Delhi.
Small on the map, but infinite when you live inside it.
A city that never truly sleeps ...it just changes moods.

There’s ice cream near India Gate, melting faster than your heartbreak.
There’s the dusty smell of old books at Faqir Chand and Sons, where stories sit stacked higher than ambitions.
There’s the tangy chaos of Chandni Chowk ki chaat, where one bite can make you forget every diet plan ever made.
There’s traffic that honks like it’s part of the national anthem, and rickshaw walas who know more about life than philosophers.

And somewhere in that never-pausing city between a billion dreams, blaring horns, and sweet smoke from roadside momos stands Crescent Public School.

A tall building with cream-colored walls, echoing with laughter, gossip, and last-minute assignments. The kind of school where every corridor had stories ..of crushes, fights, forgotten homework, and dreams that secretly outgrew the classroom walls.

Inside those corridors walked Ishika Srinet — her first day in Class 11 Commerce.
Blue pants, white shirt, neatly tucked in. A striped tie hanging with half-hearted discipline. Belt perfectly straight. Two French braids swinging as she walked part nervous, part confident, wholly teenage.

Her bag felt too heavy, her steps too loud, her thoughts too crowded.

“Umm… 11th Commerce… where’s this class even?”

She peeked into a few rooms ... science students dissecting dreams, arts students painting rebellion. Finally, at the end of the corridor, she spotted a door with a faded label:
“XI – Commerce.”

“Ugh, finally!” she muttered under her breath, adjusting her tie before pushing the door open.

The hum of chatter hit her laughter, pen clicks, desks scraping, the sound of familiarity she didn’t yet belong to.

She stepped inside not knowing this wasn’t just a classroom.
It was the beginning of stories she’d never forget.

She slid into the wooden desk with that half-relieved, half-anxious sigh you get when you survive day one. The room smelled like marker pens and chai-scented notebooks. A girl in the same blue-and-white uniform bounced over like sunlight — cute, confident, eyebrows that said I run this class.

“Hey! You new here?” she chimed.

Ishika looked up. Heart did the tiny skip-a-beat thing because new faces always do especially when they come with a smile that’s all warmth and mischief.

“Hi, I’m Mishka Singhania ” she announced, like she’d just introduced herself to a fan club. “Monitor of this class.”

Mishka’s presence was one of those bright, loud personalities: quick laugh, quicker comebacks, and an Insta-ready tilt to her head even while being painfully punctual.

“Hi, I’m Ishika Srinet,” Ishika replied, polite and low-key, braid swinging.

Before Mishka could do the whole bestie-in-30-seconds routine, the door banged open and in swagged a boy messy hair, that half-smirk that says trouble and not apologizing for it, school bag slung like a cape. He stormed in clutching a torn notebook.

“Mishi fast, do my math question na!” he called, voice already teasing.

Mishka’s eyes narrowed theatrically. “Abhir! One day I’ll kill you.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “You say that every week. Still alive, aren’t you?”

Mishka shoved a pencil at him. “Here. Solve it. And stop using my notes.”

Then, with the kind of pride only siblings get, she turned to Ishika:
“Ishika, meet my brother — Abhir. A full rascal.”

Abhir flashed a grin at Ishika, slightly sideways, like he was sizing up a new friend or maybe a future co-conspirator. “Hi.” Short, casual but his eyes had a spark: mischief wrapped in charm.

Mishka added, almost as an afterthought, “He’s from 11th PCM.”

Ishika nodded, smiling politely. The first exchange was small just names and a spark of sibling banter but it felt like one of those harmless stones tossed into a still pond.

Abhir leaned against the desk beside her, his trademark grin still very much in place.
“Wanna join our group?” he asked, like it was the most casual offer in the world.

Ishika blinked, a little confused.
“Group?”

Before she could even ask what kind, Mishka cut in, eyes gleaming with pride.
“We’ve a group called Chaotic Chaos.”

She said it like it was a brand name.
“It’s me, Abhir, and--”

Before Mishka could finish, a voice loud, cheerful, and slightly dramatic popped up from behind Ishika’s chair.

--AND ME!”

Ishika flinched, nearly jumping out of her seat. The newcomer burst into laughter.
“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you!” she said quickly, hand on her chest, still smiling. “I’m Pranali Pathak from 11th PCM.”

She was the kind of girl who filled space the moment she entered it messy bun, kohl-smudged eyes, a bright grin that screamed “main drama hoon.”

Ishika let out a small laugh. “It’s okay… hi, I’m Ishika.”

Pranali nodded approvingly, “Cute name. You’ll fit in.”

Abhir clapped his hands together. “So? Ishika you joining Chaotic Chaos or not?”

Ishika looked at their expectant faces Mishka with that friendly tilt, Pranali’s eager grin, and Abhir’s lazy confidence. Then she smiled, a little playful glint sneaking in.

“Okay. But one condition.”

All three leaned in dramatically.
“You all have to show me around this school. I’m new — and extremely lost.”

They looked at each other and then all three chorused together, loud and proud:
“OF COURSEEEEE!”

Ishika couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head.
“‘Chaotic Chaos’ seems like a quite appropriate name.”

They burst into giggles, high-fiving across desks.

“Abhir, let’s go our class is about to start,” Pranali said, glancing at the clock.

“Yeah, yeah, coming,” he replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Both waved a cheerful “Bye!” and ran off, leaving a small echo of their energy behind.

Mishka smiled, soft but sure. “You’re gonna enjoy us, Ishika. We’re madness, but good madness.”

Ishika smiled back, her shoulders finally relaxing.
“Thanks, Mishka. I think I already am.”

And just like that the first friendship of her Delhi chapter began,
in a corridor full of chaos, laughter, and a name that fit just right.

They settled into their seats like two conspirators. The clock ticked louder than usual probably because every school clock conspires with teachers to create anxiety.

Mishka nudged Ishika, whispering with dramatic conviction,
“She’s our accountancy teacher. Dangerous.”

Ishika’s eyebrows shot up. “Dangerous how?”

Mishka rolled her eyes so hard they almost made a sound. “She and Ms. B.S.T (the B.St teacher) both are our death. They give punishments like it’s cardio. No mercy. No excuses.”

Ishika swallowed, whispering back, “Hope I survive.”

Mishka patted her hand like a tiny hype coach. “Don’t worry when I’m here. I’ll protect you mostly because I need someone to laugh with during detention.”

She handed Ishika a neatly folded stack of notes. “Take these. And one rule before you officially join Chaotic Chaos — friendship code:”
Mishka struck a mock-serious pose, listing like it was the constitution:

1. No ‘sorry’

2. No ‘thank you’

3. No ‘please’

Ishika choked on a giggle. “Wait, what?”

Mishka grinned. “We don’t do formalities. We do chaos and inside jokes. Also, if you say please we’ll roast you. Fair warning.”

Ishika couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay okay, I’m in. But keep me alive when she starts.”

Mishka’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper:
“Focus. Or we’ll all end up out of class in punishment.”

Just then the classroom door opened with that slow, authoritative creak the kind that announces doom in three notes. The accountancy teacher appeared in the doorway like a storm in a blazer: sharp bun, sharper gaze. Pens went quieter, breathing got cautious.

Mishka squeezed Ishika’s hand under the desk, mouthed, “Play dead.”

Ishika straightened, suddenly very committed to survival tactics and to her new friends who apparently had a PhD in surviving strict teachers.

ishika's pov

It’s recess. The loudest, most chaotic part of the school day corridors echoing with laughter, snack wrappers flying, juniors running like they’re in the Olympics of nonsense. I’m standing with Mishka, Abhir, and Pranali, watching the crowd swirl like a mini city inside walls.

“Come, Ishika!” Mishka tugs my hand suddenly, excitement glowing in her eyes.

“Where?” I ask, still mid-bite of my sandwich.

“You’ll see. Just come na!” she says, dragging me down the corridor like I’ve just signed up for a secret mission.

Abhir and Pranali trail behind us, bickering as usual.
“You’re so annoying, Abhir!”
“Only to you, Pathak. You should feel special.”
“Ugh, stop talking or I’ll hit you with this tiffin box.”
“Promises, promises.”

Typical. I smile silently, half amused, half nervous about wherever we’re heading.

We stop in front of a door — 12th PCM.

I blink. “Wait… why are we here?”

Mishka just grins mysteriously. “Come na. Meet others.”

“Others?” I repeat, confused, but follow her inside anyway.

The classroom is quieter than ours older, cooler, more composed. The seniors. I suddenly feel my uniform too crisp, my presence too small. My eyes adjust to the sunlight pouring through the windows, and then

I see them.

Three boys standing near a bench, mid-laughter. Each of them had that easy confidence people only earn after surviving exams and heartbreaks.

The first -tall, calm, and unbothered, his presence alone seemed to steady the chaos around him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes… soft and sharp all at once.
The second - green eyes, messy hair, grin like he knows he’s trouble but won’t admit it. That must be the class clown.
And the third -quiet but observant, sleeves rolled up, the kind of guy who probably says one line every five minutes, but it always lands perfectly.

“Bhai!” Mishka called, waving like she owned the place.

The trio turned. The calm one smiled faintly, the green-eyed one raised a brow, and the quiet one looked… mildly amused.

Before I could make sense of it, Mishka had already dragged me forward. “Bhai, meet our new friend — Ishika!”

I managed a polite smile, clutching my notebook like a lifeline.

“And meet him,” she said, pointing, “he’s Shivansh Singhania — my and Abhir’s brother. And they…”

The guy with green eyes stepped forward first. “Hi, I’m Saksham Kapoor.”

His tone playful, grin effortless.

I nodded, “Hi.”

The other one smiled softly. “I’m Kunal Patel.”

“Nice meeting you all,” I said, voice smaller than intended but genuine.

And just like that, I was standing among a group that looked like they owned half the school’s reputation. They started talking Mishka teasing, Abhir arguing, Pranali laughing, Saksham joking, Kunal shaking his head at all of them and Shivansh, just quietly smiling, watching them all with that calm, collected air.

I didn’t say much. Just listened, smiled, and felt something shift quietly inside.

A sense that this group this strange mix of chaos and calm was about to change everything.

I stood there, half-listening to them their laughter, their teasing, the overlapping voices that filled the room like a familiar melody I didn’t know I’d missed. It was strange. Everyone felt oddly familiar. Like a déjà vu moment stretched into reality.

Except for Pranali, everyone seemed like faces I’d seen before in some dream, some memory, or maybe just some unexplainable corner of my mind.

And then there was him.

Shivansh Singhania.
The calm one.
The quiet storm in this loud group.

His eyes those brown eyes.
Not the usual kind of brown that hides in the crowd.
No , his were the color of earth after rain, of temple lamps flickering at dusk, of stillness pretending to be ordinary.
Brown but with galaxies that didn’t know they were galaxies.

Something about them felt like… home I’d never been to.

I kept looking too long, too quietly, until my own thoughts tripped over themselves. My heart, the traitor it was, skipped and stuttered in rhythm with the laugh that escaped his lips.

And then realization hit
I’d been staring.
Like a full-on creep.

I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to adjust my sleeve, my cheeks burning hotter than Delhi afternoons.

God, Ishika, control yourself.

But deep down, a quiet truth hummed I’d seen him somewhere.
Not just in this classroom.
Not just today.
Somewhere that wasn’t supposed to follow me here… yet it had.

shivansh's pov

My room was quiet the kind of quiet that only evenings in Delhi manage to hold. The walls were painted a soft ash-grey, shelves lined with books that smelled faintly of paper and ambition. A model airplane hung from the ceiling, catching the last bit of sunset glow through the half-open curtains.

My desk was a battlefield open Physics notebook, a half-empty cup of coffee, calculator lying sideways like it gave up too. I was mid-way through a question on circular motion when fatigue started to blur the formulas together.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The sun had already dipped beyond the skyline, leaving that dusky purple that always made the city feel slower. Just for a moment, I closed my eyes letting silence settle in, a rare visitor.

And then — ping.

The unmistakable sound of a notification.

I sighed, reached for my phone. The screen lit up with that familiar chaos literally.
A WhatsApp notification from “Chaotic Chaos 💥🔥💀”

Mishka added “Ishika” in the group

I stared at it for a second. The corners of my lips twitched.
“So, she’s a member now too, huh?” I muttered under my breath, half amused, half thoughtful.

For some reason, the name brought a flicker of her face in my mind her quiet smile, those French braids, the way she seemed both lost and found at the same time when she stood in our class.

Her eyes curious, searching as if they’d seen me before too.

I shook my head, exhaling.
“Focus, Shivansh. Physics, not philosophy,” I told myself, flipping the page like it could erase the image.

But it didn’t.
No matter how hard I tried, the numbers refused to stay in line — and her face lingered quietly, somewhere between the margin of my notes.