SUSH!

The boy's fingers are sticky with mango pulp when he finally says the word.

"Ball."

Sushmita Haldar feels it in her chest first — that small explosion of joy that never gets old no matter how many times she witnesses it. Three months of picture cards and hand-over-hand prompting and waiting, waiting, waiting for Aarav to connect the sound to the object, and now here it is. His voice is flat, no inflection, but it's there. The word exists in the air between them.

"Yes!" She claps her hands twice, sharp and bright. "Ball! Good job, Aarav!"

He doesn't look at her. He's five years old and he's never looked directly at her face, not once. But his hand reaches for the red rubber ball on the table, and that's enough. That's everything.

The therapy room smells like sanitizer and the faint sweetness of the mango he ate during snack time. The walls are painted pale yellow — some consultant told the centre director that yellow was "calming" for autistic children, which Sush thinks is bullshit, but she's not the one making decisions. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Aarav's mother watches from the observation window, her dupatta clutched in both hands.

Sush writes "spontaneous verbal request" in her session notes. Her handwriting is terrible. She's always late to everything, always rushing, and her handwriting suffers for it. But the notes don't lie: Aarav is making progress.

She's good at this job. She knows she's good at it.

She also knows it's killing her.

Not the work itself — she loves the work. Loves the kids, loves the small victories, loves the way Aarav's mother's face softens when she sees her son reach for the ball. But the centre. The politics. The way her supervisor Priya-ma'am talks to parents like they're idiots. The way the director keeps cutting the therapy hours to save money, even though these kids need consistency, need time. The way her own mother works in the Wakad branch and everyone knows it, so Sush can never complain, can never push back, because it would reflect on her mother.

And her mother has worked so hard.

Sush is twenty-two years old. She finished her B.Com degree four months ago. She's five feet tall and looks like a kid herself — parents sometimes mistake her for a volunteer until she starts talking. She's daring like a cat, her father says. Small but fierce.

Right now she feels neither small nor fierce. She feels stuck.

The session ends. Aarav's mother thanks her three times, her eyes wet. Sush smiles and says all the right things — "He's doing so well, aunty, just keep practicing at home, I'll see you Thursday" — and then she's alone in the therapy room with the smell of mango and sanitizer and the fluorescent hum.

Her phone buzzes.

Rahul: you're still coming tonight right? kunal's bringing his guitar

Rahul: also GP says he'll teach you how to make that pasta thing

Rahul: the one you kept talking about

She smiles. Rahul is shy in person but texts like he's writing a novel. He's the one she tells everything to — the job frustration, the weird dreams, the way she keeps getting crushes on random guys and then feeling stupid about it two weeks later. He doesn't judge. He just listens.

Sush: yes yes im coming

Sush: im always late but im coming

Rahul: we know

She locks the therapy room and walks down the narrow hallway. The centre is in a converted bungalow in Nigdi, near the old Akurdi Road. The paint is peeling. The AC in the waiting room has been broken for two weeks. Parents sit on plastic chairs and wait.

Priya-ma'am is in the staff room, eating a samosa. She's forty-three and has been doing this work for twenty years and she's tired. Sush can see it in the way she chews — mechanical, joyless.

"Aarav's session went well," Sush says.

"Good." Priya-ma'am doesn't look up. "Did you finish the progress reports?"

"I'll have them by Monday."

"They were due yesterday."

Sush's jaw tightens. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll finish them this weekend."

Priya-ma'am finally looks at her. "Sushmita, you're good with the kids. But you need to work on your time management."

It's not the first time she's heard this. It won't be the last.

She nods. Says nothing. Leaves.

Outside, the February air is warm and thick. Pune in February is perfect — not too hot, not too cold, just the golden hour stretching long and soft over the city. She unlocks her scooty, a battered Activa that her father bought her when she started college. The seat is cracked. The paint is faded. It runs.

She rides home through Nigdi's chaotic streets — autorickshaws honking, street vendors selling bhel, the smell of frying pakoras from the stall near the bus stop. She's lived in Nigdi for six years, ever since her family moved from Jharkhand. She's Bengali but she doesn't feel Bengali most of the time. She feels like a Punekar. She knows which chaat stall has the best dahi puri. She knows which roads flood during monsoon. She knows the city in her bones.

Home is a second-floor flat in a building called Sai Residency. Her two sisters are fighting over the TV remote when she walks in. Thumki, her cat, is asleep on the sofa. He's a male cat, orange and fat and deeply uninterested in human drama. Sush drops her bag and scoops him up. He tolerates this for exactly five seconds before squirming free.

"Sush, tell Didi to stop hogging the remote!" her younger sister whines.

"I'm not hogging, I was here first!"

Sush ignores them both and goes to her room. It's small — just enough space for a bed, a desk, and a cupboard. The walls are covered in fairy lights she put up two years ago. Her B.Com degree certificate is framed on the wall, next to a photo of her and her friends at Kunal's birthday party last year.

She lies down on the bed. Stares at the ceiling.

Her phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: hey

Her stomach drops.

She knows who it is.

Unknown Number: i know you blocked me but i got a new number

Unknown Number: i just want to talk

Unknown Number: i miss you

It's him. Her ex. The one who cheated on her two years ago, at the beginning of first year B.Com. They'd only kissed — nothing more — but it had felt like everything at the time. And then she found out he'd been texting another girl. Saying the same things to her. I miss you. You're so pretty. I can't stop thinking about you.

She broke up with him immediately.

But he won't let go. He messages her every few months. Says he's changed. Says he craves her. Says he wants to sleep with her, like that's supposed to be flattering.

She knows she shouldn't respond. She knows Rahul would tell her to block him again. She knows Kunal would say he's a piece of shit.

But part of her — the part that falls for flattery, the part that craves male attention even when she knows it's bad for her — part of her wants to reply.

She doesn't.

She deletes the messages. Puts her phone face-down on the bed.

Stares at the ceiling.

She's twenty-two years old. She's never had sex. She doesn't even masturbate — she's tried, a few times, but it always feels awkward and mechanical and she gives up. She gets crushes constantly. A new guy every couple of months. The barista at the café near college. The guy who works at the bookstore. The friend of a friend who smiled at her at a party. She likes confidence. She likes shy guys. She likes the idea of being wanted.

But she doesn't know what she wants.

The therapy job stifles her. Her mother's reputation stifles her. This city, this flat, this life — it all feels too small suddenly.

She thinks about leaving. She's thought about it a hundred times. But where would she go? And how?

Her phone buzzes again. This time it's the group chat.

Kunal: sush where are you

Kunal: we're waiting

GP: she's always late bro you know this

Rahul: she said she's coming

Kunal: yeah in sush time that means another hour

She smiles despite herself. Gets up. Changes into jeans and a kurta. Grabs her bag.

Thumki watches her from the sofa, unimpressed.

"I'll be back," she tells him.

He yawns.

She rides her scooty to Kunal's place in Pimple Saudagar. The sun is setting, painting the sky orange and pink. The city smells like jasmine and exhaust fumes. She's late, as always, but her friends are used to it.

Kunal opens the door. He's tall, easy-going, the kind of guy who never seems stressed about anything. She's known him since first year B.Com. He's the one she plans on being with long-term — not now, but someday. When she's ready. When she's figured herself out.

"Finally," he says, grinning. "We were about to start without you."

"You always start without me," she says, stepping inside.

Rahul is on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He's shy, quiet, but he looks up when she walks in and smiles. GP — Gunvant — is in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like garlic and butter.

"Sush!" GP calls. "Come here, I'm teaching you the pasta thing."

She drops her bag and joins him. The kitchen is small and warm. GP is the newest addition to their group, but he fits. He helps her with things — random things, like fixing her scooty when it breaks down or explaining tax stuff she doesn't understand.

"Okay, so you heat the oil first," GP says, "then you add the garlic—"

"I know how to cook," she interrupts.

"Then why do you keep asking me to teach you?"

"Because I like watching you do it."

He laughs. Rahul laughs from the couch. Kunal strums his guitar.

This is her life. These people. This city. This small, warm, suffocating life.

And she doesn't know how much longer she can stay in it.

---

The email arrives on a Tuesday.

Sush is in the middle of a session with a six-year-old girl named Ananya who's working on identifying emotions. They're using flashcards — happy, sad, angry, scared. Ananya keeps picking "angry" for every face, which is either a sign that she's not understanding the task or a sign that she's deeply perceptive about the human condition.

Sush's phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it. The session is almost over.

"Ananya, look at this one." She holds up the "happy" card. "What is this person feeling?"

Ananya stares at the card. Her expression doesn't change.

"Angry," she says.

Sush makes a note. Tries again.

When the session ends, she checks her phone.

The email is from the centre director. Subject line: Staff Meeting — Mandatory Attendance.

She opens it.

> Dear Team, > > Due to budget constraints, we will be reducing therapy hours for all clients effective March 1st. Sessions will be shortened from 60 minutes to 45 minutes. We will also be implementing a new parent training program to reduce the need for one-on-one therapy. > > Please attend the staff meeting this Friday at 4 PM to discuss the transition plan. > > Best regards, > Mrs. Deshmukh

Sush reads it twice.

Then she walks to the staff room and finds Priya-ma'am.

"Did you see the email?" Sush asks.

Priya-ma'am is eating lunch — dal-chawal in a steel tiffin. She nods without looking up.

"This is insane," Sush says. "These kids need the full hour. You can't just cut fifteen minutes and expect—"

"I know."

"Then why aren't you saying anything?"

Priya-ma'am finally looks at her. Her eyes are tired. "What do you want me to say, Sushmita? The centre is losing money. Mrs. Deshmukh has to make cuts somewhere."

"But this isn't—"

"I know." Priya-ma'am's voice is flat. "I know it's not fair. I know it's not good for the kids. But this is how it is."

Sush stares at her. "So we just accept it?"

"What else are we going to do?"

The question hangs in the air.

Sush doesn't have an answer.

She goes back to the therapy room. Sits in the plastic chair. Stares at the pale yellow walls.

She's thought about quitting before. A hundred times. But she's never actually done it. Because her mother works here. Because she loves the kids. Because she doesn't know what else she would do.

But now—

Now she's so angry she can feel it in her teeth.

She pulls out her phone. Opens the group chat.

Sush: i need to get out of this city

Rahul: what happened

Sush: work stuff

Sush: im just

Sush: i dont know

Sush: i need to do something

Kunal: like what

Sush: i dont know

Sush: something big

GP: you should take a trip

GP: like a real trip

GP: not just lonavala or some shit

Sush: where

GP: idk

GP: europe?

She stares at the message.

Europe.

The idea is absurd. She's never been outside India. She doesn't have that kind of money. Her parents would never allow it.

But the word sits in her chest like a small fire.

Europe.

That night, she lies in bed and googles "solo trip to Europe from India."

The results are overwhelming. Visa requirements. Flight costs. Hostel bookings. Travel insurance. She has no idea where to start.

But she keeps scrolling.

She finds a blog post by an Indian girl who did a solo Europe trip last year. The girl is from Mumbai, twenty-four years old, and she writes about Paris and Amsterdam and Barcelona like they're real places you can actually go to, not just things you see in movies.

Sush reads the entire post. Then she reads it again.

At the end, there's a line that makes her chest tighten:

"I went to Europe to escape. I came back to myself."

She closes her laptop. Stares at the ceiling.

Thumki is asleep at the foot of her bed, purring softly.

She thinks about Aarav saying "ball." She thinks about Ananya picking "angry" for every emotion. She thinks about Priya-ma'am's tired eyes and Mrs. Deshmukh's budget cuts and her mother's reputation and the way this job is slowly suffocating her even though she loves it.

She thinks about her ex's messages. I miss you. I crave you.

She thinks about Kunal and Rahul and GP and the way they make her laugh but also the way she feels like she's performing sometimes, like she's playing the role of Sush instead of actually being Sush.

She thinks about the fact that she's twenty-two years old and she's never had sex and she doesn't even know what she wants.

And she thinks: What if I just went?

The thought is terrifying.

The thought is exhilarating.

She picks up her phone. Opens her banking app. Checks her savings account.

₹1,47,000.

It's everything she's saved from her therapy job over the past two years. She was saving it for... something. She doesn't even know what. A new scooty, maybe. Or a course. Or just security.

But now she's looking at that number and thinking: What if I spent it on myself?

She opens a new tab. Searches "Schengen visa for Indian citizens."

The process is complicated. She needs to apply through VFS Global. She needs proof of accommodation, proof of funds, travel insurance, a detailed itinerary. The visa costs €80 plus service charges. Processing takes fifteen days.

She reads everything. Takes notes.

By 2 AM, she has a rough plan:

1. Apply for Schengen visa (France — she'll spend the most nights there) 2. Book flights (Pune → Delhi → Paris, cheapest option) 3. Book hostels (budget, female dorms) 4. Buy travel insurance 5. Create a cover story for her parents

The last one is the hardest.

Her parents would never let her go on a solo trip to Europe. Never. Her mother would worry. Her father would say it's not safe. They'd ask a thousand questions she doesn't have answers to.

So she'll have to lie.

The thought makes her stomach twist. She's not a good liar. But she's also not a good quitter, and she's been quitting on herself for two years now, staying in this job, staying in this city, staying small and safe and stuck.

She's done staying.

She opens the group chat.

Sush: im doing it

Sush: im going to europe

It's 2:17 AM. No one responds.

She puts her phone down. Closes her eyes.

For the first time in months, she falls asleep smiling.

---

Applying for a Schengen visa is like taking an exam you didn't study for.

Sush sits at her desk with her laptop open and seventeen browser tabs and a growing sense of panic. The VFS Global website is a labyrinth. She needs:

- A valid passport (she has this — got it two years ago when her family went to Nepal) - Two passport-sized photos (white background, no smiling, 80% face coverage) - Proof of accommodation for every night of the trip - Proof of funds (bank statements for the last three months) - Travel insurance with minimum €30,000 medical coverage - A detailed day-by-day itinerary - A cover letter explaining the purpose of her visit - Flight reservations (not tickets — just reservations)

She starts with the easiest part: the photos.

There's a photo studio near the Akurdi bus stop. She goes there on her lunch break, tells the guy she needs Schengen visa photos. He nods like he's done this a thousand times. The flash is too bright. She's not allowed to smile. She looks like a hostage in the final photos, but they meet the requirements.

₹200.

Next: accommodation.

She spends three hours on Hostelworld, booking refundable hostel beds in Paris, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Rome, and Berlin. Female dorms. Shared bathrooms. ₹800-1200 per night. She screenshots every confirmation email.

Next: travel insurance.

She finds a policy on Policybazaar. ₹4,500 for fifteen days, €30,000 medical coverage, repatriation included. She pays with her debit card. Her savings account balance drops to ₹1,42,500.

Next: the itinerary.

This is where it gets real.

She opens a Google Doc and starts typing:

Day 1-3: Paris - Arrive at Charles de Gaulle Airport - Check in to hostel (Le Montclair Hostel, Montmartre) - Visit Eiffel Tower, Louvre Museum, Notre-Dame Cathedral

Day 4-5: Amsterdam - Train from Paris to Amsterdam (Thalys) - Check in to hostel (ClinkNOORD) - Visit Anne Frank House, Van Gogh Museum, canal tour

Day 6-7: Barcelona - Flight from Amsterdam to Barcelona - Check in to hostel (Sant Jordi Sagrada Familia) - Visit Sagrada Familia, Park Güell, Gothic Quarter

She keeps going. Rome. Berlin. By the time she's done, she has a fifteen-day itinerary that looks like something a real traveler would do.

She's never been to any of these places. She's never even been on a plane by herself.

But the itinerary exists now. On paper, she's already there.

Next: the bank statements.

She downloads the last three months from her banking app. The balance is consistent — around ₹1,40,000-1,50,000. No suspicious transactions. No huge withdrawals. It should be enough.

Next: the cover letter.

This is the part where she has to lie.

She stares at the blank document for ten minutes. Then she starts typing:

> To Whom It May Concern, > > My name is Sushmita Haldar. I am a 22-year-old Indian citizen currently employed as a therapist at [Centre Name] in Pune, Maharashtra. > > I am applying for a Schengen visa to visit France and other European countries for tourism purposes from [Date] to [Date]. This trip is a personal milestone for me, as I have recently completed my Bachelor of Commerce degree and would like to explore European culture, history, and art before beginning the next phase of my career. > > I have attached all required documents, including proof of accommodation, travel insurance, and bank statements. I have strong ties to India, including my family and my employment, and I intend to return to India at the end of my trip. > > Thank you for considering my application. > > Sincerely, > Sushmita Haldar

She reads it three times. It sounds formal and boring and nothing like her actual voice, but that's probably good. Visa officers don't want personality. They want proof that you'll come back.

She saves the document.

Next: the flight reservations.

She doesn't want to buy the actual tickets until the visa is approved — that's ₹45,000-50,000 she can't afford to lose if the visa gets rejected. So she uses a website that generates fake flight reservations for visa applications. It costs ₹500. She feels like she's committing fraud, but the website assures her it's legal.

Pune → Delhi (layover) → Paris. Return: Paris → Delhi → Pune.

She downloads the PDF. Adds it to her folder.

Finally, she has everything.

She books an appointment at the VFS Global office in Pune for the following week. The appointment slot costs ₹1,200. The visa fee is €80 (approximately ₹7,200). Service charges are another ₹1,400.

Total cost so far: ₹15,000.

Her savings: ₹1,27,500.

She hasn't even bought the real flight tickets yet.

But she's committed now.

---

The VFS Global office is in Shivajinagar, in a building that smells like air conditioning and anxiety. Sush arrives twenty minutes late (as always) and has to wait in a queue of other visa applicants — families going to Italy, couples going to Switzerland, a group of college students going to Germany.

Everyone looks more prepared than her.

When it's finally her turn, she hands over her documents to a woman behind a glass partition. The woman flips through everything with the expression of someone who has seen a thousand identical applications and is deeply bored by all of them.

"Purpose of visit?" the woman asks.

"Tourism."

"How many days?"

"Fifteen."

"Traveling alone?"

"Yes."

The woman's eyes flick up. "Alone?"

"Yes."

A pause. Then the woman goes back to the documents.

Sush's heart is pounding. She's sure something is wrong. She's sure the woman can tell she's lying, that this isn't really about tourism, that she's running away from her life.

But the woman just stamps a few pages, takes Sush's fingerprints, and hands her a receipt.

"You'll get an email in fifteen days," the woman says. "Check your application status online."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Sush walks out of the office in a daze.

She did it. She actually did it.

Now she just has to wait.

---

The fifteen days are the longest of her life.

She checks her email every hour. She googles "Schengen visa rejection reasons" and scares herself with stories of people who got rejected for tiny mistakes. She has nightmares about the visa officer calling her parents.

At work, she goes through the motions. Sessions with Aarav and Ananya and the other kids. Progress reports. Staff meetings where Mrs. Deshmukh talks about "efficiency" and "cost-cutting" and Sush has to bite her tongue to keep from screaming.

At home, she avoids her mother's questions.

"You've been distracted lately," her mother says one evening. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, Ma."

"Are you sure? You barely eat. You're always on your phone."

"I'm fine."

Her mother doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push.

Sush spends her nights in her room, scrolling through travel blogs and YouTube videos. She watches a video of a girl walking through Montmartre in Paris. Another video of the canals in Amsterdam. Another of the Colosseum in Rome.

She imagines herself there. Alone. Free.

The thought is terrifying.

The thought is everything.

On the fourteenth day, she gets the email.

Subject: Schengen Visa Application Update

Her hands are shaking when she opens it.

> Dear Applicant, > > Your visa application has been processed. Please visit the VFS Global office to collect your passport.

That's it. No "approved" or "rejected." Just "processed."

She takes the next day off work (tells Priya-ma'am she has a doctor's appointment) and goes back to the VFS office.

The same bored woman hands her a sealed envelope with her passport inside.

"Open it outside," the woman says.

Sush takes the envelope. Walks outside. Sits on a bench in the parking lot.

Her hands are still shaking.

She tears open the envelope. Pulls out her passport.

There, on page seven, is a sticker.

SCHENGEN VISA** **Type: C (Tourism)** **Valid from: [Date]** **Valid until: [Date + 90 days]** **Number of entries: Multiple

She got it.

She actually got it.

She sits on the bench and stares at the sticker until her vision blurs.

Then she pulls out her phone and opens the group chat.

Sush: i got the visa

Rahul: WHAT

Rahul: YOU ACTUALLY DID IT

Kunal: wait you were serious about europe???

GP: holy shit sush

Sush: im going

Sush: im actually going

Rahul: when

Sush: next month

Kunal: does your mom know

Sush: no

Kunal: sush

Sush: i know

Sush: ill tell her

Sush: eventually

She doesn't tell her mother.

Not yet.

First, she books the flights.

Pune → Delhi → Paris. March 15th. Return: Paris → Delhi → Pune. March 30th.

₹48,000.

Her savings: ₹79,500.

Then she books the hostels for real (non-refundable this time).

₹18,000.

Her savings: ₹61,500.

She'll need at least ₹40,000 for food, transport, and emergencies while she's there.

That leaves her with ₹21,500 in her account when she gets back.

It's reckless. It's stupid.

She doesn't care.

She's going to Europe.

---

The lie she tells her parents is this:

"There's a training workshop in Goa. For autism therapists. It's two weeks. The centre is sending me."

Her mother frowns. "Two weeks? That's a long time."

"It's an intensive program. They're covering accommodation."

"What about your sessions here?"

"Priya-ma'am will cover them."

Her father looks up from his newspaper. "Goa is expensive. Do you need money?"

"No, Baba. The centre is paying for everything."

It's the easiest lie she's ever told.

Her mother still looks skeptical, but she doesn't push. Sush is twenty-two, after all. An adult. She's allowed to go to Goa for work.

The night before she leaves, she packs her bag.

One backpack. That's all she's bringing.

Clothes: jeans, kurtas, one dress (she never wears dresses but she bought one anyway), underwear, socks.

Toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, sunscreen, period supplies.

Documents: passport, visa, flight printouts, hostel confirmations, travel insurance, photocopies of everything.

Money: ₹20,000 in cash, one debit card, one credit card (₹50,000 limit, only for emergencies).

Phone: charger, adapter, power bank.

She stares at the bag. It looks too small to contain a whole trip. A whole transformation.

But it's all she needs.

Thumki watches her from the bed.

"I'll be back," she tells him.

He blinks slowly. Unconvinced.

She doesn't sleep that night.

At 4 AM, she gets up. Showers. Puts on jeans and a plain black kurta. Ties her hair back.

Her mother is awake, making tea in the kitchen.

"You're leaving so early?" her mother asks.

"The flight is at 8. I need to be at the airport by 6."

Her mother hands her a cup of tea. "Be safe, Sush."

"I will, Ma."

"Call me when you land."

"I will."

Her mother hugs her. Sush closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of her mother's hair — coconut oil and sandalwood soap.

"I love you," her mother says.

"I love you too."

It's not a lie.

But it's not the whole truth either.

She picks up her bag. Walks out the door.

The city is still dark. The streets are empty. She rides her scooty to the airport, and with every kilometer, she feels lighter.

By the time she reaches the terminal, the sun is rising.

She's really doing this.

She's really leaving.

---

Pune Airport at 6 AM is a study in controlled chaos.

Sush locks her scooty in the parking lot (₹100 for fifteen days — she'll deal with the retrieval later) and walks into the terminal with her backpack and her pounding heart. The departure hall smells like coffee and floor cleaner. Families cluster around check-in counters. A group of college students in matching t-shirts laughs too loud. An old couple sits in silence, holding hands.

She finds the Air India counter. The woman behind the desk is young, bored, efficient.

"Passport and ticket, please."

Sush hands them over. Her hands are steady. She's surprised by this.

The woman types something. Frowns.

"You have a layover in Delhi. Four hours. Terminal 3."

"I know."

"Your bags are checked through to Paris. You'll collect them at CDG."

"Okay."

The woman prints her boarding pass. Hands it over.

"Gate 12. Boarding starts at 7:30."

Sush takes the pass. Stares at it.

PUNE (PNQ) → DELHI (DEL)** **DELHI (DEL) → PARIS (CDG)

It's real. It's happening.

She goes through security. The female officer pats her down, checks her bag, waves her through. She buys a bottle of water (₹80, highway robbery) and sits at the gate.

Her phone buzzes.

Rahul: you at the airport?

Sush: yeah

Rahul: how are you feeling

Sush: terrified

Rahul: you're going to be amazing

Rahul: seriously

Rahul: this is the bravest thing you've ever done

She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.

Sush: thank you

Sush: for everything

Rahul: stop being dramatic you're coming back in two weeks

Sush: i know

Sush: but still

Rahul: go have the best time

Rahul: and tell me everything

She puts her phone away.

At 7:30, they start boarding.

She's in seat 23F — window seat. The plane is half-empty. The man next to her is reading a newspaper. He doesn't look at her.

She buckles her seatbelt. Looks out the window.

The sun is fully up now, painting the tarmac gold.

The engines start. The plane taxis. And then—

They're in the air.

Pune shrinks below her. The city she's lived in for six years, the city that's felt too small for months now, becomes a grid of roads and buildings and then just brown earth and then clouds.

She's leaving.

She's actually leaving.

The flight to Delhi is two hours. She doesn't sleep. She watches the clouds and thinks about nothing and everything.

When they land at Delhi, she has four hours to kill.

Terminal 3 is massive — glass and steel and luxury brand stores she'll never shop in. She buys a sandwich (₹350, even worse highway robbery) and sits near her gate.

Her phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: i heard you're going somewhere

Her stomach drops.

It's him again. Her ex.

Unknown Number: rahul told me

Unknown Number: where are you going

She wants to throw her phone across the terminal.

Instead, she blocks the number. Again.

She doesn't owe him anything. Not an explanation. Not a response. Nothing.

She deletes the messages and puts her phone on airplane mode.

At 2 PM, they start boarding for Paris.

This flight is packed. Families. Couples. Solo travelers like her. She's in seat 34A — window again. The woman next to her is French, reading a book in a language Sush can't understand.

The flight attendant comes by with a welcome drink. Sush takes the orange juice. Her hands are shaking again.

The engines roar.

The plane lifts.

And then India is gone.

---

The flight to Paris is eight hours.

Sush doesn't sleep.

She watches three movies (doesn't retain a single plot), eats two meals (pasta that tastes like cardboard, bread roll that's somehow worse), and stares out the window at the darkness.

Somewhere over the Middle East, she starts to panic.

What is she doing?

She's twenty-two years old. She's never traveled alone. She doesn't speak French or Dutch or Spanish or Italian or German. She has ₹40,000 to last her fifteen days. She lied to her parents. She's going to a continent she's only seen in movies.

What if something goes wrong?

What if she gets robbed?

What if she gets lost?

What if she hates it?

What if she's making the biggest mistake of her life?

She closes her eyes. Breathes.

Thinks about Aarav saying "ball."

Thinks about Priya-ma'am's tired eyes.

Thinks about her ex's messages. I crave you.

Thinks about the therapy room with its pale yellow walls and fluorescent hum.

Thinks about the way she's been living — small and safe and stuck.

She opens her eyes.

No.

She's not making a mistake.

She's making a choice.

At 6:30 PM Paris time (11 PM India time), the plane begins its descent.

The city appears below — lights and the Seine and the Eiffel Tower lit up like a postcard.

Sush presses her face to the window.

It's real.

It's real.

The plane lands. The passengers clap (why do people clap when planes land?). Sush unbuckles her seatbelt and stands on shaky legs.

She's in Paris.

She's actually in Paris.

---

Charles de Gaulle Airport is a maze.

Sush follows the signs for "Baggage Claim" and "Immigration" and tries not to look as lost as she feels. The immigration officer is a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and no smile.

"Passport."

Sush hands it over.

The woman flips through it. Looks at the visa. Looks at Sush.

"Purpose of visit?"

"Tourism."

"How long?"

"Fifteen days."

"Where are you staying?"

"Hostels. I have the addresses—"

"It's fine." The woman stamps the passport. Hands it back. "Welcome to France."

That's it.

Sush is through.

She collects her backpack from the baggage carousel (it's still there, thank god) and walks out into the arrivals hall.

The air smells different. She can't explain it. Just... different.

She finds the RER B train to the city. Buys a ticket (€10.30) from a machine that's half in French, half in English. The train is crowded. She stands near the door, clutching her backpack, watching the suburbs of Paris blur past the window.

At Gare du Nord, she switches to the Metro. Line 4 to Château Rouge. The hostel is a ten-minute walk from there.

It's 8 PM by the time she arrives.

Le Montclair Hostel is a narrow building on a narrow street in Montmartre. The reception is tiny. The guy behind the desk is maybe twenty-five, with a nose ring and a bored expression.

"Name?"

"Sushmita Haldar."

He types. Nods. Hands her a key card.

"Third floor. Female dorm. Breakfast is 7 to 10. No noise after 11."

"Thank you."

She climbs the stairs (no elevator) and finds her room.

It's small. Six bunk beds. Lockers. A window overlooking the street. Three of the beds are occupied — backpacks, clothes, shoes scattered around. The other travelers are out.

Sush picks an empty bottom bunk. Puts her backpack in the locker. Sits on the bed.

She's here.

She's actually here.

Her phone buzzes. She forgot to turn off airplane mode.

Ma: did you reach goa safely?

Sush's stomach twists.

Sush: yes ma. just checked in. very tired. will call tomorrow.

Ma: ok beta. sleep well.

She puts her phone down.

Lies back on the bed.

Stares at the ceiling.

She's in Paris.

She lied to her mother.

She's terrified.

She's free.

She closes her eyes.

Tomorrow, she'll figure out what to do with that freedom.

Tonight, she just needs to sleep.

---

Sush wakes to voices she doesn't recognize.

The hostel room is bright — too bright. Sunlight streams through the window. Two girls are talking in a language she can't place. German, maybe. Or Dutch. One of them laughs.

Sush sits up. Her body aches from the flight, from the narrow bunk bed, from the weight of everything she's done in the past twenty-four hours.

She checks her phone. 9:47 AM.

She slept for thirteen hours.

There are seven messages from her mother, three from Rahul, one from Kunal.

Ma: good morning beta. how is the workshop?

Ma: did you have breakfast?

Ma: call me when you're free

Guilt twists in her stomach. She types a quick reply:

Sush: morning ma. workshop is good. very busy. will call later.

Then she scrolls to Rahul's messages.

Rahul: how's paris

Rahul: did you sleep

Rahul: text me when you wake up i want to know everything

She smiles.

Sush: just woke up. paris is... real. im still processing.

Rahul: go explore

Rahul: stop texting me and go see the city

She puts her phone down. Gets up. The other girls in the dorm are gone now — just their belongings scattered around. Sush grabs her towel and toiletries and finds the bathroom down the hall.

The shower is tiny. The water pressure is weak. But it's hot, and she stands under it for longer than necessary, letting the heat unknot her shoulders.

When she's dressed — jeans, a plain white kurta, her hair still damp — she goes downstairs.

The hostel's common area is crowded. Backpackers from everywhere, speaking languages she doesn't know, eating breakfast from the small buffet table. Bread, jam, butter, coffee, orange juice.

Sush takes a plate. Sits at a corner table.

A guy sits down across from her.

He's maybe twenty-five. Blond hair, blue eyes, a backpack with Australian flag patches.

"Mind if I sit?" he asks.

She's already eating, so the question is pointless, but she nods anyway.

"First time in Paris?" he asks.

"Yeah. You?"

"Third. I'm Liam." He extends a hand.

She shakes it. His palm is warm, rough. "Sush."

"Sush," he repeats, testing the sound. "Where are you from?"

"India. Pune."

"Ah, cool. I've been to India. Goa, Rajasthan, Kerala."

Of course he has. Every white backpacker has been to India.

"What brings you to Paris?" he asks.

She hesitates. What's the answer? I'm running away from my job and my life and my own head?

"Just traveling," she says.

"Solo?"

"Yeah."

He grins. "Brave. I like it."

There's something in the way he says it — I like it — that makes her stomach flutter.

She's not used to this. Guys noticing her. Guys talking to her like she's interesting.

In Pune, she's just Sush. Five feet tall, looks like a kid, always late, always overthinking. The girl who works with autistic kids and talks about nosy and has a new crush every two months but never does anything about it.

But here, in this hostel in Paris, she's just a girl traveling solo. And that's apparently enough to be interesting.

"You doing anything today?" Liam asks.

"I don't know. I was thinking of just walking around."

"Want company?"

Her heart skips.

This is it. This is the moment where she could say yes. Where she could let something happen.

But she's terrified.

"I'm okay," she says. "I kind of want to be alone today."

He doesn't look offended. Just shrugs. "Fair enough. If you change your mind, I'm in room 7. We're going to a bar tonight in the Marais. You should come."

"Maybe."

He finishes his coffee. Stands. "See you around, Sush."

And then he's gone.

She sits there, staring at her half-eaten bread.

She could have said yes.

She should have said yes.

But she didn't.

---

Paris in March is cold and beautiful.

Sush walks for hours. No plan, no map, just her phone's GPS and her feet and the city unfolding around her.

She walks through Montmartre, past the Sacré-Cœur, down narrow streets lined with cafés and art shops. She walks along the Seine, watching the boats and the tourists and the couples holding hands. She walks past the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Place de la Concorde.

Everything smells different here. Bread and coffee and cigarette smoke and something floral she can't name.

She buys a crepe from a street vendor (€5, Nutella and banana) and eats it while sitting on a bench near the river.

Her phone buzzes.

Kunal: how's goa

She stares at the message.

She's in Paris. She's eating a crepe by the Seine. She's lying to everyone she knows.

Sush: good. learning a lot.

She puts her phone away.

By the time she gets back to the hostel, it's 7 PM. Her feet hurt. Her body is exhausted. But her mind is buzzing.

She's in Paris.

She's actually in Paris.

In the hostel common area, a group is gathering. Liam is there, along with four other people — two girls, two guys. They're drinking cheap wine from plastic cups.

Liam sees her. Waves. "Sush! You came back. We're heading to the bar in twenty. You in?"

She should say no. She should go to bed. She should be responsible.

But she's in Paris.

And she didn't come here to be responsible.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm in."

---

The bar is in the Marais, down a narrow street that smells like rain and old stone.

It's small, crowded, loud. Music she doesn't recognize. People speaking French and English and other languages all at once.

Sush orders a beer (€6) and stands near the wall, watching.

Liam is talking to one of the girls — a tall brunette with a German accent. The other guys are playing darts. The second girl, a redhead with an American accent, comes over to Sush.

"You're the Indian girl, right? Liam mentioned you."

"Yeah. Sush."

"Emma. From California." She extends a hand. "First time in Europe?"

"Yeah."

"How are you finding it?"

"Overwhelming."

Emma laughs. "Yeah, it's a lot. But you'll get used to it. How long are you here for?"

"Fifteen days."

"Damn. That's not much time. You doing the whole backpacker circuit? Amsterdam, Barcelona, Rome?"

"Something like that."

"Nice. You'll love Amsterdam. It's wild."

Sush takes a sip of her beer. It tastes bitter, yeasty. She's not much of a drinker — back in Pune, she'll have one beer at a party and nurse it all night. But here, she drinks faster.

The music shifts. Something with a heavy beat. People start dancing.

Liam appears next to her. "You want to dance?"

She's never been a good dancer. She's always self-conscious, always worried about how she looks.

But the beer is warm in her stomach, and the music is loud, and she's in Paris.

"Okay," she says.

They move to the center of the room. The space is tight — bodies pressed together, the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. Liam's hands find her waist. Not aggressive, just there. Guiding her.

She's five feet tall. He's at least six. She has to tilt her head back to see his face.

"You're tiny," he says, grinning.

"I know."

"It's cute."

Her stomach flutters again.

They dance. Or rather, they move to the music. His hands stay on her waist. She's hyper-aware of every point of contact — his palms through the fabric of her kurta, the heat of his body, the way he smells like soap and beer.

She's never been this close to a guy who isn't her ex.

And her ex never made her feel like this.

The song ends. Another starts. Liam leans down, his mouth near her ear.

"You want to get out of here?"

Her heart is pounding.

This is it.

This is the moment.

She could say no. She could go back to the hostel. She could be safe.

Or she could say yes.

She looks up at him. His blue eyes. His easy grin.

"Okay," she says.

---

They don't go far.

Just outside the bar, into the narrow street. The air is cold. Sush's breath comes out in clouds.

Liam pulls her into a doorway. His hands are on her waist again, but firmer now. Intentional.

"You're really pretty," he says.

It's such a simple line. Such an obvious line.

But it works.

Because she's never felt pretty. She's always felt small, awkward, too much and not enough at the same time.

But right now, in this doorway in Paris, with this Australian guy looking at her like she's something worth looking at—

She feels pretty.

He kisses her.

It's not like kissing her ex. That was tentative, careful, two teenagers who didn't know what they were doing.

This is different.

Liam kisses like he knows exactly what he's doing. His mouth is warm, insistent. His tongue tastes like beer. One hand stays on her waist; the other moves to her face, tilting her chin up.

Sush's brain goes blank.

She's kissing a stranger in Paris.

She's kissing a stranger in Paris and it feels good.

His hand slides down from her waist to her hip. Then lower, to the curve of her ass. He squeezes, gently, and she gasps into his mouth.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs.

She nods. She can't speak.

He kisses her harder. His body presses against hers, pinning her to the door. She can feel him — all of him. The hardness of his chest, his thighs, and something else, something hard pressing against her stomach.

She's never felt that before.

Her ex never got hard when they kissed. Or maybe he did and she just didn't notice.

But she notices now.

Liam's hand moves under her kurta, fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist. She shivers.

"You're shaking," he says, pulling back slightly.

"I'm cold."

"You want to go back to the hostel?"

She should say yes. She should stop this before it goes further.

But she doesn't want to stop.

"Not yet," she says.

He grins. Kisses her again.

His hand moves higher, under her kurta, over her ribs. His thumb brushes the underside of her breast, over her bra.

She makes a sound — half gasp, half moan.

He pulls back. Looks at her.

"Have you done this before?" he asks.

She could lie. She could pretend she's experienced, confident, the kind of girl who hooks up with strangers in foreign cities.

But she's not.

"No," she says.

He doesn't look surprised. Just nods. "Do you want to?"

The question hangs in the cold air.

Do you want to?

She thinks about her ex. About the way he cheated on her. About the way he still messages her, saying he craves her, like she's something to consume.

She thinks about her job. About Priya-ma'am's tired eyes. About the pale yellow walls and the fluorescent hum.

She thinks about the way she's been living — small and safe and stuck.

And she thinks: I want to feel something.

"Yes," she says.

---

They go back to the hostel.

Liam's room is on the second floor — a private room, not a dorm. He unlocks the door and pulls her inside.

The room is small. A double bed, a window overlooking the street, a backpack in the corner.

He kisses her again as soon as the door closes. Harder this time, more urgent.

His hands are everywhere — her waist, her hips, her ass, her breasts. She's never been touched like this. Never been wanted like this.

It's overwhelming.

It's everything.

He pulls her kurta over her head. She's standing in her jeans and bra, and she's suddenly self-conscious. Her body is small, unremarkable. She's never thought of herself as sexy.

But Liam is looking at her like she's the only thing in the room.

"You're beautiful," he says.

She doesn't believe him.

But she wants to.

He takes off his shirt. His body is lean, tanned, muscled in a way that comes from surfing or climbing or some other activity she's never done.

He pulls her to the bed. They fall onto it, a tangle of limbs and breath and heat.

His mouth moves from her lips to her neck. He bites gently, and she gasps. His hand slides down her stomach, to the button of her jeans.

"Can I?" he asks.

She nods.

He unbuttons her jeans. Slides them down her legs. She's in her underwear now — plain black cotton, nothing special.

He doesn't seem to care.

His hand moves between her thighs, over her underwear. She's wet — she can feel it, the slickness, the heat.

She's never been this turned on in her life.

He rubs her through the fabric, slow circles, and she arches into his hand.

"You like that?" he murmurs.

She can't speak. Just nods.

He slides her underwear to the side. His fingers find her — bare skin, slick and sensitive.

She moans.

He slides one finger inside her.

It's strange. Not painful, just... strange. A fullness she's never felt before.

He moves his finger slowly, in and out, and she feels something building. A pressure, a heat, something she's never felt when she tried to touch herself.

"Relax," he says. "Just feel it."

She tries. She closes her eyes. Focuses on the sensation — his finger inside her, his thumb on her clit, the way her body is responding without her permission.

And then—

It hits her.

The orgasm is sudden, sharp, overwhelming. Her body clenches around his finger. She cries out, louder than she means to.

Liam grins. "There you go."

She's shaking. Her whole body is shaking.

He pulls his hand away. Kisses her. She can taste herself on his fingers when he touches her face.

"You want to keep going?" he asks.

She's terrified.

She's exhilarated.

"Yes," she says.

He reaches for his backpack. Pulls out a condom.

This is it.

This is really happening.

He takes off his jeans, his boxers. She sees him — fully hard, bigger than she expected.

He rolls on the condom. Positions himself between her legs.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says.

She nods.

He pushes inside her.

It hurts.

Not unbearable, but sharp, a stretching, a pressure that makes her gasp.

"You okay?" he asks, stopping.

"Yeah. Keep going."

He moves slowly, carefully, until he's fully inside her.

She's not a virgin anymore.

The thought is surreal.

He starts to move. Slow at first, then faster. The pain fades, replaced by something else. Not pleasure, exactly. Just... sensation. Fullness. Heat. The sound of his breathing, the smell of sweat and sex, the way the bed creaks under them.

She doesn't come again. But she doesn't care.

She's doing this.

She's actually doing this.

When he finishes, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and lies next to her.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"That was your first time, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

He kisses her forehead. "You did great."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

They lie there in silence for a while. Then she gets up, gets dressed.

"You don't have to leave," he says.

"I know. But I want to."

He doesn't argue.

She walks back to her dorm room. It's past midnight. The streets are quiet. The city smells like rain.

When she gets to her bunk, she lies down and stares at the ceiling.

She just had sex with a stranger in Paris.

She just lost her virginity to a guy whose last name she doesn't know.

She should feel guilty. She should feel ashamed.

But she doesn't.

She feels alive.

---

Sush wakes to her phone buzzing.

Ma: sush call me

Ma: i want to hear your voice

She checks the time. 11:23 AM.

She's slept through breakfast again.

Her body aches. Between her legs, there's a dull soreness — a reminder of last night.

She sits up. The dorm room is empty. Sunlight streams through the window.

She calls her mother.

"Sush! Finally. I was getting worried."

"Sorry, Ma. The workshop schedule is really packed."

"How is it? Are you learning a lot?"

Sush closes her eyes. The lie tastes bitter. "Yeah. It's good."

"Are you eating properly? You sound tired."

"I'm fine, Ma. Just busy."

They talk for ten more minutes. Her mother tells her about Thumki (he's been sleeping in Sush's room, waiting for her), about her sisters (still fighting), about work (the same).

When Sush hangs up, she feels hollow.

She gets dressed. Goes downstairs.

Liam is in the common area, eating toast and scrolling through his phone.

He looks up when he sees her. Grins. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Sleep okay?"

"Yeah."

There's an awkward pause.

She doesn't know what the protocol is here. Do they talk about last night? Do they pretend it didn't happen? Do they do it again?

"I'm heading to Amsterdam tomorrow," Liam says. "You?"

"I'm staying in Paris for another day. Then Amsterdam."

"Cool. Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe."

He goes back to his phone.

That's it. No big conversation. No feelings. Just a guy she had sex with, moving on to the next city.

She should feel used.

But she doesn't.

She feels... free.

---

Sush spends the day walking again.

She goes to the Eiffel Tower. Stands in line for an hour (€17 for the elevator to the second floor). The view is stunning — Paris spread out below her, the Seine winding through the city, the rooftops and spires and endless gray-blue sky.

She takes a selfie. Doesn't post it. Just saves it to her phone.

She walks through the Latin Quarter. Buys a book from a street vendor (a used copy of The Alchemist in English, €3). Sits in a café and drinks overpriced coffee (€4.50) and watches people.

Everyone here looks like they belong.

She wonders if she'll ever feel that way.

Her phone buzzes.

Rahul: you've been quiet

Rahul: everything ok?

Sush: yeah. just busy.

Rahul: busy doing what

She hesitates.

She wants to tell him. She wants to tell someone.

But she can't.

Not yet.

Sush: just exploring. ill tell you everything when i get back.

Rahul: ok. be safe.

Sush: i will.

She puts her phone away.

That night, she goes to another bar. This one is near the hostel, smaller, quieter.

She sits at the bar and orders a glass of wine (€7). The bartender is French, maybe thirty, with dark hair and tired eyes.

"First time in Paris?" he asks.

She nods.

"You like it?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughs. "Honest. I like that."

They talk for a while. He tells her about the city — the best places to eat, the places tourists don't know about, the way Paris changes depending on the season.

She tells him she's from India. That she's traveling alone. That she's trying to figure out what she wants.

"That's a big thing to figure out," he says.

"I know."

He pours her another glass of wine. Doesn't charge her for it.

When the bar closes, he walks her back to the hostel.

At the door, he kisses her.

It's softer than Liam's kiss. Less urgent. Just a goodnight kiss.

"Maybe I'll see you again," he says.

"Maybe."

But she knows she won't.

She's leaving for Amsterdam tomorrow.

---

The train from Paris to Amsterdam takes three and a half hours.

Sush sits by the window, watching the French countryside blur into Belgian fields and then Dutch flatness. Everything is green and gray and wet.

She's traveling alone, but the train is full. Families, couples, backpackers like her.

She thinks about Liam. About the bartender. About the way she's been moving through this trip — collecting experiences, collecting touches, collecting proof that she's more than the small, stuck girl she was in Pune.

Her phone buzzes.

GP: kunal says you're in goa

GP: send pics

She stares at the message.

She's in a train to Amsterdam. She's had sex with a stranger. She's lying to everyone.

She opens her camera roll. Finds a generic photo of a beach she downloaded from Google. Sends it.

Sush: beach day

GP: nice. have fun.

The lie is getting easier.

She's not sure how she feels about that.

---

Amsterdam is different from Paris.

The hostel (ClinkNOORD) is across the river from the city center, in a converted industrial building. It's bigger, louder, younger than the Paris hostel.

Sush checks in, drops her bag in the female dorm (eight beds this time), and goes out to explore.

The city smells like water and weed and fried food.

She walks along the canals. Watches the boats and the bikes and the people. Everything here feels more relaxed than Paris. Less formal. More chaotic.

She goes to a coffee shop (not the weed kind — just a regular café) and orders a stroopwafel and coffee (€6.50). The waffle is sweet, sticky, perfect.

She's starting to understand why people travel.

It's not about the places. It's about the distance. The way you can be someone else when no one knows who you were.

That night, the hostel organizes a pub crawl.

Sush almost doesn't go. She's tired. Her body still aches from Liam. She's not even sure she likes drinking.

But she goes anyway.

The group is twenty people — backpackers from everywhere. Australia, Canada, Brazil, Japan, Germany. The guide is a Dutch guy in his twenties with a man bun and an aggressively cheerful attitude.

They go to four bars. Sush drinks beer, then a shot of something that tastes like licorice (disgusting), then more beer.

By the third bar, she's drunk.

Not falling-down drunk. Just loose. Warm. Brave.

A guy starts talking to her. He's Brazilian, maybe twenty-four, with dark eyes and an easy smile.

"You're Indian?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"I love India. I went to Rishikesh last year. Did a yoga retreat."

Of course he did.

But she doesn't care.

They talk. They drink. They dance.

And then they're kissing.

It's easier this time. She knows what to expect. She knows what she wants.

When the pub crawl ends, he asks if she wants to come back to his hostel.

She says yes.

---

His name is Rafael.

His hostel is in the Red Light District, in a building that smells like old wood and beer.

His room is a four-bed dorm, but his roommates are out.

They don't waste time.

He kisses her against the door. His hands are rougher than Liam's, more confident.

He pulls off her clothes. She pulls off his.

They fall onto his bunk.

This time, she knows what to expect. The condom, the positioning, the initial discomfort.

But it's different with Rafael.

He's more vocal. He tells her what he wants. Tells her what to do.

"Touch yourself," he says.

She hesitates.

"Come on. I want to watch."

She's never done this in front of anyone.

But she's drunk, and she's in Amsterdam, and she's not the same girl she was two days ago.

She slides her hand between her legs. Touches herself while he watches.

It's humiliating.

It's exhilarating.

He pushes inside her while she's still touching herself, and the combination — his cock, her fingers, the way he's looking at her — makes her come harder than she did with Liam.

She cries out, and he grins.

"Fuck, you're hot," he says.

She doesn't believe him.

But she likes hearing it.

When they're done, he falls asleep immediately.

She lies there, staring at the ceiling of a stranger's hostel room in Amsterdam.

She's had sex with two different guys in three days.

She should feel ashamed.

But she doesn't.

She feels powerful.

---

The next morning, she leaves before Rafael wakes up.

She walks back to her hostel through the early-morning streets. The city is quiet. The canals are still. The air smells like rain.

She showers. Changes clothes. Sits on her bunk and stares at her phone.

Ma: how is the workshop going?

Kunal: you're being weird. are you ok?

Rahul: sush seriously text me back

She doesn't know what to say to any of them.

So she doesn't say anything.

She spends the day at the Van Gogh Museum (€20). Stares at paintings she doesn't fully understand. Reads the placards about his life — the loneliness, the madness, the way he created beauty out of pain.

She thinks about her own pain. The job that stifles her. The ex who won't let go. The way she's been living half a life for so long.

Maybe that's what this trip is. Her own kind of madness.

That night, she goes to another bar.

Meets another guy.

Goes back to his place.

Fucks him.

Leaves.

She's starting to see a pattern.

---

The flight from Amsterdam to Barcelona is two hours.

Sush sits in the window seat, watching the clouds.

She's been traveling for a week now. Paris, Amsterdam, and now Barcelona.

She's had sex with four different guys.

She's stopped counting orgasms.

She's stopped feeling guilty.

Barcelona is warm. The hostel (Sant Jordi Sagrada Familia) is loud, colorful, full of Australians and Americans and Brits on gap years.

Sush checks in. Drops her bag. Goes out.

The city smells like the sea and oranges and something sweet she can't name.

She walks to the Sagrada Familia. Stands outside and stares up at the spires. It's unfinished — still being built after more than a century.

She thinks about her own life. Unfinished. Still being built.

Maybe that's okay.

That night, the hostel has a rooftop party.

Sush drinks sangria (too sweet) and talks to a girl from England named Sophie.

"You're traveling alone?" Sophie asks.

"Yeah."

"Brave. I could never."

Sush shrugs. "It's not that hard."

But it is hard. It's terrifying. It's lonely.

It's also the best thing she's ever done.

A guy joins their conversation. He's Spanish, from Barcelona, maybe twenty-six. His name is Marc.

He's beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, the kind of face that belongs in a cologne ad.

"You want to see the real Barcelona?" he asks Sush.

"What's the real Barcelona?"

"Not this." He gestures at the hostel, the tourists, the rooftop party. "Come with me."

She should say no.

She says yes.

---

Marc takes her to a bar in Gràcia, a neighborhood she's never heard of.

The bar is small, locals-only, the kind of place tourists don't find.

They drink vermouth (bitter, herbal, strange). They talk.

He tells her about the city. About the politics, the language, the way Barcelona is Catalan, not Spanish, and how that matters.

She tells him about Pune. About her job. About the way she's been feeling stuck.

"So you ran away," he says.

"I guess."

"Good. Everyone should run away at least once."

They drink more. The bar gets louder. He leans closer.

"You're different from the other tourists," he says.

"How?"

"You're not performing. You're just... here."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

He kisses her.

It's different from the others. Slower. More intentional.

When he pulls back, he says, "Come home with me."

"Okay."

---

Marc's apartment is in a building with no elevator, five floors up.

The apartment is small, messy, full of books and records and the smell of coffee.

He pours them wine. They sit on his couch.

"I don't usually do this," he says.

"Do what?"

"Bring tourists home."

"Why did you bring me?"

He looks at her. Really looks at her.

"Because you're sad," he says. "And I like sad girls."

It should be a red flag.

But she doesn't care.

They kiss. He pulls her onto his lap. His hands slide under her shirt.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

No one's asked her that before.

"I don't know," she says.

"Then let me show you."

He takes her to his bedroom. Undresses her slowly. Kisses every inch of her skin.

He goes down on her.

No one's done that before.

It's overwhelming. His tongue, his fingers, the way he's focused entirely on her pleasure.

She comes twice before he even takes off his pants.

When he finally fucks her, it's slow, deliberate, nothing like the frantic encounters she's had before.

"You're beautiful," he says.

She still doesn't believe it.

But she's starting to want to.

---

She stays the night.

In the morning, he makes her coffee. They sit on his tiny balcony and watch the city wake up.

"How long are you in Barcelona?" he asks.

"Two more days."

"Come back tonight."

"Okay."

She does.

And the night after that.

On her last night in Barcelona, he says, "You should stay."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a life. In India."

"Do you want that life?"

She doesn't answer.

When she leaves his apartment for the last time, he kisses her at the door.

"Don't forget this," he says.

"I won't."

But she knows she will. Eventually.

That's the point of traveling. You collect moments, and then you leave them behind.

---

The train from Barcelona to Rome takes fourteen hours.

Sush sleeps through most of it.

When she wakes, Italy is outside the window. Hills and vineyards and old stone buildings.

Rome is chaos.

The hostel is near Termini Station, in a building that smells like cigarettes and tomato sauce.

Sush is tired. Her body aches. She's been traveling for ten days, and she's starting to feel it.

But she goes out anyway.

She walks to the Colosseum. Stands outside and stares at the ancient stone.

She thinks about history. About the people who built this, who fought here, who died here.

She thinks about her own smallness. The way her problems — her job, her ex, her life — are nothing in the scope of time.

It should be comforting.

It's not.

That night, she meets a guy at the hostel bar.

His name is James. He's American, from New York, traveling for six months.

They talk. They drink. They go back to his room.

The sex is fine. Not great. Just fine.

Afterward, he asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You seem... distant."

She is distant.

She's been distant since Barcelona.

Since Marc asked her if she wanted her life.

"I'm fine," she says.

But she's not.

---

The next day, she goes to the Vatican.

She's not religious, but she wants to see the Sistine Chapel.

The museum is crowded. Tourists everywhere, taking photos, talking too loud.

When she finally gets to the chapel, she stands in the middle of the room and looks up.

The ceiling is overwhelming. God reaching for Adam. The creation of the world.

She thinks about creation. About building a life.

About the fact that she's twenty-two and she doesn't know what she's building.

She leaves the Vatican feeling emptier than when she arrived.

---

That night, she meets another guy.

This one is Italian. Older — maybe thirty. He buys her wine at a bar near the Trevi Fountain.

They don't talk much. He doesn't speak great English. She doesn't speak any Italian.

But they don't need words.

They go back to his place. A small apartment near the river.

The sex is rougher than she's used to. He pulls her hair. Spanks her. Talks to her in Italian — words she doesn't understand but can guess the meaning of.

It should scare her.

It doesn't.

She likes it.

She likes the way he takes control. The way she doesn't have to think, doesn't have to decide, just has to feel.

When she comes, it's sharp and sudden and almost painful.

Afterward, he lights a cigarette. Offers her one.

She's never smoked before.

She takes it.

The smoke burns her throat. She coughs.

He laughs.

She laughs too.

It's absurd. All of it. This trip, these men, this version of herself she's becoming.

But she doesn't want to stop.

---

The flight from Rome to Berlin is two hours.

Sush is running out of money.

She checks her bank account on the plane. ₹23,000 left.

She has five more days.

She needs to be more careful.

But she's not.

Berlin is cold and gray and beautiful in a way she doesn't expect.

The hostel is in Kreuzberg, in a converted factory. It's the cheapest one she's booked (€12/night).

The dorm has twelve beds. It smells like feet and weed.

Sush doesn't care.

She's too tired to care.

She spends the first day walking. The Berlin Wall. The Brandenburg Gate. The Holocaust Memorial.

Everything here is about history. About trauma. About rebuilding.

She thinks about her own rebuilding.

About the fact that she's going back to Pune in five days.

Back to her job. Her mother. Her life.

The thought makes her chest tighten.

That night, she goes to a club.

It's in an abandoned warehouse, the kind of place that doesn't have a sign, just a door and a bouncer and a line of people waiting to get in.

The music is loud. Techno. The bass vibrates in her chest.

She dances. Alone at first, then with strangers.

A girl kisses her.

Sush has never kissed a girl before.

It's softer than kissing a guy. Gentler.

She likes it.

They dance together. The girl's hands on her waist, her hips, her ass.

Sush is drunk. Or high. Or both. She's not sure.

The girl pulls her into a corner. Kisses her harder.

Her hand slides under Sush's shirt. Cups her breast.

Sush gasps.

"You want to get out of here?" the girl asks.

Sush nods.

---

The girl's name is Lena.

She's German, twenty-five, a student.

Her apartment is small, messy, full of plants and books.

They don't talk much.

Lena undresses her. Kisses her. Touches her in ways that are different from the guys.

Softer. More patient.

She goes down on Sush, and it's better than Marc, better than anyone.

Sush comes so hard she cries.

Lena holds her afterward. Strokes her hair.

"You okay?" she asks.

"I don't know," Sush says.

And it's the truth.

She doesn't know if she's okay.

She doesn't know who she is anymore.

She doesn't know what she wants.

But she knows she doesn't want to go back.

---

She spends two more days in Berlin.

She doesn't see Lena again.

She meets other people. Other guys. One more girl.

She's collecting experiences like they're currency.

Like they'll mean something when she gets home.

But she knows they won't.

---

Sush's last night in Europe is in Paris.

She takes the train back from Berlin. Eight hours. She sleeps most of the way.

When she arrives, the city feels different. Familiar now.

She goes back to the same hostel in Montmartre.

The guy at reception recognizes her. "Back again?"

"Just for one night."

She checks into a dorm. Drops her bag.

She has ₹8,000 left.

Enough for the train to the airport tomorrow. Enough for food.

Nothing else.

She's spent everything.

She walks through the city one last time.

The Eiffel Tower. The Seine. The narrow streets of Montmartre.

She sits on the steps of Sacré-Cœur and watches the sunset.

Her phone buzzes.

Ma: when are you coming home?

Rahul: you've been gone forever. i miss you.

Kunal: bring me back something cool

She stares at the messages.

Tomorrow, she'll be on a plane. Back to Delhi, back to Pune, back to her life.

Back to the therapy room and Priya-ma'am and her mother's expectations.

Back to being Sush.

Small. Stuck. Safe.

She doesn't want to go back.

But she has to.

---

That night, she doesn't go to a bar.

She doesn't meet anyone.

She just walks.

And thinks.

About the past two weeks. About the men and the women and the cities and the sex.

About the way she's been trying to fill something inside herself.

About the way it hasn't worked.

She's had sex with nine different people.

She's been to five cities.

She's spent all her money.

And she still doesn't know what she wants.

But she knows what she doesn't want.

She doesn't want to go back to the therapy centre.

She doesn't want to keep living for other people.

She doesn't want to be small anymore.

When she gets back to the hostel, she opens her laptop.

She writes an email.

> Dear Mrs. Deshmukh, > > I am writing to inform you that I am resigning from my position at the therapy centre, effective immediately. > > This was not an easy decision, but it is the right one for me. > > Thank you for the opportunity to work with the children. I will always be grateful for what I learned. > > Sincerely, > Sushmita Haldar

She reads it three times.

Then she hits send.

---

The flight back to India is long.

Paris to Delhi. Eight hours.

Delhi to Pune. Two hours.

Sush doesn't sleep.

She just stares out the window and thinks.

When the plane lands in Pune, it's 11 PM.

Her father is waiting at the airport.

He hugs her. "How was Goa?"

"Good," she says.

"You look different."

"Do I?"

"Thinner. Tired."

"I'm fine, Baba."

They drive home in silence.

When she walks into the flat, her mother is waiting.

"Sush! Finally!"

Thumki is on the sofa. He looks up, blinks, goes back to sleep.

Her mother hugs her. "Tell me everything. How was the workshop?"

Sush opens her mouth.

She could tell the truth. She could confess everything.

But she doesn't.

"It was good, Ma. I learned a lot."

Her mother smiles. "I'm so proud of you."

The words are a knife.

---

The next morning, Sush wakes to seventeen missed calls.

All from Priya-ma'am.

She calls back.

"Sushmita. What is this email?"

"I'm resigning."

"You can't just resign. You have responsibilities. You have clients."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Your mother works here. Do you know how this looks?"

"I know."

"Then why are you doing this?"

Sush closes her eyes.

"Because I have to."

Priya-ma'am is silent for a long moment.

Then she says, "Fine. But you need to come in and finish your paperwork. And you need to tell your mother yourself."

"I will."

She hangs up.

---

Telling her mother is the hardest thing she's ever done.

They sit in the kitchen. Her mother makes tea.

"Ma, I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"I quit my job."

Her mother's hand freezes on the teapot.

"What?"

"I resigned. I sent the email last night."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do it anymore."

"Sush, you love that job."

"I know. But it's not enough."

"Not enough for what?"

Sush doesn't have an answer.

Her mother sits down. Stares at her.

"What happened in Goa?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

Sush looks at her mother. At the woman who has worked so hard, who has sacrificed so much, who has always done the right thing.

And she thinks: I can't be you.

"I wasn't in Goa," Sush says.

Her mother's face goes pale.

"Where were you?"

"Europe."

The silence is deafening.

"You lied to me."

"Yes."

"You went to Europe. Alone."

"Yes."

Her mother stands. Walks to the window. Stares out at the street.

"Why?"

"Because I needed to."

"Needed to what?"

"I don't know. Figure myself out. Feel something. I don't know, Ma."

Her mother turns. Her eyes are wet.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? How reckless?"

"I know."

"You could have been hurt. You could have been—"

"But I wasn't."

Her mother sits down. Puts her face in her hands.

Sush has never seen her mother cry.

"I'm sorry," Sush says.

"Are you?"

Sush thinks about it.

About Paris and Amsterdam and Barcelona and Rome and Berlin.

About Liam and Rafael and Marc and James and the Italian guy and Lena.

About the way she felt — terrified and alive and free.

"No," she says. "I'm not sorry."

Her mother looks at her.

And for the first time, Sush sees it.

Not anger. Not disappointment.

Fear.

Her mother is afraid of her.

Afraid of what she's become.

Afraid of what she might do next.

"What are you going to do now?" her mother asks.

"I don't know."

"You don't have a job. You spent all your savings. You have no plan."

"I know."

"So what are you going to do?"

Sush looks at her mother.

And she realizes: she doesn't have to have an answer.

"I'll figure it out," she says.

---

Three Months Later

Sush is working at a café in Koregaon Park.

It's not a career. It's just a job. Minimum wage, long hours, rude customers.

But it's hers.

She's saving money again. Slowly.

She's looking for a new apartment. Something small. Something just for her.

She's stopped talking to her ex. Blocked his number for good.

She's stopped falling for every guy who smiles at her.

She's started therapy. Real therapy, for herself.

She's learning what she wants.

It's slow. It's hard.

But she's doing it.

---

One day, Rahul comes to the café.

He sits at the counter. Orders a coffee.

"You look different," he says.

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Happier."

She smiles. "Maybe."

"You ever going to tell me what really happened in Europe?"

She thinks about it.

About the sex and the cities and the way she came back different.

"Maybe someday," she says.

"I'll wait."

He drinks his coffee. She wipes down the counter.

And for the first time in her life, Sush feels like she's exactly where she's supposed to be.

Not because she's arrived.

But because she's still moving.

---

THE END