A week later, the Mehra household had regained its warmth and rhythm. Arin, much to Astha’s irritation—and mild amusement—had become a fixture in their home. He self-invited himself to dinners, played carrom with her father, mentored Shanaya in her subjects, and even placed coffee on Astha’s desk when she looked exhausted, saying nothing but smirking at her reaction.
One evening, Shanaya plopped onto the couch and grinned mischievously. “Alright, it’s time for a real match. Arin versus Mom. No alliances. Just pure battle.”
Astha narrowed her eyes. “And what role do you play in this ‘battle’?”
Shanaya shrugged. “The commentator, obviously.”
Arin smiled. “I accept.”
The game began, and with every move, there was a memory.
Astha placed ‘Mirth’ on a double word score. “Like the way you smirk whenever you put coffee on my desk, Verma.”
Arin chuckled and placed ‘Retort’. “Like how you never fail to have one, Mehra.”
Shanaya clapped. “This is better than TV.”
Astha laid down ‘Fiasco’. “Like your last attempt at cooking in our kitchen. I’m still recovering from that disaster.”
Arin smiled. “You didn’t have to eat it.” He placed ‘Redeem’. “And yet, I saved you from writing that atrocious lead paragraph last week, didn’t I?”
Astha huffed. “It was fine.”
“Debatable.”
The match continued, filled with their usual banter. Astha’s parents watched with amusement, exchanging knowing glances. Shanaya provided commentary, dramatically gasping whenever one of them pulled off a particularly good move.
As the final scores tallied, Astha won by a mere four points.
Arin leaned back, arms crossed. “I demand a rematch.”
Astha smiled. “In your dreams, Verma.”
As the night wound down, Astha caught herself watching Arin laugh with her family, his presence so seamlessly woven into their lives. The thought hit her suddenly—
Somewhere along the way, Arin had stopped being an outsider.
He was home.
And that terrified her.
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