A Classification Error
Lipika had a foolproof plan, a devastatingly beautiful crush, and a best friend who was about to accidentally steal both.
It all started when Lipika laid eyes on Samay at the local café. Samay was the definition of “indie-movie protagonist”-he read paperback books, wore perfectly oversized sweaters, and drank his coffee black like a man with deep, unspoken thoughts. Lipika was completely smitten. The problem? Her interaction with him so far consisted entirely of accidental, terrifying eye contact followed immediately by choking on her own saliva.
Desperate, she turned to her best friend, Darpan.
“You know him?” Lipika gasped, nearly knocking over Darpan’s green tea when he mentioned that he and Samay went to the same gym.
“I mean, we’re acquaintances,” Darpan said, adjusting his collar. “We usually end up on adjacent treadmills. He’s tall, runs like he’s escaping a past life, and he actually asked today whether I was coming in tomorrow.”
“That means nothing,” Lipika said. “Gym people say that to everyone.”
“Probably,” Darpan murmured, looking down at his tea.
“Darpan, you have to help me break the ice,” she pleaded, gripping his arms. “I am a bumbling mess around him. Find out what he likes. Feed me talking points. Be my wingman!”
“You do realise I am not qualified for this,” Darpan said. “I have never successfully flirted with a man in my life.”
“Then you are perfectly qualified to gather intelligence.”
“That is not how flirting works.”
“It is now.”
Darpan agreed, though his smile was a little tighter than usual. The mission was set: Operation Get Samay to Notice Lipika.
Phase One began the next day. Darpan casually initiated a conversation with Samay at the gym to scout out his interests. He reported back to Lipika via text:
He likes obscure French cinema and vintage vinyl. Good luck.
Lipika spent the entire weekend reading Wikipedia summaries of French movies she couldn’t pronounce. Armed with this knowledge, she orchestrated a “coincidental” run-in at the café, with Darpan sitting a few tables away for moral support.
When Samay walked in, Lipika intercepted him by the sugar station.
“Oh, hi! Samay, right? I was just thinking about how modern Hollywood lacks the raw, existential dread of Jean-Luc Godard.”
Samay blinked, looking genuinely bewildered. “Uh… cool. I actually just like the soundtracks.” He gave a polite, strained smile and excused himself.
Lipika slumped back into her chair across from Darpan. “I bombed. He looked at me like I was a malfunctioning robot.”
“Don’t worry,” Darpan said, though his eyes drifted toward the counter. Samay was looking back over his shoulder. His gaze passed over Lipika, lingered for half a second on Darpan, then returned to his order.
Darpan looked down at his phone and cleared his throat. “Maybe you just need a more natural approach. Let me talk to him again.”
Over the next two weeks, the text updates Lipika received began to feel… different.
Can’t hang out right now. Helping Samay pick out a turntable. Gaining his trust for you! Gym session done. Found out his favourite colour is green. You should wear green. He changed his gym timing. Apparently mornings were getting inconvenient. Useful intel. He asked if I’d seen this French film. I said no. He offered to lend it to me. Excellent progress for you.
Lipika felt reassured. Darpan was doing the heavy lifting. She did notice that he had started dressing slightly better, but she assumed that was what happened when a man spent too much time around someone with an oversized-sweater collection.
A few days later, Lipika stared at another message.
He made me a playlist. Said it would help me understand the film. This is very useful intelligence.
She typed back: Why are you listening to it at midnight?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Because I wanted to know what he likes, Darpan wrote.
Obviously, Lipika replied.
Darpan did not answer for a while. Then: Exactly.
Finally, Darpan called her.
“Lipika! Huge breakthrough. We’re all going to the indie record store downtown this Saturday. It’s your perfect chance.”
Saturday arrived. Lipika wore her finest green sweater, memorised three facts about vinyl maintenance, and met the boys outside the store.
“Hey, Lipika,” Samay said, giving her a warm smile.
“Hey,” Darpan replied.
Inside, Samay moved through the aisles with the ease of someone who had spent an unreasonable amount of his life in record shops. He pulled a record from a sleeve and held it out to Darpan.
“This is the one,” he said. “The limited pressing I told you about.”
“You remembered?” Darpan asked.
“You mentioned it once.”
“I mentioned it in passing.”
“I remember things you say,” Samay said. Then, as if hearing himself, he looked back at the shelf. “Anyway. It’s a good pressing.”
Darpan smiled at the floor.
Lipika, three aisles away, watched them over the top of a jazz record she had picked up purely to look occupied.
“You don’t have to pretend to care about pressings,” Samay said.
“I’m not pretending,” Darpan said. “I care that you care.”
Samay looked at him for a second too long.
“That,” he said quietly, “is a dangerous thing to say in a record store.”
Lipika looked down at the record in her hands. It was upside down.
They walked out of the store and headed toward the café.
Lipika trailed a few steps behind. Ahead of her, Darpan and Samay walked close enough that their hands occasionally brushed. Every few seconds, one of them laughed at something the other had whispered.
Lipika slowed down.
For a long moment, she stood frozen on the pavement.
Three French films. Two read articles. One itchy green sweater.
Get Rahul Sharma’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
She looked at Darpan’s anxious face, then at Samay, who was watching him as though the rest of the street had politely stepped out of focus.
The sting did not vanish. It simply changed shape-into something she could handle.
Absolute, chaotic irony.
“So,” Samay said, his voice suddenly quieter. “Are you free tomorrow? Just… you? I found this vegan taco place.”
Darpan stopped. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Lipika.
For one terrible second, he looked like he might say no.
Then he looked back at Samay.
“I’d love that,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“It’s a date,” Samay said.
Lipika stopped walking completely.
Darpan spun around, his face pale. “Lipika! Wait-you okay?”
She took a breath.
“Fantastic,” she said, her voice steadying. “Never better.”
Samay glanced between them, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. “Did I miss something?”
“Yes,” Lipika said, crossing her arms. “A highly classified intelligence operation.”
“Operation what?” Samay asked.
“Nothing,” Darpan said instantly.
“Operation Get Samay to Notice Lipika,” Lipika announced anyway.
Darpan closed his eyes, looking like a man being personally attacked by his own history.
Samay blinked. “You were… trying to get me to notice Lipika?”
“I was,” Lipika said. “Very professionally. I had research. Talking points. A colour-coded plan.”
“You colour-coded a plan?” Samay asked, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Don’t change the subject,” Lipika said. “My wingman was supposed to gather information. Instead, he appears to have gathered you.”
Darpan’s face turned crimson. “Lipika, I swear, I didn’t mean for it to-”
“Darpan,” she cut in gently.
“What?”
“You’re explaining yourself to the wrong person.”
Samay was trying very hard not to laugh. “So all those gym conversations were…?”
“Market research,” Lipika said.
Darpan groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Please do not call it that.”
“It was excellent market research,” she continued, stepping closer and nudging his shoulder with hers. “You identified the target’s interests, established rapport, arranged an in-person meeting, and secured a date. A flawless operation-apart from one small classification error. Honestly, I should be taking notes.”
“I hate you,” Darpan muttered through his fingers.
“You love me,” Lipika said. “But you owe me coffee. And a very expensive replacement sweater.”
“Deal,” he said, exhaling in relief.
She looked at him for a moment, letting the warmth return to her expression. “You could have told me, though.”
“I didn’t know what to tell you,” Darpan said. “I kept thinking it would go away.”
Lipika’s expression softened. “Idiot.”
“I was terrified,” he admitted. “Because of you.”
“I know.”
Samay shifted beside him, suddenly looking less certain than he had a minute ago. “So… tomorrow is still okay?”
Lipika sighed, as though the burden of approving other people’s happiness had fallen entirely on her shoulders.
“Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow is still okay.”
Samay’s face brightened.
“But,” Lipika added, pointing a stern finger at Darpan, “you better wear green. It’s his favourite colour.”
Darpan’s eyes widened. Samay laughed and looped an arm around his shoulders.
Lipika turned and walked away before either of them could see her smile.
Her phone buzzed before she reached the corner.
Are we really okay?
She typed back:
You owe me coffee. And a sweater. No cheap stuff.
A second message appeared.
Then another:
Also, please never say “market research” in front of him again.
Lipika smiled at the screen.
No promises, she wrote. I’m choosing your outfit tomorrow. You clearly cannot be trusted to manage an operation.
Originally published at https://talktors.substack.com on November 4, 2026.
