I don’t wish upon shooting stars. Never did. The whole idea is absurd. How could a million-year-old fallen mass of gas make your dreams come true? Dreams are fulfilled with effort. Some people sure are lucky, but even luck doesn’t promise a forever. At least, that’s what I believed. It was true, too—until the first day of school when the classroom door slammed open during lunch break, revealing a little girl my age.

There was a sparkle in her eyes. And on her bag.

That day, my hatred for all things shiny found a perfect excuse.

If there’s anything I loathe more than glitter, it has to be Tara Shrivastava. Not that there’s much of a difference between the two.

With an overachiever for an elder brother, expectations were sky-high. Academics were my sole boat in the cruel mahogany ocean. But there she was—surfing along the waves like she owned them. And as much as I hate to admit it, she clearly did.

It was unfair. It still is.

While people struggled just to survive, she already had the all-rounder tag wrapped around her like a second skin—gold medals around her neck, trophies in her hands, and a pen that seemed to leak only published ink. Meanwhile, I did what I knew best—scored the highest grades. Hating her came second.

Studying was the only field where I was seen, and for the last two years of school, she didn’t seem like much of a competition there. Maybe her subjects weren’t her best choice. Maybe she was done sparkling.

Until today.

Synchedo Mart Enterprise has been my dream project for the last ten years. My years of engineering education were finally supposed to pay off. And yet, just as I stood at the brink of success, she decided to return—to take the one thing I had.

I’d be damned if I let her.

“Mr. Mehra, are you fine?”

A nudge on my shoulder snapped me back to reality. I realized I’d been burning holes into her side profile, my gaze laced with something dangerously close to contempt. She frowned, concern etched across her face—so innocent, so sincere.

As if.

I nodded at the client, unwilling to trust my voice in the heat of the moment. He continued speaking. The next words shattered something inside me.

“Great. Then you’ll be assigned under our head architect, Ms. Shrivastava, for this project. She’ll guide you from here.”

They left the hall. I, on the other hand, contemplated the logistics of murder.

She barely passed Physics. How the hell is she supposed to assist me? Buildings aren’t built on fancy words and literary metaphors.

“What’s up, Mehra? How’s employing the poor treating you?”

A slap on my back. Just like old times. And that stupid smile—why was there no jealousy? Why does she always pretend to be so good?

“Well, we can’t leave the world in your hands alone,” I said dryly. “Had to take some responsibility.”

“Aww, so kind of you, my lord.” She grinned. “So, any girlfriend who cooks non-veg for you?”

How does she remember every little thing from school?

“Well, she’s my wife now.” My fingers curled around my phone in my pocket, gripping tightly. I was sure the screen was glowing with the picture of an angel—an imprint not just on the wallpaper but on my heart.

“Oh?” For the first time, she looked genuinely disappointed. Something about it irked me.

“You’re married?”

“It was nothing big, just family.”

She gave me a sad smile—like she’d lost the chance to ruin something good in my life.

Not this time, Shrivastava.

“Alright then,” she said, regaining her usual air, “my assistant will email you the project details. We start tomorrow. Feel free to invite me for dinner at your home. I’d love to meet Bhabhi.”

“There’s no need.”

“Well, if I’m working with you, I need to be sure you’re an honest man. Not an asshole anymore.”

Seriously? That’s her best comeback?

“Alright,” I sighed. “I’ll inform my wife. We can leave.”

“Tell her we’ll be late.”

“Why?”

“I have some errands to run.” She paused, then smirked. “Also, just for the record—do you have kids too?”

I frowned. “Yeah?”

“Oh my god.” She gasped. “You’re such an asshole. Make a stop at Toys Villa.”

On the way, she made countless stops. Chocolates and toys for my daughter—a car and a doll.

“Don’t be a sexist, Mehra,” she side-eyed me when I questioned her choice.

She also bought flowers, wine, and fruits. When I offered to get her some chocolate, she shook her head.

Weird. She never said no to sweets. Or anything, for that matter.

“I’ve got diabetes,” she said casually. “Buy me marshmallows if you want.”

I froze, staring at her. No way. She loved sweets too much.

That’s… bad.

“Come on, don’t be senti now. Put on some music.”

I did. Because I didn’t know what to say.

The first song on the radio was from her favorite singer. But she didn’t hum along. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. Her head rested against the window as she gazed out at the world, quiet in a way that didn’t suit her.

“Too shy, Shrivastava? Where’s the chatterbox with the built-in loudspeaker?”

She turned to me, eyebrows raised.

“Didn’t you always hate that about me?” Her voice was softer than I expected. “I tried to change, you know. But, well.”

I didn’t respond. I kept my eyes on the road.

“Isn’t that your favorite singer?” I asked, hoping to shift the subject. “I heard he had a concert in your college.”

She dug her thumbnail into her wrist. A habit of hers I never understood. The veins on her wrist were faintly marked—covered by a tattoo, a replacement for the evil-eye bracelet she never took off in school.

“Yeah, he did,” she murmured. “I couldn’t attend.”

“What?” I frowned. “No way. You knew the song lyrics better than the syllabus.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “Life happens.”

I paused. Then, deliberately, I added, “Touchwood.”

She scoffed.

“You still believe in that?”

I blinked. This was coming from her? She was the biggest believer in ‘delulu is the solulu.’

“I learned from the best,” I said, eyeing her.

“Sometimes, you have to unlearn things,” she said. “Because they aren’t healthy.” She flexed her fingers slightly. “If touching wood made wishes come true, woodcutters would be the richest—if not the happiest—people alive.”

“So, that’s why you don’t wear the bracelet anymore?”

She stiffened. Her hand disappeared behind her bag. I was certain her nails were digging into her wrist.

“It was a symbol of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Her voice was light. Too light.

Anyway.” She shook her head. “What is this, an interview? You should be telling me about your family.”

So, I did.

The night was filled with laughter, chaos, and—on my part—an inexplicable discomfort. My family seemed to love her. Everyone always did.

Why was it so easy to love her? And why did I have to work so hard for it?

Later, we went for a walk. She settled onto a swing, moving slowly, while I leaned against the bar, watching my daughter play badminton with my wife.

“Isn’t it too late? Won’t your boyfriend mind?”

She blinked. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“My boyfriend?”

“Duh.”

She laughed. “Who said I have one?”

“You must.”

“Why?”

“Come on, you’ve been an all-rounder forever. You have it all.”

She tilted her head, looking at me with something between amusement and pity.

"I mean, obviously. You must have it all, don’t you?" I finally broke the damn silence.

"Huh?"

"I mean, yeah—you’ve been an all-rounder since forever. You do everything so perfectly. It always seems so easy for you, and even when it isn’t, you make it look like it is."

"Tch. Bhai, was the wine too strong? What the hell are you even yapping about?"

"Come on. You’re a big-shot architect, a writer. You even won an international gold medal. You’re still running diplomacy campaigns with embassies and all. Your parents must be so proud of you. You must be so… happy."

"And you’re not?"

"I am. Of course, I am. But I worked so damn hard for it. I sacrificed so much."

"And you think I didn’t?"

"Did you?"

She shook her head, as if I wasn’t making any sense. "What?" I couldn't hold back the question, not today.

"You know that saying—'Jack of all trades, master of none'?"

"But oftentimes better than master of one," I finished, smirking before she could.

"Exactly. Oftentimes better. Just better. Not the best."

I expected her to argue, to throw some dramatic defense at me. Instead, she just sighed.

"I know in school, I never sacrificed a single chance to have fun, okay? But my grades suffered. I didn’t always make it to the top. So no, I didn’t have it all. And yeah, I’m a writer and a diplomat because I love it, but I’m just… average. There are so many people out there who outshine me, so easily. And architecture?" She scoffed. "You’ll be happy to know I sacrificed plenty of sleep, plenty of concerts, just to pass this shit—because I wanted a stable future. It was anything but easy."

Her voice softened. "I always thought you hated me for being happy. So I tried to be a little less. But I couldn’t. That’s just who I am." She smiled, but there was something small, something vulnerable, about it. "And if not any boyfriend, then yeah, I do love myself a lot. I love my life, even. It’s just how I wanted it—minus the boyfriend part. I admired you, you know? Maybe even envied you. You were the topper. The teachers adored you. And now, you have a home. A family. What more is there?"

I had been speechless many times in my life, but never like this.

I didn’t know what to say.

But I felt it—that weight lifting, the burden of a baseless resentment I had carried for years.

I spent my whole life convinced that Tara had it all. But maybe she was just collecting dreams the way I collected grades—trying to hold on to everything, only to feel like nothing was truly hers.

A sudden voice snapped me out of it.

"Your turn!" My daughter’s voice rang across the court.

Tara grinned, picked up the shuttle, and tossed it into the air before swinging wildly—just like she used to in school.

The racket missed. The shuttle dropped.

She blinked at it, then laughed, utterly unbothered.

She still doesn’t know how to play properly.
And she still won’t learn.

But she kept throwing the shuttle the same wrong way, over and over. And somehow, she still made the game fun.

Maybe some people aren’t meant to follow the rules.
Maybe they don’t need to.

“I spent my life convinced that Tara had it all,” I realized.

But maybe she was just collecting dreams the way I collected grades—trying to hold on to everything, only to feel like nothing was truly hers.

Maybe some people don’t need to follow the rules.

Maybe they just write their own.

A shooting star streaked across the sky.

I closed my eyes. And, for the first time in my life, I made a wish.