The city didn’t notice Ishaan when he arrived.
That was the first thing he learned.
It swallowed him whole—his suitcase, his careful plans, his belief that starting fresh meant being seen. He rented a small apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like dust and old paint, where the lift worked only when it felt generous.
On his third evening there, he went out to buy groceries.
He made a list.
Milk. Bread. Eggs.
Things that made life feel manageable.
The shop was crowded. Narrow aisles. Too many choices. People who already belonged there. Ishaan stood awkwardly near the refrigerator section, holding two cartons of milk like they were exam papers.
“That one,” a voice said behind him. “Trust me.”
He turned.
She was leaning slightly to one side, a basket hanging from her elbow, observing him with casual interest. There was no urgency in her face, no impatience—just amusement, like this was a small, pleasant interruption to her evening.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because the other one tastes like regret,” she replied.
He laughed before he could stop himself.
“Okay,” he said, putting the carton back.
She smiled—not triumphantly, just kindly. “You’re new.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re still looking at prices,” she said. “Locals stopped doing that years ago.”
They stood there a moment longer than necessary. He noticed she smelled faintly of paper and something citrusy. She noticed his shirt was neatly pressed, like he was trying to prove something to the world.
“I’m Anaya,” she said.
“Ishaan.”
“No last names?” she teased.
“Not yet.”
“Fair.”
They checked out at different counters. Walked out together without planning to.
Outside, the street was loud, alive, indifferent.
“Well,” Anaya said, adjusting her bag, “welcome to the city. It will disappoint you in unexpected ways.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She took a few steps away, then turned back. “You’ll get lost here a lot.”
“I usually do.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” she said. “Some places only make sense when you stop trying to understand them.”
Then she walked off—disappearing into the crowd so easily it startled him.
Ishaan stood there longer than he should have.
Not because he felt something profound.
Not because he believed this meant anything.
Just because for the first time since arriving, the city had spoken to him—and used his name.
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