The truth unraveled at Priya’s engagement party. An old friend of Anjali’s arrived, eyeing Meera suspiciously. “You’re not her,” he declared, loud enough for the room to still. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Vikram’s face crumpled, betrayal cutting deeper than grief. “Who are you?” he demanded. Meera’s voice trembled as she confessed: a runaway bride, a stranger seeking refuge. Priya’s anger flared, but Vikram just stared, his silence deafening. He walked away, leaving Meera drowning in her own deception

The train rattled through the monsoon-soaked countryside, rain streaking the windows like tears on glass. Meera clutched her dupatta, her heart pounding louder than the engine. She was running—away from a wedding she couldn’t face, a groom she didn’t love, and a life scripted by everyone but her. In her bag was a letter from her childhood friend, Priya, who had invited her to Shimla to start anew. Meera hadn’t told Priya she was coming; she hadn’t told anyone. She was a kite with a severed string, drifting into the unknown.

At Shimla station, the air was crisp, scented with pine and regret. Meera stepped onto the platform, her red lehenga damp and heavy, when she heard a scream. A woman darted past, chasing a toddler who had wandered too close to the tracks. Meera lunged, scooping the child into her arms just as a train whistle shrieked. The mother, breathless and teary, thanked her profusely. “I’m Priya,” she said, hugging Meera without knowing who she was. Fate, it seemed, had a way of tying loose ends.

Priya assumed Meera was a guest arriving for her family’s gathering. Meera, too stunned to correct her, let the misunderstanding bloom. Priya’s home was a sprawling hilltop cottage, buzzing with relatives mourning her late cousin, Anjali, who had died in a car accident weeks before her wedding. Meera overheard whispers: Anjali’s fiancé, Vikram, was expected soon, a man still grieving the love he’d lost. Priya, oblivious to Meera’s true identity, insisted she stay, dressing her in Anjali’s clothes to “fit in.” Meera felt like an imposter, but the warmth of Priya’s family softened her guilt.

Vikram arrived the next evening, his eyes stormy with sorrow. Tall, with a quiet intensity, he carried a guitar slung over his shoulder—a remnant of happier days. When he saw Meera, he froze. “Anjali?” he whispered, his voice breaking. Meera’s heart sank. She resembled Anjali enough to fool a grieving man, and Priya, thinking it a harmless mix-up, urged her to play along for?) “It’s just for a little while,” she said, brushing off his confusion. “Come, meet my family.”

And so, Meera became Anjali. She met Vikram’s gaze, her throat tight. “I… I’m sorry for your loss,” she managed, the lie bitter on her tongue. Vikram nodded, his pain palpable, and retreated to the garden. Meera watched him from the window, strumming a melancholic tune on his guitar, the notes weaving through the mist like a call she couldn’t ignore. 

Days passed, and Meera slipped deeper into Anjali’s life. She helped Priya with chores, laughed with her cousins, and found herself drawn to Vikram. He was kind, reserved, and carried a gentleness that made her ache. One evening, as rain tapped the roof, he played a song by the fireplace—Mere Sapno Ki Rani—and their eyes met. “You’re different,” he said softly. “Not like I remember.” Meera’s stomach twisted. She wanted to confess, but fear silenced her. Instead, she smiled and said, “People change.”

Their bond grew. Vikram took her to Anjali’s favorite spot—a cliff overlooking the valley—where wildflowers danced in the breeze. He spoke of Anjali’s dreams, her laughter, and Meera listened, her heart splintering. She was falling for him, a man who loved a ghost she’d borrowed. One night, beneath a starlit sky, he took her hand. “I thought I’d never feel this again,” he murmured, leaning closer. Their lips met, soft and tentative, a kiss that felt like rain after a drought. Meera’s resolve wavered—she couldn’t keep this up.

The truth unraveled at Priya’s engagement party. An old friend of Anjali’s arrived, eyeing Meera suspiciously. “You’re not her,” he declared, loud enough for the room to still. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Vikram’s face crumpled, betrayal cutting deeper than grief. “Who are you?” he demanded. Meera’s voice trembled as she confessed: a runaway bride, a stranger seeking refuge. Priya’s anger flared, but Vikram just stared, his silence deafening. He walked away, leaving Meera drowning in her own deception.

She packed to leave, the cottage suffocating with her shame. But as she reached the door, Vikram appeared, soaked from the rain. “I was angry,” he said, his voice raw. “But I realized something. I didn’t fall in love with Anjali’s memory. I fell in love with you—your kindness, your quiet strength.” Meera’s tears fell, mixing with the rain on her cheeks. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered. He stepped closer, cupping her face. “Let me decide that.”

The monsoon raged on, but in that moment, the storm within them stilled. Meera wasn’t a kite adrift anymore—she’d found her anchor. Vikram pulled her into his arms, and as the rain washed away her past, she knew this was where she belonged.