Ammini’s Last Promise

A minute passed. The green dot stayed on, refusing to disappear, and the room felt warmer with that refusal. Then her message arrived.

“Harmless?” Noopura wrote. “You’re dangerous. You ask questions like a detective.”

Abhinav shifted, the phone pressing lightly into his palm. “And you answer like a witness who’s hiding the real story.”

Her next reply came fast - too fast, like she’d been waiting for him to step closer. “I’m not hiding. I’m just… selective.”

He could almost see her face in his head - soft eyes, a serious mouth, the kind of expression that would turn into a smile if someone teased her the right way. He’d learned that much from the way she wrote. She didn’t throw words around. She placed them.

He leaned closer to the screen, the glow painting his knuckles pale. “Selective. Okay. Then I’ll be selective too.”

“Meaning?”

Abhinav exhaled, suddenly aware of how late it was, how alone he was, and how unfair it felt that she was letting him in only through a doorway. He tapped the reply bar, feeling stubbornness rise like a tide.

“Meaning,” he typed, “you’ll keep your name locked. I’ll keep my patience locked. But I’m going to unlock you anyway.”

The typing bubbles vanished. For a moment, nothing moved but the clock and his own thoughts. He stared until the screen started to blur at the edges.

Then Noopura wrote: “Unlock me? Thendi.”

That single word - thendi - hit him like a warm slap. Teasing. Familiar. Not cruel. The way she said it made it feel like she’d already decided they were close enough to play.

Abhinav laughed under his breath, the sound small at first, then bigger when he realized she’d called him that nickname like it was a toy she could pick up whenever she wanted. He typed quickly, trying to keep his grin from turning into something too hopeful.

“Ammini,” he wrote.

He didn’t know why he chose it. Maybe because it was the one name he carried like a secret in his pocket. Maybe because he wanted to see if she flinched - or if she smiled. Maybe because the urge to tease her back was stronger than the fear of being too much.

Noopura’s response came slower, and when it arrived, it was pure reaction.

“Eii!” she wrote. “Why are you calling me that? Who told you - ”

Abhinav sat up a little, the mattress creaking. “Your elder brother did.”

A pause. Another pause. Then: “How you know his name?”

Abhinav blinked. Of course. She was checking details like she always did, like every answer mattered. He typed, tone light but not lying. “Because you’re not careful with everything. You told me once. In your… very long way.”

“I didn’t tell,” she argued instantly. “I hinted.”

“Same difference,” he said, and then, because he couldn’t resist, he added, “Potti.”

Her reply came a second later, sharp with laughter hidden behind stubbornness. “Potti? Who gives you permission to call me potti?”

“Permission?” Abhinav repeated, and the word felt ridiculous in his mouth. He could practically hear her indignation. “I’m not asking. I’m claiming.”

Noopura didn’t answer that immediately. The silence stretched just long enough to make his chest tighten. He stared at the green dot again, willing it to move, willing her to keep coming back.

When she finally wrote, it was softer than his tease deserved. “You’re thendi too, Abhi.”

He froze for a heartbeat. She’d paired his nickname with a teasing insult and somehow made it sound like affection. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected distance.

Instead, she was handing him a thread.

Abhinav typed slowly. “Okay. Then you’re Ammini.”

“No.” The reply was quick and firm.

He almost smiled again at the stubbornness - because it sounded like the kind of refusal she’d used before. The kind that came with a secret yes.

“Why no?” he asked.

“Because,” she wrote, “you can’t just - ” She stopped mid-sentence, then started again with a new message. “If you know my nickname, then you’ll start thinking you know me.”

Abhinav stared at the words, the meaning sitting between them like a glass wall. He understood. She didn’t want to be seen too clearly too fast. She wanted to choose when the door opened.

He swallowed. His throat felt dry, even though he’d been drinking water earlier.

He typed: “I don’t want to know you like a stranger. I want to know you like… someone who’s safe.”

The word safe looked too heavy on the screen, and he regretted it for half a second. But her reply came right away, and it wasn’t dismissal.

“Safe?” Noopura typed. “Then prove it.”

Abhinav blinked. “Prove what?”

“I said I’m selective,” she wrote. “Selective doesn’t mean I’m cruel. It means I’m careful. So be careful.”

He read it twice. Careful - she wanted that. Not just words, not just flirting. Careful.

He leaned back against the headboard, feeling the cold of the wall through his shirt. “Okay. Be careful. Tell me what you want.”

Noopura’s typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, like she was trying to pick the right bait. Then she sent: “You want my name? You won’t get it.”

Abhinav’s thumb hovered. The old barrier rose in him - her refusal, her guarded game. It was frustrating, yes. But it also felt like a map. A line she’d drawn so she could decide how close he could stand.

He typed, steady: “I didn’t ask for your name. I asked for your attention.”

Her reply came with a tiny pause before it appeared, like she was smiling to herself. “Attention is also dangerous.”

“Then we’ll handle it carefully,” Abhinav wrote back. “Like you handle cockroaches.”

The words were out before he could soften them. He regretted it immediately - because he could almost hear her squeak of panic from earlier days, could remember her dramatic reactions with tiny insects, the way she’d acted like the floor was plotting against her.

The screen went still. Abhinav felt his stomach drop.

Then Noopura replied, and the next message was so fast it made him laugh again, despite himself.

“I told you not to mention that!” she wrote. “I was not panicking. I was… protecting my dignity.”

Abhinav’s grin widened. “Protecting your dignity from a cockroach?”

“From the whole idea,” she shot back. “Cockroaches don’t come alone. They bring family. They bring plans.”

Abhinav typed, unable to stop himself: “So you’re scared of their… networking.”

Noopura’s laughter burst through the chat like a sound he could hear even without audio. “You’re making fun of me, Abhi.”

He leaned forward, warmth spreading in his chest. “I’m teasing. There’s a difference.”

“You’re teasing like a manda,” she wrote, and the way she typed it made it sound like she was pinching his cheeks.

Abhinav laughed out loud this time, the sound echoing in the room. He covered his mouth quickly, as if the walls could judge him. “Manda is my favorite. I can be your manda.”

“No,” she said again, but the word this time looked like a giggle wearing armor. “Manda doesn’t get to call me Ammini.”

Abhinav stared at the screen, amused and challenged at once. “Then what does manda get to call you?”

Noopura typed, and for a moment her messages looked like she was thinking hard. Then she sent: “Abhi.”

Abhinav’s pulse caught. He’d asked for her attention, and she was handing him a name - her name for him - like a key. He typed, softer than before. “Okay. Ammini gets called by her own rule. Abhi gets called by hers too.”

Noopura replied with a sudden change in tone, as if she’d leaned closer to the phone. “Stop talking like you’re winning.”

“I’m not winning,” Abhinav said. “I’m trying to keep you talking.”

A longer typing pause followed. Then she wrote: “You keep asking me things. You keep staying awake. That’s… something.”

Something. He could feel the vulnerability under the word, like a bruise covered in humor.

His desire to connect sharpened into something more serious. Not just flirting now. He wanted to deserve her trust.

He typed: “You said you wouldn’t reveal your name. But you also said you’re selective. So tell me - what are you protecting?”

Noopura’s reply arrived slowly, and when it did, it wasn’t teasing at all.

“My heart,” she wrote. “It’s stupid.”

Abhinav sat up straighter. The room suddenly felt less like a room and more like a quiet confessional. He could almost hear her voice going small.

“Stupid how?” he asked.

Noopura answered with a sentence that looked like it hurt to type: “It believes people too easily. It starts caring before it’s even sure.”

Abhinav stared until his eyes stung. The way she wrote “before it’s even sure” made his chest ache. He’d been the one to chase answers, to want her name, her digits, her full identity. But what if she was the one risking herself every time she typed?

He typed carefully, as if the keyboard might crack. “Then don’t believe too easily.”

Noopura’s response came immediately, and it wasn’t angry - just honest. “I can’t control it.”

Abhinav swallowed. He wanted to say something comforting, something romantic, something that would smooth her fear away like a hand over rough fabric. But he remembered her boundary. He remembered that she didn’t open doors because someone begged. She opened because someone respected the lock.

So he chose a different question, one that wouldn’t push her out of her shell.

“Okay,” he wrote. “Then what can I do so your heart doesn’t get hurt?”

Noopura stayed quiet long enough that his hope started to wobble again. He stared at the green dot, praying it wouldn’t disappear.

When she finally replied, her message was short, almost playful - like she couldn’t stay serious for long.

“Be consistent.”

Abhinav’s laugh came out as a breath. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” she wrote. “Not like you’re doing now. Not like… leaving. Not like disappearing.”

The word disappearing hit him harder than he expected. It wasn’t just about tonight. It was about every time someone promised and then vanished.

He typed, steady: “I won’t disappear.”

Noopura didn’t reply for a moment. Then: “Prove it.”

Abhinav’s mind flashed back to her challenge about her name. About the first six digits. About how he’d tried to solve her like a puzzle and ended up solving himself too. He could almost feel the next day waiting, with phone numbers lined up like prayers he wasn’t sure would be answered.

But now she was asking him again - turning the intimacy into a test.

He typed, almost smiling despite the tension: “You want proof? Then you have to give me something.”

Noopura’s answer came with a sharp twist of humor that made his stomach loosen. “I already gave you something.”

“What?” he asked.

“Six digits,” she wrote.

Abhinav’s thumb hovered. “You already gave me those.”

“And you didn’t get the rest,” she reminded him, like a teacher correcting a stubborn student. “So you still don’t know me fully.”

He felt the old challenge settle back into place, but now it didn’t feel like a game. It felt like her way of holding him at the right distance - close enough to breathe, far enough to keep herself safe.

He typed: “Then give me the remaining four.”

Noopura’s reply was immediate, almost gleeful. “No.”

Abhinav exhaled, half laugh, half frustration. “Ammini doesn’t like giving her name, okay. But her digits - her digits you promised.”

“I promised the first six,” she wrote. “Not the rest.”

Abhinav leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the phone glass. “Then what do I get tonight?”

Noopura’s typing bubbles appeared and vanished twice. When she finally sent, the message felt like a tease pressed against his ribs.

“Tonight you get my rules,” she wrote. “And you get to call me Ammini again.”

Abhinav’s mouth curved. “I already called you.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But now you’ll call me properly.”

He blinked. “Properly?”

Noopura sent: “Say it like you mean it.”

The request tugged at him. It wasn’t about the words; it was about intention. He could feel his cheeks warm, like she’d reached through the screen and poked his dignity.

He typed slowly: “Ammini.”

The moment he hit send, her response came like a soft slap followed by a giggle.

“Hmm,” she typed. Then, after a brief pause: “Abhi.”

Abhinav stared at the screen, the nickname sitting between them like a quiet promise. He wanted to ask for more. He wanted to push the boundary until it broke. But her fear - her careful heart - was sitting right there in plain text. If he pushed too hard, she’d retreat again, and the retreat would hurt.

So he chose a different kind of persistence, one that could be earned.

He typed: “Okay. I’ll respect your rules. But I’m still going to get the remaining four digits.”

Noopura’s reply came with mock seriousness that made him smile. “Then you’ll take a week.”

Abhinav’s eyes narrowed at the screen. “I don’t take a week.”

“You do,” she insisted. “You failed another challenge.”

Abhinav felt heat rise in him - not anger, just competitive stubbornness. He remembered how his earlier attempt had been wrong, how humiliating it had felt to be so sure and still lose.

He typed, voice low even though she couldn’t hear it: “That was before. Now I’m awake. Now I’m focused.”

Noopura replied with a tiny pause, and then: “Focused on what?”

Abhinav’s thumb trembled slightly. He could have lied. He could have said digits. He could have said logic. But tonight didn’t feel like logic. Tonight felt like her heart, careful and frightened, reaching out through humor.

So he typed the truth in a safe wrapper. “Focused on you.”

The typing bubbles came fast, then slowed, then came again. Her response arrived, guarded and playful at once.

“Don’t get too confident, Abhi,” she wrote. “Because even if you find the rest… you still won’t get my name.”

Abhinav stared. The desire to know her fully curled around the desire to keep her safe. He could feel the conflict in himself - wanting her, wanting the lock to open, wanting her to trust him enough to stop hiding.

He typed: “Then what’s the point of the digits?”

Noopura answered with a line that made him feel both chosen and challenged.

“The point,” she wrote, “is that you keep trying even when I say no.”

Abhinav’s throat tightened. The green dot stayed on, steady and bright. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side of the screen.

He leaned back, forcing himself to slow down. “Okay. Deal. I’ll try.”

Noopura’s last message for tonight arrived with a mischievous sting: “First six digits only, Abhi.”

Abhinav’s eyes dropped to the chat thread where her number started like a tease - half a code, half a promise. He could already feel tomorrow’s stubbornness forming. He could already see himself listing possibilities, calling numbers, waking up into the same night again and again until he got the remaining four.

He typed, because he couldn’t help it, because the urge to tease her back was alive in him like a second heartbeat.

“Ammini,” he wrote, “you’re thendi.”

Noopura replied instantly: “Abhi, potti.”

Abhinav smiled into the dark, the room still cold around him, but something inside warm and restless. The chat felt intimate - her nickname for him, her rules for him, her guardrails drawn in humor. And yet the cost of that intimacy was clear: she wasn’t giving him her name. She wasn’t giving him the full number yet.

Only the first six digits.

Only one stubborn, guarded step at a time.

He stared at the screen until the green dot finally flickered, then settled again. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t even try.

Instead, he typed one last line, soft enough to be honest, sharp enough to be a promise.

“Tomorrow,” he wrote, “I’ll start from your six digits. And I’ll come back with the remaining four.”

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.