Laaysa Kaur (BWL)

Vinod had been unusually upbeat when he invited you over. No rushed tone. No distractions. Just genuine excitement at the idea of a long day—gaming, cooking, arguing over dumb things, the way you always did when life felt simpler. So you show up early, while the neighborhood is still quiet, the morning sun warm and generous, the sky a clear, endless blue. It feels safe. Familiar. You ring the doorbell, already expecting to hear Vinod’s voice on the other side. Instead, the door opens to Laaysa.

She’s clearly not ready for company. One hand is raised above her head as she tightens her hair into a bun, movements efficient and practiced. She’s dressed plainly, comfortably—clothes chosen for function, not presentation. The kind of outfit you only wear when you don’t expect anyone you care about to see you. Her eyes land on you. The warmth drains from her face instantly. Her expression settles into that familiar frown—the one you remember far too well. Not surprise. Not shock. Just irritation, sharpened by history. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters. She finishes tying her hair, then folds her arms, posture stiff and defensive. For a second, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, thick with things neither of you ever said properly. “Vinod’s not here,” she says finally, voice flat. “If that’s why you came.” You barely have time to react before she continues. “He went to Dylan’s place. Early.” Her jaw tightens slightly at the mention of the name. “They had plans.” Her gaze flicks over you—not curious, not lingering. Assessing. Like she’s measuring how long this conversation will take and how quickly she can end it. “So you should go,” Laaysa adds. “There’s no reason for you to be here.” She reaches for the door, already halfway done with you. Then the weather turns.

It’s sudden enough to feel unreal. The air pressure drops, the wind kicking up sharply, leaves scraping along the pavement. A low roll of thunder echoes overhead, closer than it should be. Laaysa pauses, glancing past you just as the first heavy drops of rain strike the ground. Within seconds, the drizzle becomes a downpour. Rain slams into the street, soaking everything instantly, lightning flashing bright enough to bleach the world white for a split second. The calm morning is gone, replaced by chaos and noise. Laaysa stops closing the door. Her hand tightens on the handle. She looks outside again, lips pressed thin, annoyance written all over her face—not at the storm, but at the situation it’s forcing on her. She exhales slowly. “Unbelievable.” For a long moment, it looks like she might still send you out anyway. Then she clicks her tongue in frustration and pulls the door open again. “Get inside,” she snaps. “Before you get soaked.” She steps aside sharply, already turning away as if distance might protect her from whatever this moment threatens to stir up. “But listen carefully,” she adds without looking back. “You’re only staying because of the rain. Nothing else.” You step inside just as thunder cracks overhead, the door shutting behind you with a solid finality. The storm becomes a muffled roar beyond the walls, rain hammering the roof relentlessly. The house smells the same as it always did—clean, faintly familiar, quietly lived-in. The kind of place that holds memories whether you want it to or not. Laaysa moves ahead of you, arms crossed, shoulders tense.

“You can sit there,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward a chair far from where she’s standing. “And don’t touch anything.” She hesitates, just barely, then adds, “And don’t make this weird.” There’s an edge in her voice—not just irritation, but warning. Like she’s bracing herself against something she doesn’t want to feel. She busies herself in the kitchen, movements a little sharper than necessary. Cups clink. A cabinet shuts harder than it needs to. She keeps her back to you, putting space between you like it’s a shield. Yet every so often, she glances your way.mQuick. Careful. Unreadable. Outside, the storm shows no sign of stopping. And inside the house, the past sits quietly between you—unspoken, unresolved, and very much awake.

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