The city wakes up before I do.

By the time I open my eyes, I can already hear the low hum of traffic through the half-open window, cars honking in uneven rhythms, someone shouting for an auto, a vendor dragging his cart down the street. It's the same noise that fills every morning in this part of Mumbai, a reminder that the world keeps moving, even when you're standing still.

I swing my legs off the bed, stretch a little, and walk toward the kitchen. The floor feels cool under my feet. The kettle whistles just as I reach for it, and for a second, the sound cuts through the fog in my head. Coffee first, everything else later.

As the machine sputters, I stare out the window. The sunlight bounces off car roofs and glass buildings, catching in the dust hanging in the air. People hurry past, all with somewhere to be, something to look forward to. I wonder if I ever looked like that once.

The mug warms my hands as I lift it, taking that first sip bitter, strong, just how I like it. The taste grounds me.

My thumb moves absently over the small mark on my wrist, the faint line that never really faded. I trace it without thinking. Sometimes it itches; sometimes it burns. Most days, I just let it remind me of what not to forget.

The front door slams open before I can drift too far into thought.

"Oh my god!" Naina's voice slices through the silence like it always does. "Tell me you're up Devi, we have the gala tonight!"

I blink at her from over my mug. "Good morning to you too," I say dryly.

Naina is a whirlwind messy bun, oversized hoodie, a dozen thoughts spilling from her mouth at once. She freezes halfway through the living room, eyes wide as if she's just realized something catastrophic.

"I completely forgot about the media confirmation!" she groans, pressing her palms to her cheeks. "And the florist just texted me they might run out of the white lilies you wanted for the stage backdrop—"

"Naina."

"What?"

"Breathe," I say. "And relax. It's all covered."

Her expression softens instantly. She lets out a sigh and drops onto the couch, clutching one of the throw pillows like a lifeline. "I swear, if you weren't around, I'd have a breakdown every two days."

I smile, small and fleeting. "You'd survive."

"No, seriously." She gets up and walks over, wrapping her arms around me. "What would I even do without you?"

I don't answer. I just patted her shoulder lightly and pulled back, setting my empty cup in the sink. Her warmth lingers for a moment, the kind that seeps through the armor you don't remember putting on.

By nine, we're in the office.

It's a small space with two rooms and a balcony cluttered with potted plants Naina insists on rescuing from roadside nurseries. The walls are covered with event mock-ups, color boards, scribbled notes. It's chaotic, but it's ours.

The gala tonight is for a sports foundation, one of our biggest clients this quarter. The kind of event that could get us noticed by all the right people. I should feel excitement, but all I feel is the familiar current of focus. Work is the one place where everything still makes sense.

Naina is already on a call with the decorators, pacing near the window. I glance at my planner timelines, catering confirmations, press passes, security details. All clean. All under control.

When Naina hangs up, she groans. "They've mixed up the centerpieces again. Apparently, someone switched the table numbers on their end."

"Send me their contact. I'll handle it."

"You sure?"

I nod. She tosses me her phone, and I make the call, calm and firm until the manager apologizes twice and promises a fix. When I hang up, Naina whistles. "You really have that scary-sweet voice."

"It works," I say, shrugging.

"It terrifies people," she mutters, amused.

I sit at my desk, checking emails. The logo placement on the event banners looks slightly off. I make a note to adjust it before printing. There's comfort in details, in precision. The closer I get to perfect, the less room there is for anything unexpected.

Naina drops into the chair opposite mine. "You know, you could at least pretend to be excited. Big night, huge clients, half the sports world attending—"

"Excitement doesn't get work done," I say, eyes still on the screen.

She rolls her eyes. "You sound like my mother."

I chuckle under my breath, and that seemed to please her. For a while, the office hums with the sound of typing, clicking, the phone rings, the quiet rhythm of two women trying to build something steady from scratch.

Around noon, the sunlight through the balcony blinds stripes my desk in gold. I glance up from the laptop and catch Naina watching me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says, smiling softly. "You just look... peaceful when you work."

Peaceful. The word hangs in the air longer than it should.

I shake my head. "It's focus, not peace."

"Same thing, sometimes."

She's wrong, but I don't say that. Focus is what I do instead of feeling.

By late afternoon, we've finalized the guest list, approved the seating layout, and confirmed the PR coverage. Everything is moving the way it should.

Naina leans against the window, scrolling through her phone. "You think anyone interesting's coming tonight?"

"I wouldn't know," I say. "I'm just handling logistics."

"You really don't read names?"

I shrug. "They're just people. The same ones who'll forget our names by tomorrow morning."

She shakes her head with a grin. "You're hopeless."

"Efficient," I correct.

She laughs. "Fine, efficient. But maybe try not being so detached tonight, okay? Talk to someone. Smile for real."

I look up at her, half-amused. "That's your department, not mine."

Her phone buzzes again, pulling her attention away. I close my planner and lean back in the chair, letting the exhaustion settle in. The day isn't even over yet, and already my mind is running through backup plans, last-minute checks, crisis contingencies.

Another event. Another night of perfection crafted for someone else's applause.

Through the balcony glass, I can see the faint shimmer of dusk beginning to fall over the city. The sound of traffic rises again, layered with voices, honks, and the faraway beat of music from some street performance. Life outside feels loud alive but inside, it's still.

I exhale, quiet and steady.

Just another day.

Just another event.

That's what I tell myself.