The match ended, but the boys weren’t done.

  If anything, they swarmed around Eira like moths around a floodlight.

  I tried to intervene, but Eira — cool and calm as ever — stood her ground.

  They fired off questions, rapid-fire, excited and borderline inappropriate.

  "Where you from?""How are you so fit?""Are you single?""Have you ever had a boyfriend?""Are all girls from your country this pretty?"

  Eira answered without blinking.

  "I am from the United States," she lied smoothly (thank you, Karan’s crash course)."I train daily.""I have no companion currently.""Boyfriend is... strategic partner? I have no such partner."

  Boys sighed like dying whales.

  Then, Aman’s friend — a hefty sardar named Monty — decided to take things up a notch.

  He cpped his hands."Bas! Enough boring questions! Time for real learning!"

  I was at the water cooler, filling pstic cups, not hearing any of this.

  Monty, grinning like a devil, began to teach Eira Punjabi sng.

  And not the nice kind.

  He taught her curses.

  Filthy curses.

  But he lied about their meanings.

  "Say ‘Teri maa di’!" he said.

  Eira repeated it innocently.

  Monty ughed so hard he nearly fell.

  "What does it mean?" she asked.

  "It means... ‘Good Morning!’" he said, deadpan.

  The boys howled with ughter.

  Someone else taught her "Kutteya" (calling someone a dog) — and said it meant "good friend."

  Poor Eira believed it all, repeating everything seriously.

  When I came back with water, I noticed the wicked grins — but by then it was too te.

  And then came the prank of the century.

  Aman, Monty, and a few others whispered to Eira, expining a new phrase to her.

  In their fake lesson, they told her that "Main tenu pyaar kardi haan" meant:"Thank you for helping me today."

  Eira, earnest and eager, nodded.

  Perfect pronunciation.

  She walked over to me, standing straight as a bde, hands behind her back, serious as a judge.

  And said:

  "Main tenu pyaar kardi haan, Karan."

  I froze.

  The earth tilted slightly under my feet.

  Boys in the background gasped dramatically.

  Aman fake-fainted.

  Monty whistled.

  I stared at Eira, brain completely fried.

  Because what she just said?

  Meant:

  "I love you, Karan."

  Not thank you.Not good job.

  I. Love. You.

  Blood roared in my ears.

  I think my soul physically tried to leave my body through my ears.

  Eira tilted her head, confused.

  "Is it correct?" she asked innocently.

  I couldn’t even speak.

  Face burning, heart pounding, brain melted into ghee, I staggered backward.

  The boys lost it.

  Rolling on the ground, clutching their stomachs.

  Aman cpped me on the back so hard I stumbled forward again.

  "Broooo!" he yelled. "Your heart skipped a beat, right?! RIGHT?!"

  I croaked, "You’re dead. All of you are dead."

  Eira frowned deeper, sensing something was wrong.

  "What does it mean?" she demanded.

  Monty wheezed, "Means... thank you!"

  "Wrong!" I snapped. "It means ‘I love you’!"

  Eira's eyes widened a fraction.

  Then she turned slowly to gre at Aman and Monty.

  They shut up instantly.

  If looks could kill, Sector 45 would be ashes.

  I buried my face in my hands, wishing the ground would swallow me.

  Aman, still grinning, leaned against my shoulder.

  "Bro," he said, "real talk — my mom's been asking about you."

  I blinked. "Huh?"

  "She’s worried," he said. "Said you're probably eating only Maggi. She wants you to come for lunch. Today. After the match. Bring Eira too."

  I sighed, feeling the chaos never ended.

  "Fine," I muttered. "We’ll come after the match."

  Aman whooped, fist-pumping the air like we'd just won the World Cup.

  Sunday: At Aman’s House

  We rode the Splendor through the warm morning air, Eira holding the extra tiffin box Aman’s mom insisted we bring back ter.

  When we reached, Aman’s house smelled heavenly — fried onions, butter, spices thick in the air.

  Aman’s mom — short, round, with the energy of a nuclear reactor — greeted us with a crushing hug.

  "Karan beta!" she cried, patting my cheeks. "Dekho kaise pat ho gaya! Kitni dieting karni hai, haan?"

  (Karan, look how thin you’ve gotten! Why are you dieting so much?)

  Then she turned to Eira.

  "And you! So beautiful! Welcome, beta!"

  Eira bowed slightly, still using her formal Hindi. "Dhanyavaad, aunty."

  Aman’s mom beamed like she'd won a jackpot.

  We were ushered into the small dining room.

  The table was covered:

  Piping hot aloo parathas, golden brown and crackling at the edges.

  Homemade makhan (butter) in a steel katori.

  Cool, thick ssi in tall gsses.

  Spicy mango pickle on the side.

  Fresh dahi (curd).

  Heaven.

  I tore into a paratha immediately, groaning at the first bite.

  Ghee dripped down my fingers.The buttery, spicy aloo inside practically melted in my mouth.

  Eira watched carefully — then picked up her paratha with delicate fingers.

  Bit into it.

  Paused.

  And — for the first time — made a tiny, uncontrolble noise of happiness.

  I ughed.

  Aman’s mom beamed even harder.

  As we ate, Aman sulked dramatically.

  "Mom treats you like her own son," he whined.

  His mom smacked him lightly on the head. "Tum toh ho hi bigda hua," she said.(You’re already spoiled.)

  Eira looked between them, amused.

  "Family dynamic," she murmured to me.

  "Yeah," I said, grinning. "Loud, chaotic, perfect."

  We ate until we could barely move.

  At the end, Aman’s mom packed two more parathas in foil for us, "in case you get hungry ter."

  Eira carried them reverently, like treasure.

  On the ride back:

  The sun was warm.My stomach was full.Eira leaned lightly against me on the bike — not tense, not stiff. Just... comfortable.

  And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe...just maybe...

  I wasn’t surviving anymore.

  I was living.

  Really living.

  With her.