By Aanya Kapoor
There are a few things in life I believe with unshakable certainty:
1. Mondays are a scam.
2. My cat, Simba, is secretly judging me 24/7.
3. Sandwiches are sacred.
Let's start with the first one. Mondays. I've never trusted them. They come crawling out of the weekend like a zombie apocalypse—except instead of brains, they eat your sanity. This particular Monday had the energy of a toddler with scissors near a curtain. Destructive. Reckless. Loud.
I was already on edge when I woke up to a phone screen that was blacker than my soul.
Dead.
Of course.
Apparently, I'd slept through three alarms, missed two Slack pings, and forgotten I had a 9:30 AM Zoom meeting with my startup's investors.
Worse? It was a video call. And my hair looked like it had lost a fight with a toaster.
I scrambled out of bed, yanked on a hoodie (inside out, of course), slapped on tinted lip balm like it was war paint, and joined the call with exactly 14 seconds to spare.
"Good morning," I chirped, in a voice that only cracked once.
"Morning, Aanya," said Mr. Bedi, our lead investor, his bushy eyebrows perched like disapproving seagulls on his forehead. "Is everything okay? You look... surprised."
"I am," I replied smoothly. "Surprised by how much I love Mondays."
Nobody laughed.
Great start.
Ten minutes in, right when I was explaining our app's new AI chatbot feature, my developer Ritesh slacked me:
"Hey, did you check staging? The latest commit wiped user sessions. Everything's… gone."
I stared at the message like it was written in hieroglyphics.
"Excuse me," I said to the investors, turning off my mic and camera with the speed of a startled ninja.
Everything's gone?
I yanked open the dashboard, only to be greeted with… zero. Zero users. Zero sessions. Zero everything.
My startup—Nudge—was built to give people daily motivational nudges through AI-powered texts and gamified routines. Basically, I tried to use technology to fix people's messed-up lives. Ironic, considering mine was spiraling like a toilet flush.
I called Ritesh.
"Hey, Aanya," he said, sheepish.
"Tell me you're joking."
"I wish. I think the new patch had a bug. It... wiped all the dummy data."
"All of it?"
"Yup."
I was silent.
"On the bright side," he added, "at least it wasn't production?"
"Ritesh."
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe in miracles?"
"Uh..."
"Because if we're still getting funding after this call, it'll be one."
He laughed nervously.
I did not.
---
By noon, I was hangry, humiliated, and halfway into a quarter-life crisis. My fridge offered only betrayal in the form of wilting spinach and expired hummus. So, I turned to my one true savior: online food delivery.
Crusty's Café.
Home of the chipotle chicken sandwich that made me believe in love again after Aryan-the-ghoster shattered my faith in men and normal texting behavior. Crusty's sandwich wasn't just food. It was therapy. Toasted ciabatta, perfectly spiced grilled chicken, caramelized onions, pepper jack cheese, and this divine chipotle mayo that tasted like redemption.
Order placed. Delivery time: 35 minutes.
I set up a chair by the window like a stalker and watched the street.
Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty-five. Then fifty.
By the time the app flashed, "Your delivery is arriving!" I had mentally composed a murder mystery where the twist was I was the killer, and my motive was sandwich-related.
The doorbell rang at exactly 1:23 PM.
I flung the door open with the fury of a woman scorned.
And there he was.
Tall. Drenched. Wearing a red hoodie soaked through from the rain, curls plastered to his forehead, and holding a brown paper bag like it was sacred scripture.
His face? Annoyingly attractive. Like, you probably make bad decisions at weddings attractive.
"Delivery for Aanya?" he asked, voice warm, almost amused.
I eyed the bag, then him. "You're late."
He blinked, not expecting the hostility.
"There was rain—"
"Unless you were delivering this from Mars, it's still unacceptable."
He gave me a slow grin. "Tough crowd."
I snatched the bag. The name tag on his jacket read: Rohan.
Figures. He had a hot boy name.
The moment I opened the bag, the world stopped.
Egg. Mayo. Sandwich.
I blinked.
Stared again.
Boiled. Egg. Mayonnaise. Sandwich.
There was even lettuce. Wilted lettuce.
"What," I whispered, "is this monstrosity?"
Rohan peered inside. "Looks like… egg mayo?"
"I didn't order egg mayo. I ordered chipotle chicken."
"Oops. Must've been a mix-up."
My eye twitched. "Do you even know the pain of expecting Beyoncé and getting a local school choir instead?"
He laughed. "I'll go back and get yours."
"In this weather? You think I want a guilt sandwich?"
He tilted his head. "So you'd rather eat that one?"
"No. I'm going to yell at it, then toss it in the bin dramatically."
"Suit yourself."
Simba appeared at the door, tail twitching, eyes narrowed. He looked at Rohan like he was assessing a new employee.
"What's his name?" Rohan asked, bending to scratch his ear.
"Simba. He doesn't like strangers."
Simba, traitor that he was, purred.
"He likes me."
"Maybe he's going blind."
Rohan laughed again. "You're something else."
I was about to shut the door when I noticed how soaked he was. His shoes squelched when he shifted.
"Do you want tea or something?" I asked before my brain could stop me.
He raised an eyebrow. "Tea?"
"Not out of generosity. Out of guilt. My vibe was aggressive."
He gave a little bow. "I accept your aggressive hospitality."
---
I made tea. The real kind. Not the dip-a-bag-and-go nonsense. I boiled water, added ginger, cardamom, sugar—because if I was already spiraling, I might as well do it in full desi fashion.
We sat across from each other, mugs in hand, while Simba supervised from the windowsill.
"So," I asked, "you do this full-time?"
"Deliver food? No. I'm a software engineer. This is part-time."
I stared.
"Wait, what? You're in tech?"
"Yup. Startup founder. We're building a social recs engine for creators."
"Why does everyone in this city have a startup?"
"We're all broke and delusional."
"Fair."
We sipped our tea. I studied him.
He didn't have the "bro" energy most tech guys had. He was laid back, sharp-eyed, and didn't interrupt me once. I hated that I was curious.
"What's your startup called?" I asked.
"'Ripple.' We match creators with micro-communities based on real-time interest shifts."
"Sounds complicated."
"It's basically TikTok but less evil."
I laughed.
He smiled.
"You're fun when you're not threatening people," he said.
"I'm always threatening. Just sometimes with a smile."
We finished our tea. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
"Well," he said, standing up, "thanks for the tea and the personality roast."
"Anytime."
He reached the door, then paused.
"You know, I'll make it up to you."
"How? Bring me Beyoncé next time?"
"No, but maybe I'll bring the right sandwich. And a better playlist."
"What does that even mean?"
He winked.
I shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and exhaled.
Simba meowed at me pointedly.
"What?" I muttered. "It was just tea. Not a meet-cute."
He sneezed.
Traitor.
---
Teaser for Chapter 2:
He came back the next day.
Same time. Same stupid smile.
And this time? He brought the right sandwich.
And chaos.
---