The crowd was thinning as evening fell. College students with sling bags, office-goers loosening their ties — the usual faces lining up near the food truck. But Prachi wasn’t here for the food.
She looked around instinctively, scanning the space behind the truck. No Avinash.
She shrugged, walked up anyway, and casually ordered a plate of fries — nothing fancy, just something to snack on while she waited. Maybe he’d return soon. The cook handed her the paper tray piled with golden fries, and she sat down on a nearby stool.
Ten minutes passed. Still no sign of him.
She licked the last bit of salt off her fingertips and walked up to the counter to pay.
“How much for the fries?” she asked, already fishing for change from her purse.
The younger cook looked puzzled. “Ma’am… we… we can’t take money from you.”
Prachi frowned. “What? Why not?”
The second one, who was a little older, quickly added, “We don’t know if Avinash sir would like us charging you. He didn’t say anything.”
“Guys, it’s just a plate of fries,” she laughed, holding out the money.
“Yes, but you’re... you know... his person,” one of them mumbled. “He might get mad.”
Prachi rolled her eyes and placed the cash on the counter.
The younger one picked it up immediately and shoved it back into her hand. “Please don’t. We’re already nervous about handling everything. If he gets mad, we’re done for.”
She raised both hands in surrender, laughing. “Wow, he’s turned you into loyal soldiers.”
“No, we’re just scared of getting fired,” the older one grinned sheepishly.
Still smiling and shaking her head in disbelief, Prachi walked off.
Later, when Avinash returned to the food truck, both cooks greeted him together.
“Prachi mam came,” said one.
Avinash’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Prachi?”
They nodded. “She waited for a while but left. We didn’t let her pay.”
He didn’t say anything. Just gave a soft half-smile and went back to work.
Later that evening— The sea was still choppy from the Diwali winds, and the beach was quieter than usual. Avinash sat on the cool sand near the bench, his laptop untouched, gaze fixed on the darkening waves.
He pulled out his phone and typed:
"Can you forgive me for being a terrible friend and get over with it already?"
Minutes later, he saw someone walking towards him, a silhouette glowing under the distant glow of streetlight. Prachi, in her joggers and hoodie, carried a small box.
She sat down wordlessly and handed it to him.
“Diwali sweets,” she said flatly.
Avinash smiled. “Didn’t think I earned them this year.”
“You didn’t,” she replied. “But they’re for the guy who used to be less annoying.”
“That’s fair,” he murmured taking the box.
They sat in silence for a moment before she asked, “Why didn’t you go home?”
He exhaled, not turning toward her. “Didn’t get enough leave. Just one day.”
“Really?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “But you said you were getting four.”
“Yeah… that was before,” he muttered, still not meeting her gaze. “Plans changed.”
“What changed?”
“The owner suddenly had work.”
Prachi tilted her head. “So he gave you only one day off?”
“Yeah.”
“Because of work?” she pressed.
“Something like that.”
She stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re lying, aren’t you?.”
“No, I’m not—”
“You are,” she interrupted firmly. “You’re bad at it, whenever you lie your voice gets heavy.”
Avinash stayed silent for a moment, caught.
Then he sighed. “Okay. I had to borrow some money from him.”
Prachi blinked. “What? For what?”
“Something urgent came up back home.”
Her voice sharpened. “And you didn’t think of asking me?”
“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
“That is—” she stood up abruptly, furious. “That is absolute garbage. You borrowed money from your boss but didn’t ask me?”
“I didn’t want to make things—”
“Oh come on, don’t give me that noble sacrifice crap!” she snapped. “You’d rather lose your Diwali, lie to your family, and owe your truck owner a favour—than just pick up the phone and call me?”
“I didn’t want to involve you in it,” he said again, now standing too.
“You didn’t want help. That’s what this is. You didn’t even think I was someone you could ask.”
Her voice cracked slightly. “I thought we were close enough that you would come up to me for any help without any hesitation, but clearly we aren’t.”
He looked at her, guilt washing across his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I really am. But it wasn’t just the money.”
Prachi stared at him.
He looked away, eyes fixed on the dark water. “There were other reasons for not going too. One of them… I didn’t want to face my family. Not with the lies I’ve been feeding them for months. About a fancy job. About movies and restaurants. About a pair of sneakers I never bought.”
He took a breath, then added, “How do you go home as a fraud and sit next to people who believe you’re doing great?”
Prachi’s anger softened — slightly — at his words, but she was still visibly upset.
“So you lied to them. And now you’re paying the price. And you didn’t even think that maybe… just maybe… you could have talked to me about all this?”
Avinash looked down. “I didn’t know how to. And I guess I was ashamed of even needing to.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Prachi sat back down, still fuming but quieter.
He joined her a moment later.
She spoke first. “I’m still angry, you know.”
“You have every right to be.”
“But I brought the sweets anyway. Because it’s Diwali.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re too kind.”
“No, I’m just not petty,” she muttered, but there was no venom in her voice anymore.
He glanced at her. “So… how’s life post-job-quitting?”
“I haven’t quit yet.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I was going to. But then you yelled at me. So I got confused.”
He chuckled. “Well, just because I apologised doesn’t mean now I’m going to support you in that.”
“I didn’t expect you to. But it messed with my certainty. And now I’m hesitating.”
“I have a friend,” she said. “Wants to meet. Says she has a business idea. Wants to partner up.”
“And you’re going?”
She nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just… listening for now.”
Avinash looked at her seriously. “Then listen. Hear her out. Take your time. Just don’t do something rash out of impulse. Be sure, if you are taking such a big risk then it better be worth”
She nodded. “Hmm”
“Also,” he said with a smirk, “You still owe me money, for the fries.”
Prachi laughed — a short, tired laugh.
The next day, Prachi didn’t show up at the beach. Avinash sat alone on the sand — laptop bag slung to the side, sea breeze brushing his face, and a quietness that felt uneasy.
Later that night, as he walked down a narrow street back to his rented room — plastic bags of groceries in one hand, phone in the other — his phone buzzed. It was Prachi.
He answered, expecting small talk. But her voice was bright, excited — practically sparkling through the phone.
“You won’t believe what happened today!” she said.
Avinash smiled. “You sound like someone who’s just cracked a heist.”
“I met Akansha,” she rushed on. “We talked for hours. And the idea is actually brilliant, Avi.”
He shifted the grocery bag and adjusted the phone. “What idea?”
“So,” she began, “Akansha and I — we’ve both done MBAs, we’ve both worked in large companies, right? We’ve got real-world marketing experience. So the plan is: why not build a business around that? A company that works as a complete outsourced marketing department for startups — especially the ones who can’t afford a full-fledged team or expensive consultants.”
Avinash’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“We’ll do it all — branding, ad strategy, digital marketing, social media, SEO, even website building if they need it. Basically, the whole engine behind a startup’s public face. We’ll let them focus on their product; we’ll handle how the world sees it.”
He didn’t take even a moment to respond.
“Quit your job,” he said.
Prachi paused, surprised. “Wait, what? That’s it? No lecture this time?”
He laughed. “The way you’re talking? It’s written all over your voice. You want this. You're already mentally there. You just needed a little shove.”
For a moment, there was silence from her end — the kind that carries a smile through it.
“That shove... it mattered, you know,” she said softly. “I needed it to come from you.”
“Well, you’ve got it,” he said. “Now go build something mad enough to scare yourself.”
She chuckled, sounding giddy like a child who just got permission for a road trip.
But before the conversation could go any deeper, Avinash cut in, “Hey — someone’s calling. I’ll call you back?”
Prachi agreed, and he picked up the incoming call.
“Hello?”
“Bro! Guess who?” came a familiar voice.
Avinash frowned in recognition. “Vijay?”
“The one and only. Rhea told me you’re in Mumbai! I’ve got some office work there this weekend. Let’s meet?”
Avinash hesitated for a moment but kept his voice easy. “Yeah… sure, man. Let me know the plan.”
“Awesome! Will ping you. Someone’s calling, gotta go!” Vijay said and hung up.
Avinash pocketed the phone. A faint discomfort flickered inside him — another person from the past now knew of his life here. Of this version of Avinash. The version that didn’t wear ID cards or attend weekly stand-ups.
But for once, the shame didn’t linger. He shrugged it off. He didn’t owe anyone a performance — not anymore. As long as he wasn’t a burden on his family, as long as his father didn’t have to limp around waiting for a surgery that he couldn’t afford — that’s what counted.
He continued walking, humming a soft tune under his breath, eyes scanning the pavement ahead, streetlight shadows following him quietly.
The next few days passed in their own rhythm — familiar, yet slowly diverging.
By daylight, Avinash was at the food truck, managing orders, balancing chaos, exchanging nods with regular customers, and making sure the rhythm of work didn’t slip. The usual grease on his shirt, sweat on his brow, and calculator in his mind — running figures, tallying sales, surviving.
Prachi, on the other hand, was disappearing into a whirlwind of meetings and planning sessions. Her startup — still unnamed — was slowly moving from a blurry vision to an actual structure. Calls with Akansha stretched for hours, investor research filled her nights, and Google Docs devoured her mornings.
Their evenings at the beach became irregular. Some days she came, some days she didn’t. Some days Avinash waited with his laptop bag slouched beside him, eyes scanning the dark horizon and the phone screen — both equally blank. Other days, she arrived late, carrying stories of business plans, bad fonts, and hilarious startup names they rejected.
One morning, as Avinash was flipping through order books, Prachi called.
“There’s a religious function at our place tomorrow,” she said. “Small family function. You’re coming.”
He sighed. “Prachi… I don’t do great in Saree-and-sandal environments. Also, I have work.”
She laughed. “Don’t test me, Avinash. You skip it, and I swear to God, I’ll post your school photos online.”
He smirked. “I don’t even remember giving you those.”
“I’ll find them. I have my ways.”
He chuckled and finally relented. “Fine, I’ll come. Stop threatening me.”
The next day, she called twice — once in the morning and once an hour before the function. “Don’t you dare back out,” she warned.
But as the sun set, the clock ticking past the function hour, Avinash didn’t move.
He sat by the railway station, watching the local train snake away from the platform. Phone buzzing in his hand, her name flashing on the screen again and again. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to answer.
The next afternoon, business at the food truck was slow. The lull of mid-day heat kept most customers away. That’s when she came.
Prachi arrived like a storm without noise — straight posture, eyes fixed, lips pressed in calm fury. She walked up to the truck where Avinash was arranging paper trays and sauces.
No pleasantries.
She just said, “Don’t lie. Just tell me why you didn’t come.”
Avinash looked at her — tired, guilty, exposed.
“Ok, fine, I’ll tell you. I didn’t come… because I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he said quietly. “It was a family function. There’d be your parents, relatives, people asking questions — what do you do, where do you work — and I wouldn’t be able to lie. And telling the truth… that I supervise a food truck… it would’ve been humiliating, for me. Maybe even for you.”
Prachi didn’t react for a few seconds. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind — just hurt.
“I invited you because I wanted you there,” she said. “Not because of your job. Not because I needed someone impressive to show off. Just… you.”
She looked away for a moment, gathering the words. “I’m not mad because you didn’t come. I’m mad because you don’t talk to me. You never tell me what’s going on in your head. What’s bothering you, what you’re scared of, what you’re struggling with. I always tell you what I feel, even when I think you’ll judge it. But with you… it always feels like I’m talking to a wall that smiles.”
Avinash stayed silent.
Prachi nodded slowly. “It feels like the rope in this friendship is too heavy on one side.”
And with that, she turned and walked away — no drama, no raised voice. Just a quiet closing of a door she didn’t want to shut, but felt she had to.
Avinash watched her leave — a knot tightening in his throat — but this time, he didn’t stop her because he didn’t know how to.
The days passed in a quiet rhythm. Avinash didn’t try much — just one message, short and apologetic, left on Prachi’s phone. It got no reply.
He didn’t call her.
Maybe he was giving her space.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA2YONZqP7T
Maybe he was giving up.
But then, one night, when the sea breeze was especially sharp and the stars had dusted the sky with a little extra sparkle, he reached the beach as usual — late, quiet, uncertain.
And there she was.
Prachi sat in the same old spot, legs stretched, laptop screen glowing against the dark. Her hair was slightly messy from the wind, but her fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. She didn’t notice him.
Avinash paused.
Instead of walking straight to her, he turned toward a small street vendor nearby, an elderly man selling flowers from a wooden tray strung with battery-powered fairy lights. Avinash bought a bunch of marigolds and strolled toward her.
From behind, he cleared his throat.
“Peace offering,” he said. “No thorns. Just petals and shame.”
Prachi didn’t even look at him. “What is this, floral blackmail?”
He moved around and held the flowers toward her. “I heard this is how normal people apologise. It’s either this or I recite a poem in public. Pick your trauma.”
She tried not to smile — tried hard. But the corner of her lips betrayed her.
“Fine,” she said, snatching the flowers playfully. “You’re forgiven. For now.”
Avinash sank down beside her. “Apologising seems to be my strongest skill lately. Maybe I should put that on my résumé.”
“You should,” she said. “Right next to ‘habitual ghoster of religious functions.’”
He laughed. “Touché.”
They sat in a comfortable silence for a beat, watching the waves quietly tumble and disappear again. Then Prachi spoke up.
“We’ve decided the name.”
Avinash turned to her. “The company?”
She nodded. “Stratagrow. Short for Strategic Growth. Sounds like something that belongs on a TED Talk, doesn’t it?”
He grinned. “It sounds like something that’ll scare your competition.”
“That’s the plan,” she said with a wink.
Just then, Avinash’s phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Vijay calling,” he muttered.
He answered. “Hello?”
“Tomorrow. I’m coming to your food truck,” Vijay announced.
Avinash blinked. “Wait, how do you even—”
“I know everything about you, bro,” Vijay cut him off in a teasing tone. “I have spies.”
Before Avinash could respond, Vijay hung up.
He put the phone away with a faint smirk. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
Prachi looked over. “To the food truck?”
“Yeah. And apparently he knows everything about me.”
Prachi rolled her eyes. “Well, great. Another one added to your fan club.”
Avinash chuckled — but just then noticed her rubbing her eyes.
“You okay?”
She closed the laptop lid with a small thud. “The new version of Spillr has this super high contrast layout. It’s burning my eyes.”
He frowned. “Then maybe stop using it?”
She gave him a mock glare. “And deprive myself of all the toxic drama and unhinged rants? Where else would I get all the spice from? My real life is boring.”
Avinash scoffed. “Yeah, so boring. Beach chats, starting a business, yelling at friends. Super dull.”
“Exactly,” she said with a smirk. “I need the app to balance it out.”
13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKllNX2uWsq
The next evening, just as the sun dipped behind the city skyline and the food truck’s shutters rolled halfway down for the slower shift, a voice rang out across the footpath:
“Sir, can I have a plate of spring roll?!”
Avinash turned. Vijay stood there with a grin wide enough to pass off as a passport photo.
They hugged like old friends do — not too tight, not too loose, and mostly just loud.
“Look at you, Mr. Foodtruck Supervisor,” Vijay teased, grabbing a paper plate of spring rolls. “You’ve got real work now.”
“Yeah, finally putting that MBA I never did to good use,” Avinash smirked.
They pulled up two stools at the far end of the truck, away from the sizzling pans and shouting cooks.
Vijay took a bite. “Honestly, this tastes better than half the cafés in Bangalore.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. I thought you’d be handing me water and sympathy.”
Avinash laughed. “That’s extra. For close friends.”
They caught up like no time had passed — from college crushes to bad exam days to Avinash’s uncanny ability to make coding projects look like group efforts even when he did all the work.
“I still remember that weather app you made in second year,” Vijay said. “You were in Civil Engineering and building Java apps better than the CS guys.”
“I peaked early,” Avinash replied with mock pride. “It’s been downhill since.”
Vijay leaned back on his stool. “Speaking of peaking — remember that idea you had back in third year? That raw, anonymous social app for people to vent or debate stuff without filters?”
Avinash nodded slowly.
“Man, you won’t believe — someone’s already done it. It’s called Spillr. I saw some of my colleagues use it so I gave it a try, it’s actually fun. People fighting, confessing, trashing politicians — full-on circus. Same vibe you described back in college.”
Avinash’s expression shifted, just slightly — but enough.
The laughter died from his lips. He looked down at the paper plate and wiped his hands on a tissue that didn’t need to be used.
“Yeah,” he said, softly. “I know. I’ve seen people use it.”
Vijay didn’t notice the tone. He was still too amused. “It’s insane, man. Makes you wonder — if we had launched it back then…”
Avinash nodded faintly.
“If.”
They both switch topics and continue their chatter, sometimes talking about their messy life, sometimes diving into nostalgia.
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Prachi had been away for nearly a week — first in Pune, then hopping between two more cities, chasing meetings and refining the pitch decks with Akansha. It was exhausting, but thrilling in its own way.
Somewhere above the clouds on her return flight to Mumbai, Prachi and Akansha with their phones in hand ironically discussing their addiction to social media these days.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmMXIA9bJTG
Prachi leaned back in her seat, the flight finally steady above the clouds. She turned to Akansha beside her and grinned, phone in hand.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOukXZuXJCN
“Hey, ever heard of Spillr?”
Akansha gave her a curious look. “That name’s popped up a few times. Some anonymous posting app, right?”
“Exactly,” Prachi nodded, unlocking her screen. “But not like those old-school forums. This one’s more... raw. You can say anything, anytime. No names. No filters. No fear.”
She scrolled and found a trending post. “Look at this — people are losing their minds over this thread. It started with someone saying women make better leaders than men. Now it's a full-blown courtroom drama.”
Akansha leaned in. “You actually read through all this?”
“Oh, I’ve fought in these,” Prachi said with mock pride. “It’s addictive. Wildly unhealthy, maybe — but addictive.”13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWSS1Bz7pMC
Akansha laughed. “Makes sense why you’re on this app more than Instagram.”
“I was,” Prachi said, lowering her phone slightly. “Honestly, I cut down for a while.”
“Why?”
“Their UI sucked. Like seriously sucked. Especially at night — high contrast, bright white screens. It felt like staring into a torch. My eyes were crying.”
Akansha winced. “Oof.”
“But,” Prachi said, lifting her phone again, “they finally updated it. Look — now it’s this subtle grey-blue background. Calmer on the eyes. Much better for night scrolling.”
Akansha inspected the interface. “That’s actually pretty sleek. There is a dark mode too?”
13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWuSwv0Mo3r
Late at night.
The beach was near-empty, a quiet sheet of waves stretching into the dark. Prachi walked across the soft sand, her sneakers sinking slightly with each step.
She spotted him from a distance.
Avinash — seated just like always, back against the legs of the bench, laptop open on his lap, posture slightly slouched.
But tonight, his eyes were closed.
As she came closer, she saw he had dozed off — shoulders loose, breathing steady, head tilted gently to one side. The sea wind rustled his hair, but he didn’t stir.
Prachi smiled, slowing down, her original plan of scaring him quietly abandoned. She stepped closer and knelt beside him to take the laptop off his lap, so he could sleep more comfortably.
That’s when her eyes fell on the screen.
An open console.
Dark mode interface.
Live user metrics flickering in real-time.
Spillr — Admin Panel13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx98dGRtZ6L
Server Traffic: 13.5k active13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnsYKU7dUsS
Region Map — India
Her fingers hovered, motionless. Her face froze13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIWKXFwkUJG
