What does a familiar bar reveal when no one is watching? This piece invites readers inside shifts, hidden rituals, and a looming surprise.

Editor’s Note: This piece includes personal reflections that reference addiction, adult relationships, and past misconduct by authority figures. These accounts are presented as part of the character’s lived experience and do not reflect the views of the publication.

In the air-conditioned cavity of the Blue Stars café at the GMS Road of Dehradun, Shahid sat stiff, staring at the two contracts placed before him. His hand was half outstretched to pick a cinnamon roll when the buyer presented her proposition. Shahid’s fingers had curled back into a fist that dropped in his lap as his mouth turned sour.

Ms Ray, the buyer, tapped her fingers on the table. “What do you say?” Her eyebrows stretched like a quiver ready to shoot.

Shahid bit his lower lip.

Two girls on their right clicked pictures with a bun topped with a generous layer of velvety blueberry cake. The girl on the table in front of them, hardly in her twenties, giggled as her partner fed her a taco with his hands. The server, wearing a black apron with the logo of the café over a red T-shirt and blue jeans, weaved her way to the counter.

“Let me know what you decide,” Ms Ray instructed, and left.

Developing a mobile application that detects and announces objects in front of the mobile’s camera to aid the movement of individuals with visual impairments was Shahid’s dream. He had the blueprint of the application for two years before Naved, a high-school friend, offered his support. They discussed use-case scenarios, wrote code snippets in Python, and tested the program’s output on virtual machines for several months before preparing the proposal to sell the application. They lacked the financial resources to launch it on their own, and no investor was interested in a collaboration.

How could Ms Ray think he would agree to such a scandalous suggestion?

Naved was the one who brought the buyer. When Shahid told him that he could not see Ms Ray alone, Naved refused to listen to any excuse.

“Since when have you started doubting yourself?” he had dismissed Shahid’s fears with the wave of a hand. “You were always the smarter one.”

“I’m,” Shahid had slumped deeper into the antique, wrought-iron garden chair at Naved’s palatial house, “I’m just wondering if they’ll agree to deal with me. You are the man they want.”

The glasses of sweet, beige-coloured almond milk that Naved’s mother always prepared when Shahid visited stood on the table between them. Naved handed one to Shahid and took a few mouthfuls from his before speaking. “They want to meet the developer of the application, and you know everything there is to tell. Just be there at four.”

Ms Ray had no idea what she was asking of him.

The stuffy bus ride on the cruel June day covered Shahid in a slick of dust. He took off his clothes and stood under the shower. The water in the overhead tank of the building was boiling even at six in the evening. Shahid cursed and came out.

Ms Ray had given him two days to mull over the offer — cut Naved out, sell the application as the sole owner, and enjoy all the glory that comes when it succeeds. In return, she wanted him to reduce the price by thirty per cent. “You’ll still get more than your original share, and we’ll take care of the legalities, including any copyright claims filed by your partner.”

She had winked and presented him with two agreements — one listed both Shahid and Naved as developers, while the other had only Shahid’s name printed on it. “All you have to do is change a few lines of code here and there to make the program structure different. I’m sure it’s easy for someone of your calibre.”

Eyeing him, she smiled in a way that made Shahid’s lunch curdle in his stomach.

“You have both worked hard on the project, but your partner keeps using I instead of we,” she emphasised the I and we. “It’s time you get the credit that you deserve.”

Suffocated by the thoughts, Shahid opened the only window of the apartment. The slanting rays of streaming sunlight highlighted the splotches of dal and gravy on the floor that he had been too busy to wipe.

The bottle of Lysol that Shahid fetched from the bathroom cabinet was almost empty. He trickled a few droplets into the bucket half full of water, dipped a rag, and scrubbed the floor. Dip and scrub, dip and scrub, he worked through the length of the apartment.

Rhea, his ex-girlfriend, always reminded him to clean the place before it started resembling a chicken coop. “My bathroom is cleaner than your bedroom. Do something about it.” She would shout and rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed, sniffing his T-shirts. “Wash them today if you want to come anywhere near me.”

When she asked him to meet her at Starbucks last Friday, he thought she wanted to make another reel. Being a mildly successful food influencer with 5.2K followers on Instagram, she always went to aesthetically appealing places. For the first time, Shahid didn’t mind paying the exorbitant amount for a cup of coffee that they could drink at a cheaper price at any other place. He was going to be rich soon, but before he could share the news, she blurted, “This is not working anymore.”

“What is not working?”

“You, me, us.” She sounded well-rehearsed.

About Our Contributor

Nazia is a reader and writer based in Dehradun. Her novella Multicoloured Muffler appeared in the Rize Novella Anthology by Running Wild Press. Her shorter work has been published in The Tint, FemAsia, Rigorous, Author Publish Magazine, Juste Literary, and 50-Word Story.

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