Flashback

"The End Before the Beginning"

If middle school had a soundtrack, Jaanvi Vaidya was sure it'd be the screech of cheap metal chairs dragging across linoleum floors... and Aditya Singh's voice ruining her peace.

He was everywhere. Every hallway. Every classroom. Every thought she didn't ask for.

"Move, Vaidya," he said, brushing past her in the crowded hall like she was a speck of lint on his perfectly pressed hoodie. His shoulder hit hers. Deliberate.

Jaanvi didn't flinch. She never gave him that satisfaction.

"Get new lines, Singh," she snapped. "The villain arc is getting boring."

He smirked. That stupid, half-cocked smirk that meant he thought he'd won, even if there was nothing to win.

There were two things Jaanvi was absolutely sure of:

She hated Aditya Singh.

She used to not.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

She wasn't like the others who hated him because he was smug or untouchably smart or frustratingly charming. She hated him because once — a long time ago in middle school time, so maybe like six months — he was hers.

Not in a couple-y, heart-doodling way.

But in the we shared everything and he knew my favorite turtle fact before even Saachi did kind of way.

They were best friends before middle school got mean. Before popularity charts and academic rankings. Before debate teams made them rivals.

Now? They were enemies with a history. Which made every sarcastic glance, every debate-round face-off, every almost-moment way more dangerous.

The shift started after winter break.

Saachi got the flu and had to drop out of regionals. Jaanvi was supposed to partner with her — they had prepped for weeks. But suddenly, Coach was throwing her a curveball.

"Jaanvi, you'll pair with Aditya. No complaints."

She almost laughed. "We'll implode."

Coach just shrugged. "Or you'll win."

She hated how right he was.

During prep, they argued constantly. Over arguments, over tone, over who got to open and who had the mic drop moment. It was exhausting. And... electric.

He challenged her. Matched her pace. Didn't flinch when she snapped.

And late one afternoon, stuck in the empty debate room with only echoing insults and leftover bagels, something changed.

They were going over closing arguments. Again. She was pacing. He was leaning back in his chair like he owned the world.

"You need to slow down," he said. "You talk like you're afraid someone's going to cut you off."

"I am afraid," she shot back. "You cut me off literally every time I breathe."

"Fine. I'll shut up."

And he did.

And it was weird.

And awful.

And quiet.

Until she looked at him and he was watching her — not like a rival, not like a threat. Like he was trying to memorize her.

"What?" she snapped, arms crossed.

He shrugged. "You're good. Better than me, probably."

Her chest squeezed. "Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't get to tear me down for months and then say something like that and act like it's normal."

He didn't reply. He just looked at her, eyes softer than they'd ever been, and said, "Maybe I'm tired of pretending."

She didn't remember who leaned in first.

Only that his lips were warm and his hands were shaking and it was the last thing she expected and the only thing she remembered when she went home that night.

The next few months were quiet and bright and secret. Notes passed in lockers. Pinkies brushing in the hall. Late-night texts about things that didn't matter — turtle videos, their future, what they'd name their kids (as a joke, obviously).

She didn't tell anyone. Not Saachi. Not Siya. Not even Meera, who usually knew everything.

She wanted to keep it theirs.

Something untouched.

Something real.

But summer came, and with it, a coldness she hadn't prepared for.

He stopped replying as much.

Stopped meeting her behind the gym like he used to.

When she asked him what was wrong, he said, "I don't know."

And when she asked again, a week later, he finally said:
"I don't think we should keep doing this."

No fight. No drama.

Just... that.

And she wanted to scream, Was it me? Did I do something wrong?
But all she said was, "Okay."

And that was it.

She didn't cry that night.

She stared at her ceiling and tried to rewrite everything in her head. Change the ending. Delete the kiss. Pretend it never happened. Pretend he never happened.

By the time high school started, Jaanvi Vaidya had learned how to armor herself.

Cold smiles. Sharpened sarcasm. Polished silence.

Aditya Singh became "Singh" again.

And every time he walked past her in the halls, pretending like he didn't remember every version of her he once loved, she'd whisper the lie to herself:

I don't care anymore.

Even if the threads still tugged.

Even if part of her still wanted to look back. 

                                                     Author's Note

                                                                            Hey everyone!

I hope you liked the first chapter of Invisible Threads. This is my first ever book, so I'm both super excited and super nervous! Writing this story means a lot to me, and I really hope you                                                    enjoy the journey as much as I've loved creating it.

                  Thanks so much for giving it a chance — it seriously means the world. 💛

                                                                See you in the next chapter!
                                                                               Byeeeeee :)