Aditya Kashyap, whose books were making waves across Indian youth and even parts of the Indian subcontinent, was just an introvert writing about incidents inspired by his life—only slightly improvised. What irked his fans was that even after his words had touched a million hearts and echoed through another million ears, he remained a complete stranger to the world. He loved solitude and anonymity. Besides not knowing what he looked like, his fans didn’t even know his real name.
Aditya Kashyap was just his pen name.
Aviral Sharma is what his close ones knew him as—most of whom believed he simply managed his father's already established business. He lived in an apartment located on the chaotic streets of Mumbai. Chaos hadn’t spared his mind either. The past two years had been a complete rollercoaster.
His book, We Meet in Every Universe, had sold around two million copies, gaining him and his work immense popularity. Just two months later, he lost his father to cardiac arrest. Months of grieving followed. His mother, unable to process the loss, grew weaker every passing day. Eventually, she flew to London, as everyone advised.
But Aviral couldn't leave. At just 23, he had to be the responsible son, take care of the business, and fulfill his father's dream. Because of all this, he barely had time to do what he loved most—writing.
Back to the present: it was a usual Sunday evening, just a bit more pleasant because of the monsoons. Aviral sat by the window of his living room, a notebook on his lap and a pencil in his hand—for the first time in ages. Now that he finally had time, his mind was blank. The past two years had left him empty.
He tried to push his thoughts harder but was interrupted by a loud crack of thunder. It poured heavily outside, and he sat there admiring the dance of the trees and the music of the sky. After a few minutes, he opened the window for a closer look. Nothing like the smell of earth after rain, he thought as tiny droplets touched his skin. Petrichor filled his room. He felt genuinely relaxed—for the first time in a long time.
Then came a knock.
At this hour?
Was that real? More questions rushed through his mind when another knock followed, louder this time. Nervously, he approached the door and looked through the keyhole.
A woman.
Water dripped from the edge of the dupatta of her white salwar suit. She looked genuinely in need of help. Even before he could process anything, his hand reached the knob and unlocked the door.
There she was, kohl-smudged eyes meeting his, completely drenched in the rain that had made his home smell like earth.
“Can you please let me in? It’s really cold outside,” she said, her voice as soft as the rhythm of raindrops on the ceiling.
He opened the door wider and let her in.
“I’m Barkha Singh, a third-year engineering student,” she explained, showing her college ID. “I was out for some personal work this morning. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. And now this rain… there’s waterlogging everywhere. I can’t book a cab. My apartment’s 10 km from here. So if you don’t mind, can I please stay here tonight?”
She shivered as she spoke.
“But, um—”
“I’ll leave as soon as the sun rises. I promise,” she interrupted with hopeful eyes.
“Okay, fine. But at least inform someone about your whereabouts.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll call my sister and share my location,” she said and quickly made the call. Her sister even spoke to Aviral for a minute, thanking him for helping.
Then Barkha asked if she could borrow some dry clothes. Aviral gave her one of his t-shirts and trousers—twice her size, but her only option. She headed to the bathroom.
Meanwhile, Aviral made coffee for them. When she returned, he couldn’t stop laughing at how comically oversized the clothes looked on her. The last time he laughed this hard was two years ago at a celebration with friends.
She glared at him like a child, asking him to stop—but he didn’t. After he finally calmed down, he offered her the coffee. She refused, annoyed.
He apologized, and offered the cup again. She took it.
Then both of them burst into laughter.
The air grew lighter.
They started chatting like old friends. Barkha was the kind of person who could bring out the extrovert in the most introverted of souls. She was sunshine in human form. They talked about everything until she noticed a book on the table: We Meet in Every Universe by Aditya Kashyap.
“You read his books?” she asked excitedly.
“Yeah, sometimes,” he said casually, not revealing he wrote them.
“I’m his biggest fan. I’ve read all of his books—some of them twice. I need to meet him at least once, just to tell him how much I love his work. But no one even knows what he looks like! It’s been two years, and I’m so impatient for his next book.”
She kept gushing about the mysterious author. Aviral listened, quietly smiling. Her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about “Aditya Kashyap.”
Eventually, they both drifted off to sleep on their respective couches.
When Aviral woke up, Barkha was gone.
He called out, then noticed a note on the table:
*Thank you so much for letting a stranger into your home. I’ll never forget this. Maybe, someday, we’ll meet again—and I’ll return the gesture. I didn’t want to wake you, so I wrote this :)*
He smiled. Knowing someone admired him so deeply gave him a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a while—delight.
Motivated, Aviral found a way to balance both work and writing. Weekdays on screens, weekends with pen and paper.
Sun, how does it feel to be the sun? he thought, sitting on the couch, pencil tucked between his lips.
Majestic, glowing, the source of light. The one who gives people a chance to grow, to forget the past and start fresh. And yet… no one writes about you. All those poems about the moon—a moon that doesn’t even have its own light.
“I guess I’ll be the first to write about you, dear Sun,” he whispered excitedly.
And as he began writing, he thought of Barkha. Her smile. Her eyes. Her voice.
She’s straight out of a book, he thought. And if she’s not, I’ll make that happen.
The next day at the office, Aviral noticed a new intern struggling. He walked over to help—and froze.
It was Barkha.
She was equally shocked to learn he owned the company.
Later, he called her into his cabin and patiently explained everything. A few days later, he found her asleep at her desk.
“Too much work?” he smiled.
“I—uh—”
“Coffee?”
“No, I—”
“You owe me a friendly gesture. Just coffee.”
“…Okay, fine.”
They sat sipping coffee in his cabin. Barkha, the chatterbox, couldn’t stop talking—even tired. One hour passed. Then her sister called. Barkha said she was working late and would be home soon.
Aviral offered to drop her off.
Even in the car, she kept talking. At her building entrance, they waved goodbye.
Their interactions grew. They texted daily, had longer conversations. One night, they sat by Marine Drive. Aviral told her everything—except that he was her favorite author. He even cried.
She hugged him. Told him everything would be alright.
He believed her.
Aviral realized he had fallen for her.
On New Year’s night, as he dropped her home, he finally confessed:
“Barkha… I love you. With all my heart, all my soul. I want to marry you.”
She was surprised, not shocked. As if she expected it—just not yet.
“Aviral… I need a day. Just one. To think. If you…”
He nodded.
“And if I refuse—we’ll still be friends,” she assured him.
He smiled, reassured.
But the next day, she didn’t come to work.
No calls. No texts.
He wasn’t angry—just hurt. Maybe she doesn’t feel the same.
Then, at 5 p.m., an unknown number called.
It was Barkha—from her sister’s phone.
“Where are you? I was about to come to your place!” he blurted.
“Just come to Marine Drive. No questions,” she said and hung up.
He rushed there. She stood in that same white suit from the night they met.
He started to ask questions again, but she interrupted.
“I’ll explain. Sit.”
They sat.
“My uncle—he lives in a nearby town—he’s been very ill. My sister and I visited him today. While talking, my phone’s battery died. I left it there with my charger. That’s why I didn’t reply.”
She paused.
“And now, the thing you’ve been waiting to hear all day: I love you too. With all my heart, all my soul. I too want to spend my life with you.”
Aviral lifted her in joy.
From that day, everything changed.
They started their mornings with “Good morning” texts and ended their nights with long calls and ruined sleep schedules. Everything felt like a fairytale.
Then, Aditya Kashyap announced his new book:
Will You Be My Sun?
The fans went crazy. Including Barkha.
She gushed to Aviral, not knowing the “sun” was her.
Her birthday was coming up. Aviral had it all planned—the highlight: proposing with the ring engraved inside the first copy of his book.
And that’s when he would tell her everything.
The day finally arrived.
April 14, 10:03 p.m.
Two hours before her birthday.
He stood outside her house, heart racing, fingers icy with nervous excitement. In his hands — a box wrapped in silver paper, her favorite perfume, chocolates and the book of course.
He rang the bell.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
No answer.
Maybe she was asleep? Maybe she was pretending — pulling one of her pranks? But even then, the house looked too still. Too... silent.
He waited.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
At the twenty-minute mark, anxiety finally overpowered the anticipation. He dialed Bhavya’s number.
“Hello, Bhavya di? Where are you guys? I’ve been standing outside for ages. Please don’t tell Barkha — just ask her to open the door. I want to see her confused face so bad, I’ve been dreaming of this moment—”
There was silence.
A shaky breath.
Then:
“Aviral... actually... we’re not home. I am... I’m—” Her voice cracked like thin glass under pressure, and she broke into uncontrollable sobs.
His heart stopped.
“Where are you? What happened? Is everything okay? Where’s Barkha?”
“I’m at Maxwell Hospital.”
“Hospital? Why? What do you mean by ‘I’ — where is Barkha?”
“I’ll tell you everything, just... just come. Please.”
________________________________________
He had never driven that fast in his life. Every red light, every turn, every second — felt like a nail pressing deeper into his chest.
When he arrived at Maxwell Hospital, the corridor lights felt too harsh, and the air — too thick to breathe.
Bhavya sat curled in a corner bench, her face swollen from tears. Her dupatta clung to her like she’d forgotten how to fix herself.
He rushed to her, crouched beside her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out — only a low, guttural cry.
His eyes turned to the glass window behind her. The operation theatre.
And there, under the blinding white lights... she lay.
Still.
Barkha.
His Barkha.
Her body covered in cuts and bruises, face pale, her lips tinted blue — but what truly shattered him was the ECG. A single, cruel, unbroken flat-line.
He pressed his palm to the glass.
“No... no no no... this isn't real. I must be dreaming. I was just about to surprise her. She was supposed to laugh. She was supposed to hug me and hit me for showing up uninvited.”
He turned to Bhavya, barely able to speak, his voice a whisper drowned in disbelief.
“Didi... please tell me she’s okay. Tell me this is a joke. That she's alive. Please.”
Bhavya looked up, her eyes bloodshot, her throat dry.
“Aviral... it was so sudden. That car — it came out of nowhere. One minute she was there, laughing, holding my hand... and the next, she was flying through the air like a doll. I screamed. I froze. I didn’t know what to do...”
She broke down again, clutching her hands together.
“I brought her here. I prayed, begged the doctors, but they said... her injuries were too deep. Her heart stopped. They tried, for an hour, but—”
Her voice faltered.
“She didn’t make it.”
________________________________________
He didn’t cry.
Not right then.
He sat there, frozen, staring at the door.
Waiting.
Begging.
For some miracle.
Maybe she’d get up and wave like nothing happened. Maybe this was just one of her wild, dramatic stories.
But the door never opened. And Barkha never walked out.
They performed her last rites in numb silence, under a grey sky that refused to weep.
________________________________________
The world moved on.
But Aviral didn’t.
He wandered through the days with a smile that was no longer real, speaking to people but never truly hearing them. He kept her memories tucked deep in his chest like burning embers — painful, but warm.
The texts she sent.
The voice notes with her laughter.
The unfinished playlist she made for their next long drive.
The book still in his drawer, unopened.
________________________________________
But even in her absence, Barkha never really left.
She lived in the pauses of his sentences.
In the spaces between his thoughts.
In every sunrise that felt just a little too golden, as if she was reminding him —
“I’m still with you, Aviral. In every light you find.”
9 Months Later...
Aviral 's new novel had broken all his previous records, selling three and a half million copies. He was invited to address college students in a seminar, where he made his first public appearance.
“Life,” he spoke, voice cracking but steady, “life taught me that sometimes, love isn’t about holding on. Sometimes, it’s about letting go and carrying them with you, wherever you go.”
He paused, looking at the sea of young faces eager for hope.
“So, I wrote Will You Be My Sun? — a story of love, loss, and finding light in the darkest places. For 'her'. For all of us who’ve lost someone too soon but carry their warmth in our hearts.”
Later, as the seminar ended and students rushed to get his autograph, Aviral stepped outside into the crisp evening air. And just for a moment he felt like, she was there in that white suit, smiling at him, cheering for him and this was enough for him to go on.
The breeze caught a stray leaf and carried it away, like a silent answer from the universe.
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