Mira woke up to the gentle patter of rain and the much less gentle drone of her mother's voice echoing through the living room. Classic Bhosale household soundtrack. She didn't need to check the time; the smell of poha mixed with incense already told her it was past 9. Which meant her mom had finished her puja and was now spiritually transitioning into full-blown Mira-rant mode.

"Mira, beta, you're going to be late again! And don't forget your umbrella-last time you came home looking like a drenched crow."

Mira groaned and flopped back into her mattress, willing it to morph into a portal to another universe. Preferably one without mothers, deadlines, or Mondays.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Tanvi, her best friend since the Barbie-and-glitter phase:

Tanvi: Rohan and I are thinking of Bali for our honeymoon! Wish you could come along. Just like old times… but, you know… maybe with someone special?

Mira's left eye twitched. Just a little.

Tanvi. The girl who once swore off men after a crush ghosted her in eighth grade. Now married. Now planning honeymoons. And Mira? Mira was still here. In her childhood bedroom. At 31. Living with her parents. Editing mafia romance novels that made Fifty Shades read like Shakespeare.

And no, it wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. It was… being left behind. Again.

She got up with the energy of a soggy samosa and dragged herself into breakfast, where the real circus began.

Her mom was back on her favourite topic: The Boy from Pune™. Round five.

"He's nice. Engineer. He doesn't mind if the girl works. Can I share your number?"

Mid-toast, Mira stared at the wall like it held the secrets of the universe. "Does he also not mind if the girl has commitment issues, unresolved trauma, and uses sarcasm as a coping mechanism?"

Her father chuckled behind his newspaper. "Just don't tell him about your exes."

"Don't worry. There's barely one worth mentioning," she replied, sipping her black coffee like it was holy water.

Her mother sighed deeply. The kind of sigh that carried ancestral disappointment. "You should talk to your sister. She's all alone in that hostel. At least she has a plan for her life."

"I spoke to her last night, Ma. She's building a robot that makes chai. Which, honestly, is the most Indian goal ever."

Her dad grinned. "A useful one, finally."

Mira rolled her eyes so hard her mother's puja bells probably trembled. She finished her poha-toast hybrid, dodged another proposal ambush. It was a matter of few more days anyway. Her parents were going back to their hometown for a few months, part of their long overdue family trip to Konkan. And she would be leaving for Bangalore soon. She kissed her dad on the cheek, and hugged her mother-who was still muttering something about turmeric and fertility. Only a few more days of this. Her transfer to the Bangalore office was official. Her things were already shipped. A new city. A new flat. A blank slate that didn't have marital expectations baked into the walls.

She had exactly 12 minutes before her editor-in-chief would explode over a missed manuscript deadline (which Mira blamed entirely on Mercury retrograde, and maybe, okay, the author's inability to spell 'assassin' correctly).

But first: coffee. Non-negotiable.

She dashed into Bean There Brewed That, her favorite café-slash-office-slash-sanctuary. Outside, Dadar looked like someone had knocked over a watercolor set. Her curls had declared war, her tote bag was 70% rainwater, and the barista had-once again-spelled her name "Meera."

She plopped into her usual corner, set her laptop down, and took one glorious sip of cappuccino-

And then the WiFi died.

"Nope. Not today," she muttered, stabbing her keyboard like it had cheated on her.

After hotspotting her way through a painfully dull morning meeting (filled with phrases like "circle back" and "low-hanging fruit"), she let herself sink into the moment. Rain danced outside. Mumbai rains were chaos, yes-but also comfort. Like home in high-def.

Ding.

The café door opened, and in walked a guy holding… her umbrella.

Well. Not hers exactly. But the same exact one.

Blue. With yellow ducks. An obscure Etsy find from two years ago. No one else she knew had it.

He saw her.

She saw the umbrella.

Then each other.

Then the umbrellas again.

Mira raised one eyebrow, unimpressed but mildly intrigued.

He ran a hand through his slightly damp hair and grinned. That annoyingly perfect kind of grin that knew exactly how attractive it was. He placed his umbrella beside hers, walked over with a sheepish shrug.

"I think… one of us had a very interesting childhood."

She snorted. "Did yours also come with a label that says 'This umbrella has trust issues'?"

He blinked. "No, but mine came with this."

He pulled out a soggy post-it from his pocket and handed it to her.

"If this is yours, call me. Unless you're a serial killer. Then please keep it."

Mira looked up, deadpan. "Bold of you to assume serial killers don't have phones."

He laughed. Like, really laughed. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and warm.

And against all logic-Mira smiled.

Stupid smile.

Stupid charming stranger with stupid matching umbrella.

She reminded herself this was temporary. She was leaving. New city. Fresh start. No distractions. Especially not the grinning human embodiment of a rainy-day playlist.

But still… maybe Bangalore wouldn't be so bad.