Chapter 4

The night after our bike ride felt strangely heavy.

Like something was waiting at the edge of the dark.

I was sitting at my desk, pretending to study, when my phone buzzed.

Aarav Rathore calling…

My breath froze.

He had never called me before — not once, not even after tuition. He was the type who would rather show up than call.

I answered. “Aarav?”

There was silence.

Then a shaky exhale.

“Anaya… can you talk?”

My heart clenched. His voice sounded… wrong. Not angry. Not tired.

Just hurt.

“Yes. Of course. What happened?”

A beat. Then:

“I’m outside.”

I shot up, rushed to the balcony, and there he was — sitting on his bike under the streetlight, head down, jacket unzipped like he had come running.

I came downstairs quietly, careful not to wake my parents.

When I stepped outside, he looked up.

And I had never seen him like this.

His eyes were red, not from anger — from trying too hard not to break.

“Aarav… what happened?” I whispered.

He didn’t speak. He just shook his head once, like the words were too painful to say out loud.

Then he said softly:

“Can we… just walk for a bit?”

---

We walked down the empty lane behind my building, moonlight following us like a secret friend.

Finally, he spoke.

“It’s out,” he murmured.

“What is?”

“The rumor. About us. About the bike ride.”

My stomach dropped. “Who told everyone?”

He scoffed. “This school doesn’t need proof. They just need a whisper.”

I could imagine it — students snickering, making it sound filthy, twisting something innocent into something dramatic.

He kicked at a pebble. “And now everyone thinks you’re with me.”

His voice cracked at the end.

“Aarav,” I said gently, “why does that bother you so much?”

He stopped walking.

Turned to me.

Looked like he was caught between two storms — one inside him, and one outside.

“Because,” he said slowly, “you’re… you. And I’m—”

He gestured to himself.

“Me.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

His jaw clenched. “Your parents will. The teachers will. Everyone will. They’ll think I’m dragging you down. They already do.”

His words hit something deep inside me.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Earlier that day, my mother had said:

“Anaya, stay away from that boy. He has problems.”

She didn’t say his name.

She didn’t need to.

Aarav looked away. “I don’t want to ruin anything for you.”

My chest tightened. “You’re not ruining anything.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You don’t know everything.”

---

We sat on the low compound wall, the street quiet around us.

He stared at the ground. “You want to know why I changed schools?”

I swallowed. “Only if you want to tell me.”

He nodded, like he had been carrying this for too long.

“My dad… he wasn’t always like this.”

His voice softened. “He used to be nice. He used to take me for cricket matches.”

A small, broken smile flickered.

“Then he lost his business. Everything got worse. At home, he would yell. Outside, I would fight. Teachers said I was turning violent.”

I listened silently, my heart aching.

One day, Aarav continued, “a senior pushed a junior around — shoved him into the bathroom wall. I stepped in. Pushed the guy back. Hard.”

He took a shaky breath.

“The junior hit his head. Needed stitches. I got suspended. My dad blamed me. My mom cried. The school said I was a threat.”

My throat tightened.

“So I left,” he finished quietly. “They didn’t expel me. I left.”

I stared at him, the truth making everything sharper, clearer, painfully human.

“Aarav… you were trying to protect someone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Everyone only sees the part where I pushed him.”

“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not the whole story. Not anymore.”

He looked up at me, eyes shining — not tears, but something close.

Something like relief.

---

As we started walking back, he suddenly stopped.

“Anaya?”

“Hm?”

He took a breath, stepped closer.

Not touching — just close enough that I felt the air shift.

“I called you,” he said softly, “because I didn’t know who else to call.”

My heart fluttered painfully.

“And I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

He looked down, hands trembling slightly.

“And you’re the only person who makes it quiet inside my head.”

For a moment, the world held its breath.

The streetlight flickered above us, like even it knew something important was happening.

Then I smiled — small, gentle, real.

“You can call me anytime,” I whispered. “Even if you don’t say a word.”

He let out a breath — half laugh, half something like gratitude.

For the first time, Aarav didn’t look like a boy fighting the world.

He looked like a boy learning it was okay to let someone in.

***

Chapter 5

The next few days felt different.

Not because anything happened outwardly…

But because now, there was something unspoken between us.

Something fragile.

Something real.

Every time Aarav walked into tuition, he seemed more aware of me — his eyes lingering a second too long, his voice softening when he said my name.

And every time he did, my stupid heart acted like it had never behaved in its life.

---

Friday’s tuition ended late. Everyone left except us — I was packing my books, and Aarav was pretending he couldn’t find his pen.

He kept glancing at the door, making sure no one came back.

“Aarav,” I said, “your pen is literally in your pocket.”

He looked down.

“Oh,” he said, smirking. “Guess I like spending time here.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “Right.”

He stepped closer — just enough to shorten the space, not enough to scare me.

But it worked. My pulse jumped.

“Anaya,” he said quietly, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”

My breath caught.

He hesitated… then took a small step forward.

His eyes dropped to my lips for a split second — a tiny, tiny moment I wasn't supposed to notice.

But I did.

And my heart nearly stopped.

“Yeah?” I whispered.

He opened his mouth.

But before he could speak—

“ANAYA!” my mother’s voice cut through the air like a sword.

We jumped apart.

She walked in, her expression stiffening the moment she saw how close we had been standing.

“Aapka time ho gaya. Chalo.”

Aarav dropped his gaze, stuffing the pen in his bag.

The moment was gone.

---

The next day, our society hosted a Makar Sankranti kite festival.

(Makar Sankranti is a festival which is celebratedon January at 14th.)

(Usually, the gap betweenDiwali and Makar Sankranti is around two months.)

I wasn’t expecting Aarav to come.

So of course, he arrived — hands in pockets, denim jacket, looking dangerously out of place among kids screaming and uncles arguing about manjha quality.

When he spotted me holding a sky-blue kite, he smirked.

“You fly kites?” he asked.

“Yes. Why? Surprised?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Thought you’d choose something safer. Like sitting.”

I glared. “Very funny.”

But when I tried to run to launch the kite, the string tangled instantly.

Aarav walked up behind me.

“Here,” he said, gently taking the spool. “You’re holding it wrong.”

He stood close — too close — guiding my hands with his. His breath brushed my ear as he whispered, “Relax your grip.”

I nearly forgot how to breathe.

And the kite soared.

But the moment didn’t last.

Because that’s when he walked toward us.

Kabir Malhotra.

New boy in our society.

Good-looking, polite, the type mothers immediately approve of.

He smiled at me. “Nice kite. Need help?”

Before I could reply, Aarav’s jaw tightened.

Kabir turned to him. “You are…?”

“Aarav,” he said shortly.

Kabir nodded once but didn’t care further — his attention was back on me.

“Anaya, we’re having a group kite battle later. Want to join?”

Aarav stepped forward slightly, like a reflex.

“She’s with me,” he said.

Kabir raised an eyebrow. “Are you… together?”

My stomach flipped.

Aarav didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

Kabir took our silence as an answer and smiled at me. “Come if you want. No pressure.”

As he left, Aarav muttered under his breath:

“Show-off.”

---

I turned to him. “Why did you say I’m with you?”

His eyes flashed. “Because you are.”

My heart did a weird somersault. “Aarav—”

He cut me off. “At least today. I… wanted to spend time with you.”

I swallowed hard. “But you sounded angry.”

“I wasn’t angry,” he said. “I just… don’t like when other guys—”

“Talk to me?” I finished.

He looked away. “Forget it.”

“No,” I said. “Tell me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Anaya, you don’t get it. People look at you like—like you’re someone above me. Someone I shouldn’t talk to. And when someone like Kabir tries to—”

“He was just being friendly.”

Aarav’s jaw tensed. “Right. Friendly.”

“Aarav, you’re being childish!”

He flinched like I slapped him.

Regret punched my chest instantly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”

The distance between us grew without either of us stepping back.

“I shouldn’t have come today,” he muttered.

“Aarav—”

“Enjoy your festival, Anaya.”

And he walked away.

My chest ached in a way I didn’t understand.

---

Hours passed. Music, laughter, colors — but none of it felt right.

Then someone shouted:

“LOOK OUT!”

A sharp manjha string snapped in the air, slicing too close to a little kid. He stumbled backward—straight into the path of a falling kite spool.

Before I could move, Aarav appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the kid and pulling him out of the way.

His hand bled, the string having cut his palm deep.

I rushed toward him. “Aarav!”

He looked up at me — hurt hand, angry eyes, tired soul.

But he still whispered:

“You okay?”

I grabbed his wrist gently. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!”

For a moment, we just stared at each other — wind in our hair, kites overhead, the world forgetting to breathe.

Then he said, in a low voice:

“I didn’t come back for the festival.”

My heart raced.

“I came back for you.”

---

We sat on the society stairs as I cleaned his wound with a first-aid kit someone handed me.

He watched me — really watched me — like the fight earlier had never happened.

“Anaya,” he whispered. “About earlier… I just—”

I looked up.

He looked down.

“—I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “I don’t know how to… be whatever you need.”

I froze.

He took a shaky breath.

“But I’m trying. That has to count for something, right?”

My eyes softened. “It does.”

He hesitated.

Then he leaned in a bit — slow, unsure, hopeful.

My heart thudded so loud I was sure he heard it.

Was this finally it?

The moment?

Then—

“Anaya beta! Come help with prasad!”

My mother’s voice again.

We both exhaled — half laugh, half disappointment.

He pulled back gently.

“We have the worst timing,” he muttered.

I smiled. “Maybe the world isn’t ready for us yet.”

He smirked softly. “Then we’ll make it ready.”

***

Chapter 6

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about life, it’s this: The universe has a terrible sense of timing.

The day after Makar Sankranti, I woke up to two notifications.

One from Kabir Malhotra.

One from Aarav Rathore.

Same morning.

Completely different energies.

---

Pehla Message

Kabir’s message came first, at 7:02 a.m.:

> Kabir:

Hey, kite champion 😄

Hope your friend’s hand is okay.

You flying again next year or retiring undefeated?

I stared at the screen, half amused, half uncomfortable.

“Kite champion.” Right.

Then at 7:09 a.m., another notification.

> Aarav:

How’s your hand?

Just three words.

No emojis.

No drama.

But my stupid heart reacted like he’d sent a six-page love letter.

I typed back quickly:

> Me (to Aarav):

Bandaged. Better today.

You?

He replied almost instantly.

> Aarav:

I’ve had worse.

Don’t worry.

Too late, I thought.

To Kabir, I sent a safe reply:

> Me (to Kabir):

Haha, retired for now.

And yeah, he’s okay.

I didn’t mention Aarav’s name.

I didn’t know why.

Maybe I did.

---

By lunchtime, everyone at school had heard about the kite incident.

Not even the part where Aarav saved a kid.

No, of course not.

Only the part where I was bandaging his hand.

“Sharma and Rathore,” someone whistled near the canteen. “Hero-heroine vibes, yaar.”

I pretended not to hear.

I was in the middle of packing my tiffin back into my bag when Kabir appeared at our table, tray in hand.

“Hey,” he said, flashing a friendly smile. “Mind if I sit?”

My friend Riya stared between us like she’d just tuned into her favorite serial.

“Of course,” she said before I could. “Sit, sit.”

Kabir sat right next to me, close enough that I could smell his deodorant — something fresh and expensive, like advertisements before a movie.

“How’s the topper?” he teased lightly. “Managing to survive after a whole day of not winning kite battles?”

Riya giggled. “She won because of that Aarav guy only, haan.”

My stomach tightened.

Kabir’s eyes flicked to me. “Yeah, he seems… protective of you.”

I tried to sound casual. “He’s just… a friend.”

The word felt too small for what Aarav was, and too big for what I had the courage to admit.

Kabir didn’t seem convinced. “Still. Not everyone would jump in front of manjha like that.”

Riya leaned forward. “Kabir, are you in Anaya’s coaching too?”

He shook his head. “No, different one. Why, jealous?”

“Obviously,” she said. “She’s surrounded by intelligent boys.”

I kicked her under the table.

Kabir laughed, then turned to me. “Listen, we’re forming a small study group for the boards. Library, weekend. You interested?”

“Uh…”

He added, “Only if you’re free. No pressure.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar silhouette enter the canteen.

Leather jacket.

Low gaze.

Trouble.

Aarav.

He walked to the counter, ordered cutting chai, and was about to leave when he spotted us.

Me.

And Kabir.

And the tiny, overly cheerful bubble we were sitting in.

Our eyes met across the room.

His expression didn’t change.

But something… hardened.

He didn’t come over.

Didn’t wave.

Didn’t even roll his eyes.

He just picked up his chai and walked out as if he hadn’t seen anything.

The chai man called after him, “Paise toh de ja, Rathore!”

Aarav tossed a coin back without turning.

My chest ached unnecessarily.

“I’ll think about the group,” I told Kabir, suddenly less hungry.

---

By the time tuition started in the evening, the sky was pink and my mood was… not pink.

I adjusted my dupatta, checked my notes twice, and told myself to act normal.

Aarav arrived five minutes late, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed his face in a rush.

He didn’t look at me when he came in.

Just nodded at my father, took his usual seat, and started scribbling in his notebook like integration was personally offending him.

“Good evening, beta,” my father said. “Ready for some calculus?”

Aarav gave a half-smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Class went on like usual, except for one tiny detail:

He didn’t talk to me.

Not once.

Not in whispers, not with stolen glances, not with those silent conversations we used to have with our eyes.

It was like there was a glass wall between us.

At one point, my father left the room to take a call.

The other students dove into their phones.

I cleared my throat. “Aarav—”

He didn’t look up. “You should say yes.”

I blinked. “To what?”

He finally raised his head, expression unreadable.

“To the library group.”

My heart skipped. “You heard that?”

“I hear a lot of things,” he said flatly.

“It’s just for studying,” I said defensively.

“Of course.” He tapped his pen rapidly against the page. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go.”

His tone said exactly that.

I tried to keep my voice calm. “Why does it suddenly sound like you’re angry with me?”

He met my eyes, and what I saw there wasn’t anger.

It was hurt.

And something I was scared to name.

“I’m not angry,” he said quietly. “You’re free to do whatever you want, Anaya.”

My name on his lips sounded softer than his words.

“Then why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“Distant.”

His jaw tightened. “Maybe that’s better.”

“For who?” I whispered.

He looked away.

For a second, I thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then he said:

“For you.”

And my heart cracked, just a little.

---

After tuition, the others filtered out slowly.

My father went to drop some notes to the neighbor.

It was just us.

Me and Aarav.

The living room lamp casting pale yellow light between us.

I started packing my books into my bag, but my hands were shaking slightly.

He stood up.

“Bye,” he muttered.

“Aarav, wait.”

He stopped at the doorway, back to me.

“Look at me,” I said.

He did.

And I almost wished he hadn’t.

Because in that moment, I saw everything — jealousy, fear, vulnerability, all jumbled behind his eyes.

“What’s really wrong?” I asked, stepping closer.

He exhaled slowly. “Nothing.”

“Aarav—”

“Why him?” he burst out suddenly.

I froze. “What?”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Why does it have to be someone like him?”

My pulse raced. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed bitterly. “You know what I mean. Guys like Kabir don’t have to fight to be liked. They say hi, they smile, and the whole world applauds.”

“That’s not fair,” I said softly.

He kept going, voice low but intense. “He fits. Into your world. Into your parents’ expectations. Into your future.”

He stepped closer, eyes burning.

“I don’t.”

The air between us tightened.

“You think I care about that?” I whispered.

“You should,” he snapped.

We stood there, too close, too hurt.

“He doesn’t even know you,” Aarav continued, words spilling out now. “He hasn’t seen you walk around with three extra notebooks ‘just in case.’ He doesn’t know you bite your pen when you’re stuck. Or that you always put extra mirchi in your maggi even though you complain every single time.”

My lips parted.

He noticed that?

“He doesn’t know,” Aarav said quietly now, “that when you’re really happy, you talk so fast you forget to breathe.”

Silence.

My heart did something I’m sure was medically dangerous.

“Why are you saying all this?” I asked, voice barely audible.

“Because it’s not fair,” he said. “I’ve been here. I’ve been watching. I’ve been trying. And suddenly some perfect guy with perfect hair and perfect family timing walks in and just—”

He broke off, running a hand through his own hair.

“This isn’t about Kabir,” I said shakily.

He looked up sharply. “Then what is it about?”

I swallowed, confused and overwhelmed and a little angry.

“You’re the one pulling away,” I snapped. “You’re the one who decided distance is ‘better for me.’ Not me.”

He stared at me like he’d just realized something.

“Anaya…” he said, voice softer. “If I get closer, I won’t be able to stop.”

My breath caught.

“Stop what?” I whispered.

He opened his mouth—

The doorbell rang.

We both jumped.

My mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen: “Anaya, darling, can you open the door?”

I backed away, pulse thundering.

Aarav looked like he wanted to punch the bell.

I went to the door, heart still in my throat.

Of course, because the universe is dramatic, it had to be Kabir.

Standing there with a notebook in his hand and a hopeful smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said. “I was nearby for coaching and thought I’d return your notes.”

Of all times.

I took a deep breath. “Uh, sure. Come in.”

As he stepped inside, his eyes flicked past me—and landed on Aarav.

For a moment, the room shrank.

Kabir’s smile faltered. “Oh. Hey. Aarav, right?”

Aarav’s expression went blank. “Yeah.”

“You come here for tuitions too?” Kabir asked.

Aarav replied, “Obviously. I’m not here for the food.”

I shot him a look.

Kabir chuckled stiffly. “Cool. Maybe we’ll all end up in the same college too one day.”

“Maybe,” Aarav said. “If they start accepting people based on worst life decisions.”

My mother emerged, wiping her hands on her dupatta. “Arre, Kabir beta! Aao, aao. You both know each other?”

“School, aunty,” Kabir replied smoothly. “We were in the canteen together earlier.”

Aarav’s jaw clenched.

My mother smiled politely. “Good, good. Anaya talks about her studies a lot, but not about her friends.”

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.

Kabir smiled at me. “I was actually going to ask if Anaya is joining the weekend study group. It’ll be helpful for boards.”

My mother’s face lit up before I could say anything.

“That’s a wonderful idea! She should definitely go. Group study is very good, haan.”

I caught Aarav’s eyes.

Something in them flickered.

My answer suddenly mattered more than any exam result.

“I’ll see,” I said slowly. “Schedule is tight.”

My mother frowned. “Arre, manage kar lo. Kitna padhoge akeli?”

Kabir laughed lightly. “No pressure. Just think about it, Anaya.”

He handed me the notebook, said his goodbyes, and left.

The door closed.

Silence.

My mother smiled at me. “Nice boy. Decent.”

She glanced at Aarav briefly. “Very… calm type.”

She didn’t say the rest out loud.

She didn’t have to.

After she went back to the kitchen, I turned to Aarav.

He didn’t meet my eyes.

“See?” he said quietly. “He fits.”

Something in me snapped.

“You keep talking like you’re some villain in my story,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re not.”

He laughed without humor. “Aren’t I?”

I took a step closer.

“No.”

He looked up, and for the first time, I didn’t see the bad boy everyone talked about.

I saw a boy who thought he didn’t deserve anything good.

“Aarav,” I said, “you’re not… less. You’re just… yours.”

He stared at me, confused. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” I said, taking another step, “that I don’t want Kabir because he fits. Or you gone because you don’t.”

His breath hitched.

“Then what do you want?” he asked.

Dark eyes.

Shaky hands.

Heartbeat louder than the wall clock.

The words climbed up my throat and froze there.

I wanted to say you.

I wanted to scream you.

Instead, I whispered:

“I don’t know yet.”

He exhaled, almost in relief.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because if you said his name, I don’t think I could’ve stood here.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes darkening just a little, “I really don’t like it when he says your name.”

“Why?” I whispered.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

“Because,” he said, “he says it like it’s an option.”

He stepped closer, just a breath away now.

“And I…” His voice dropped, rough and honest. “I say it like it’s already a part of me.”

My heart completely forgot its job.

He stepped back before either of us did something we couldn’t take back.

“Goodnight, Anaya,” he said quietly.

He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

I stood there, pulse racing, mind spinning, name echoing in two very different voices.

Kabir’s — light, easy, curious.

Aarav’s — heavy, careful, like a promise he hadn’t made yet.

And for the first time, I realized:

Jealousy isn’t just about someone else wanting what you have.

Sometimes, it’s about wanting something so badly, you’re terrified of watching it walk away.

***

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