The Holi mela had swallowed the entire ground near the old fort. Colour hung in the air like a second skin—pink, yellow, electric green—sticking to every face, every bare arm, every strand of hair. Drums never stopped. Somewhere a dhol was being beaten so hard the sound travelled through bone. Riya had lost her two friends somewhere between the jalebi stall and the makeshift stage where a singer was screaming old Bollywood songs off-key. She stood on her toes, trying to see over the sea of heads, the bright yellow lehenga already heavy with sweat and gulal. The choli was thin, almost translucent where it clung to her back. She had chosen it that morning thinking she would look festive. Now it felt like an invitation she had never meant to send.

A body pressed against her from behind.