended on it, her night suit flapping behind her.
Riva and Tara scrambled to gather clothes, hairbrushes—anything they could grab—while the boys waited awkwardly by the door.
By the time all five of them reached the rehearsal hall, they were ten minutes late. The boys, trying to be gentlemanly and wait for the girls, had become late themselves.
Just as they approached the gate, a stern voice cut through the hallway.
"Stop right there."
All five of them froze.
Standing in front of the remaining 35 contestants were the three judges: Megha Sinha, Zyan Malik, and Rajeev Mishra. Not in glitzy clothes like during auditions this time, but casual—comfortable, real.
But it was Megha who stepped forward, arms crossed, her sharp eyes locking onto them. She looked casually fierce in a simple black tee and jeans—nothing extravagant, yet still impossibly commanding. Riva, despite the panic, couldn't help but think, How can someone look that good while being this angry?
She immediately scolded herself for the thought.
"You five think this is a joke? Ten minutes late to a scheduled session? You're part of the top 40 singers in the country. Do you understand how many people auditioned for this spot? How many were sent home? And you walk in like this is a picnic?"
None of them dared to speak. Tara shifted uncomfortably, Riva avoided her gaze, and Mamta looked down at her still-damp hair.
Rajeev Mishra sighed. "Discipline is part of being an artist. You may sing well, but without commitment, it means nothing."
Zyan, usually the chill one, added, "This is not the vibe, guys. Not cool."
Tara, ever the brave one, tried to speak up. "Sir, actually, it's not entirely our—"
"Don't." Megha cut her off sharply. "Excuses don't make up for carelessness."
Mamta, red in the face, stepped forward. "I sincerely apologise on behalf of all of us. It won't happen again."
Riva followed, quieter but honest. "We're really sorry, ma'am. Truly. We messed up. It was our fault."
Megha's gaze lingered on Riva for a few moments, her expression unreadable. Riva looked back, unsure of what she was seeing in those eyes.
Then Megha broke eye contact, took a breath, and turned away.
"Come in. Take this seriously, or don't come at all," she said, walking back inside. Zyan and Rajeev followed her in.
Everyone in the hall seemed to exhale at once. Even the ones who were major fans of Megha found themselves holding their breath during that scolding. But as the tension thickened, Zyan finally cracked a half-smile.
"Well," he said, "now that we've all had our morning dose of drama... shall we begin?"
A few people chuckled nervously.
The five quietly shuffled into the room and found seats at the back of the crowd.
As they sat down, Tara leaned toward Riva, muttering under her breath.
"See? Reality check. Your dream girl just served you public humiliation for breakfast. Definitely not a romantic hero. You were definitely dreaming about her being helpful."
Riva didn't respond. Her cheeks still burned from the embarrassment.
She looked at Megha from afar, who was now reading through some notes, her expression composed and unreadable.
The dream was gone. What remained was the sting of reality... and yet, something inside her refused to let go of that fleeting warmth.