The following days at Chandrapur Haveli passed in a blur of dust, sweat, and overlapping responsibilities. For Rohan, each day was a puzzle of measurements and deadlines. For Ishita, it was a balancing act—ensuring the community’s voice wasn’t drowned out by architectural blueprints. And for Aditya, the camera became both a shield and a witness, capturing moments neither of his friends seemed to notice.

By the third week, the tension that had once simmered between Rohan and Ishita was reaching a slow boil.

"You can’t just tear down that wall," Ishita said, her voice sharp as she stood in the crumbling western wing. "It’s part of the original structure. It holds history."

Rohan, crouched beside a pile of stones, exhaled in frustration. "I’m trying to save this building, Ishita. If that wall collapses, everything around it goes with it. We either reinforce it or remove it entirely."

Aditya lingered nearby, camera in hand, watching the familiar dance of their arguments. He had lost track of how many times they had clashed over decisions—Rohan, with his pragmatic focus on stability, and Ishita, with her fierce protection of the haveli’s heritage.

"It’s not just about structure," Ishita insisted. "People come here because it reminds them of where they come from. You can’t reduce that to a calculation."

Rohan stood up, brushing dust from his hands. His usual calm was wearing thin. "And if we leave it untouched, those same people could get hurt when it falls. Sentiment doesn’t change the laws of physics."

The air between them crackled. For a moment, neither spoke.

"You two really need a hobby," Aditya drawled, breaking the silence. "Or a punching bag."

Rohan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don’t have time for this."

"And I don’t have time to clean up after your mess," Ishita shot back. She turned on her heel and stormed toward the courtyard.

Aditya followed her without thinking. "You know he means well," he offered as they walked past the sunlit arches.

Ishita stopped beneath a gnarled neem tree, arms crossed over her chest. "Meaning well doesn’t mean understanding. Rohan only sees the building—he doesn’t see the people living in its shadow."

Aditya leaned against the trunk, watching her. "And what do you see?"

Her expression softened as she gazed at the haveli’s worn edges. "I see lives woven into these walls. Memories that matter. If we lose that, we lose more than stone and mortar."

For a moment, he saw her as he had the first time—someone who cared deeply and without hesitation. And as always, it made something ache inside him.

"You’ve got a rare heart, Ishita," he said quietly.

She smiled faintly but didn’t meet his gaze. "And you? What do you see when you look through that lens of yours?"

Aditya hesitated. The truth pressed against his ribs—I see you—but he couldn’t say it. Not when Rohan was in the picture. Not when she had already started looking at him differently.

"Stories," he said instead, forcing a smile. "Moments people miss. Like how much you care, even when you pretend not to."

Ishita shook her head, laughing softly. "You always know how to make things sound poetic."

"What can I say?" Aditya lifted his camera. "I have a gift."

Their laughter eased the tension, but something unspoken still lingered. And as much as he tried to hide it, Aditya knew the truth—his heart was already too far gone.

---

The next afternoon, a thunderstorm rolled in, casting a gray pall over the haveli. Rain lashed the ancient walls as Rohan worked late into the evening, finalizing plans to stabilize the weakened sections. The sound of footsteps interrupted his concentration.

"I brought chai," Ishita said, stepping into the makeshift office. Her tone was softer than earlier, but there was still a trace of defiance in her posture.

Rohan looked up, surprised. "Peace offering?"

"Let’s call it a truce," she replied, setting the cup beside his sketches. "I still think you’re wrong, though."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course you do."

For a moment, the storm outside filled the silence between them. Rohan glanced at her across the desk, noticing how the dim light caught the curve of her face. He had spent weeks locking horns with her—but lately, he had begun to look forward to their arguments more than he wanted to admit.

"You care a lot," he said quietly. "I admire that."

Ishita tilted her head, as if the admission surprised her. "I could say the same about you, you know. You act like this is just a job—but I see how much you want to protect this place."

He hesitated, then leaned back in his chair. "My father was an architect. He spent his life restoring things people thought were beyond saving. I guess…I’m just trying to live up to that."

Her expression softened. "You are. Even if you’re a little stubborn about it."

Rohan laughed, the sound warm and rare. For the first time in days, the air between them felt easy. "I could say the same about you."

Ishita smiled, and for a fleeting second, something shifted. Something that felt like a possibility.

---

Later that night, Aditya stood alone on the rooftop, camera forgotten in his hand. The storm had passed, leaving the air thick and heavy. He had seen the way Rohan looked at Ishita—the way she was starting to look back.

And yet, some stubborn part of him held on.

He reached into his bag and pulled out his leather-bound journal. Inside, between pages of sketches and scribbled poetry, was a note he had never given her.

"If I had the courage, I would tell you—when the world blurs around me, you are the only thing that feels real."

Aditya traced the words with his fingertip, wondering how much longer he could stay silent. Wondering if it was already too late.

---

As midnight approached, the three of them found themselves back in the courtyard—Rohan double-checking measurements, Ishita sketching plans for community workshops, and Aditya pretending his heart wasn’t unraveling.

To anyone else, they might have looked like the perfect team. But beneath the surface, the lines were beginning to blur.

And none of them realized just how close everything was to breaking.

---