So tonight, I invite you to your own naughty night. Order that dessert. Stay up too late. Laugh at nothing. And if anyone asks? Tell them Neha sent you.

Every great naughty night starts in the kitchen. Not with a salad—never a salad. I’m talking leftover biryani eaten with a spatula, or a handful of chocolate chips hidden behind the oat milk. There’s no judgment after midnight. Only crunch.

You know that one friend who’s always up? I call her. We talk about exes, future trips, and why paneer is the most emotionally stable food group. These conversations feel naughty because they’re unplanned. Unpolished. Real.