"Okay, okay, hear me out," Riya says, looping her arm through mine as we strut into the glitzy new mall that smells like perfume and capitalism. "You start work next week — new chapter, new look! We're talking wardrobe glow-up. Something that screams 'Boss Woman with a Hint of Trouble.'"

I snort. "More like 'Mischief, but in stretchable leggings with snack crumbs in the pockets.'"

But I let her drag me in anyway. My feet aren't protesting — yet.

We walk into one of those bougie boutiques where the lighting makes everything and everyone look like they've been filtered by the gods. The kind of place where even the hangers seem to judge you.

Inside, the clothes are beautiful. Ethereal even. Delicate chikankari kurtas. Shimmering sequin tops. Breezy co-ords in colors that whisper things like "Buy me if you hate carbs."

My fingers drift to a dusky pink kurta, soft as a dream. One touch and I'm in love. It's feminine and powerful. It looks like something the heroine in a Karan Johar film would wear while giving a TED Talk about healing through heartbreak.

I glance at the tag.

Size S.

I check the rack.

S. XS. S. M. Wait—nope, that M is lying. She's clearly an XS with identity issues.

"Excuse me," I ask the salesgirl who looks like she moonlights as a fashion influencer, "Do you have this in XL?"

She gives me the once-over. You know, that full-body scan with the polite smile of someone who wants you to vanish into a pile of cushion covers.

"No, ma'am," she says smoothly, already turning away. "This brand doesn't carry plus sizes."

Plus sizes.

The words are clinical. Routine. But they land with a punch. Not because I haven't heard them before — but because somehow, they still sting.

I move quietly to another rack. Same story.

Eventually, I find a lonely corner labeled Comfort Fits. The exile zone. The land of oversized tunics in sad colors, with embroidery that screams your aunt's Holi outfit from 2004.

I try to smile.

Fake it.

Flick through some hangers like I'm choosing, not settling.

But Riya's no fool. She sees the falter in my eyes. The little drop in my shoulders.

"Hey," she murmurs, her tone gentle now. "Let's go somewhere else?"

Before I can nod, a high-pitched cackle slices through the air.

Two girls — all lashes, lip gloss, and zero empathy — stroll past us. Designer handbags swinging like weapons of mass superiority.

One of them giggles with just enough volume: "Some people really think confidence comes in XL."

The other whispers something — probably equally profound — and they burst into synchronized laughter.

Riya flushes. "Tripti—let's just—"

But I don't move.

Not yet.

Instead, I slowly turn toward them, my smile the kind I reserve for people who deserve a sugar-coated slap.

"You know..." I begin, voice honey-sweet, "it's funny."

They freeze.

"I see women like you and I'm reminded of something very important."

They raise their perfectly threaded eyebrows in unison. (Impressive coordination. Must be all the Pilates.)

"You can spend lakhs on designer clothes, fad diets, imported collagen powders, and gold-infused eyebrow wax. But unfortunately," I lean in slightly, "class doesn't come in your size either."

One of their smiles drops.

The other swallows.

I keep going, because why not? I'm on fire and they lit the match.

"And just FYI—confidence isn't sold at the mall, sweetie. But don't worry, I've got some extra. Want me to gift wrap it for you?"

Behind me, Riya chokes on a laugh. The dramatic, half-snort, half-gasp kind that says I should stop you but also please keep going.

I loop my arm through hers like a queen with her loyal knight, and we walk out — head high, hips swaying like the mall is our private runway.

People stare.

Let them.

Outside the store, Riya bumps her shoulder against mine. "You're insane. And I love you."

I grin, adrenaline fizzing through my blood. "Let's go find a store that sells 'fabulous' in every size. And maybe snacks too. Confidence is hungry work."

We head off together, laughter echoing between us. The sting in my chest isn't gone — but it's not in charge anymore.

Because if the world won't make space for girls like me?

I'll build a damn empire.

New job. New bag. New warpaint.

And maybe, just maybe — a new kind of power.

Next Week — D-Day.
Also known as: Desai Day of Destiny.

Okay, so maybe my confidence isn't entirely self-manufactured. It's cobbled together from Bhabhi's fiery morning pep talk ("Show them what real talent looks like — and maybe tuck your kurti properly this time"), Papa's gentle kiss on the forehead ("You're my lion cub, go roar"), and Sneha's very touching gift of... an expired chocolate bar she found in her bag.

But hey — it counts.

I stand outside the shimmering glass building of VidAura Media, my tote clutched like a life raft, specs snug on my nose, and the most ironed mustard-yellow kurti in human history. Ironed twice, in fact — once by Bhabhi, once by me, because I didn't trust her damp fold line judgment.

Inside, the office is a slice of urban Pinterest heaven — open-plan, gleaming workstations, coffee machines that hiss like fancy dragons, and employees who all seem to have their lives suspiciously together.

I take one brave step in and whisper to myself,
"Okay, Tripti. Don't trip. Don't trip. Don't—"

Thud. Trip. Chaos.

My toe catches on a decorative floor mat (why are they even a thing?), I flail like a malfunctioning windmill, almost crash into a water dispenser, and finally land with both palms smacked on a desk...

...a desk currently occupied by a bewildered intern holding a tray of samosas.

A moment of stunned silence.

Then I straighten like nothing happened and flash my brightest smile. "Hi! I'm Tripti Desai. First day. Here to spread joy... and apparently physical damage."

The intern blinks. The samosas survive.

From somewhere in the office, someone yells, "She's the new one! I like her already!"

Laughter breaks out.

Phew. Not fired yet.

By lunch, I've accidentally made a tribe.
Three interns (one of whom is a meme generator in human form), two receptionists (who already have a bet going on how long before I break something else), the super-strict accounts guy who surprisingly writes romantic Urdu poetry, and the office peon — Bhausaheb — who has now sworn to only bring me samosas from "that one stall where they fry it in pure ghee and ancestral blessings."

I feel like I belong. Like I've been part of this circus for months, not hours.

But between all the laughter and chaos, there's one thing — one man — who keeps showing up on the edge of my vision.

Mr. Reyansh Raikar.

Yes, that name deserves bold font, italics, and possibly background cello music played by emotionally wounded Russian musicians.

He's my new boss. The Creative Director.

Tall. Crisp. Unreadable. He walks like he's allergic to incompetence and could file an HR complaint against bad font choices.

He's all sculpted cheekbones, impossibly neat hair, and that rolled-up sleeves + Rolex watch aesthetic that says I own multiple properties and also your soul.

And he never smiles.

Seriously. The man could pass for an ancient statue brought to life by a cursed spell. Except hotter.

Every time he walks through the office, the air shifts — like the Wi-Fi pauses to pay attention. And me? I try to blend in. Be invisible. Totally professional. Definitely not the girl who tripped at the entrance like a dramatic peacock.

So of course, I fail.

I try not to stare.
Fail.

I try to type without peeking into his glass cabin.
Fail harder.

I even pretend to drop my pen near his office so I can walk past — twice.

And then... it happens.

The Incident.

I'm craning my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the frosted glass wall (strictly for research purposes, okay?), when my chair decides to betray me.

CRACK.

It tilts. I shriek.

Half-slide, half-fall, I flail dramatically — arms pinwheeling, hair puffing, specs hanging sideways, and a biscuit flying out of my hand like it's trying to escape the scene.

Everyone turns. Including him.

Our eyes meet.

His expression?

Blank. Sharp. Curious.

Mine?

Frozen. Poofy-haired. Biscuit-handed.

I slowly sit back up, cheeks flaming, and mumble under my breath,
"Wonderful, Tripti. Your first interaction with your boss and you've already staged a slapstick drama."

But somewhere deep inside, I'm giggling.

Because somehow, this is exactly how I'd want to begin. Loud, awkward, real.

Later, as I sit at my little cubicle — a desk with zero authority but maximum personality (I've already stuck a sticker that says 'Queen of Overthinking' on my laptop) — I realize something.

This place might be full of glossy creatives and glass walls and men with painfully intense jawlines...

But so am I. Well, minus the jawline.

And it's only Day One.

Who knows what chaos, charm, and completely inappropriate office crushes await?

The next morning, I take extra care getting ready for work.

Just a little blush. Not too much. Hair loose but brushed. A tiny pink bindi because... well, why not? I'm a working woman now. A romantic heroine in my own little office drama.

I give myself a pep talk in the mirror.

"You're smart, you're sweet, you're sunshine. And so what if you're chubby? You're adorable. A catch, okay?"

The mirror doesn't disagree. Or agree. But that's fine — I have enough imagination for both of us.

All the way to work, my head is filled with totally-not-creepy daydreams.

Me walking into his office, dropping a file.
Him picking it up, brushing his fingers against mine.
"Tripti..." he whispers, eyes intense.
"Yes, Mr. Raikar?"
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"I brought samosas."
"I love you."

Okay, maybe I'm mixing fantasy with snacks, but you get the point.

By the time I reach the office, I'm in full romance heroine mode. I walk like I'm wearing chiffon, even though I'm in cotton. My dupatta flutters, though there's no breeze. Even the security guard smiles like he knows I'm in love.

And then I see him.

Reyansh Raikar.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. No tie. Coffee in hand. Brows slightly furrowed. And that jawline? Still illegal.

He's walking down the hallway like a runway model who just won a corporate war.

I clutch my file tighter, heart thudding like a dhol during Ganpati.

"He's so..." I whisper to myself.

"Unreachable?" shruti (from accounts) walks up beside me, sipping her chai. "Yeah. Like one of those yachts in Goa — beautiful, expensive, and guarded by sharks."

I sigh dramatically. "A chubby girl like me can always dream."

She pats my shoulder. "You're not chubby. You're a cupcake. And cupcakes are loved worldwide."

We giggle, but inside, I know the truth:

I'm not expecting a love story.

I just like seeing him.

It's silly, harmless, safe.

I like the way he doesn't smile — and I like imagining what it would look like if he ever did.
I like how I feel when I see him — like maybe I'm not invisible, even if just to myself.

And sure, he's out of reach.

But a girl can dream.
And Tripti Desai? She dreams in full colour.