The weekend air in Velaria always felt different.
Without classes, the spells that buzzed through the halls calmed down, and the floating island itself slowed its heartbeat. Students lounged under mist trees, traded secrets over spell-laced coffee, and played lazy duels by the lake.
Ayra rarely left her apartment on weekends.
It was her sacred space — high above the street, scented with cinnamon smoke, her solitude wrapped in silk and silence. No noise. No people. Just her and her thoughts.
But that morning, something unsettled her. Restless, like her bones needed to move.
So she threw on a loose robe, no makeup, no illusion-glamours, not even her usual shoes — just soft slippers and her real face.
She walked downstairs.
Just to breathe. Just to stroll.
The breeze was soft, carrying the scent of moss and wet stone. Her street was quiet — a perfect row of enchanted residences, each one separated by floating lanterns that glowed faintly even in daylight.
And then—
She stopped.
Dead in her tracks.
Someone stood outside the sixth house.
A boy. Lean frame. Hood half-off. Familiar posture. Familiar stillness.
For a second, her mind rejected it.
No.
But then he turned slightly.
Not fully — just enough for her to see the dark strands of hair, the way his fingers moved slowly as he unlocked the glowing sigil on his front door.
It was him.
The boy from class.
The silence. The rain-gray eyes.
The one who'd stolen her attention and never looked back.
And he lived six doors away from her.
Ayra's throat tightened.
She hadn't prepared for this. This wasn't Velaria. This wasn't the library, or the lecture halls, or the haunting in-between spaces of magic.
This was real. Close.
And worst of all…
He saw her.
Only for a second.
Their eyes met — soft but piercing. No shock. No embarrassment.
Just a quiet, unexpected pause.
Ayra took a step back instinctively.
He didn't say anything. He didn't smile.
He just held her gaze.
And then —
He nodded.
Nodded.
Like he had known all along.
Then turned.
Opened his door.
And disappeared inside.
She stood there frozen, heart beating in places she didn't know could feel.
And when she finally walked away, she realized something terrible:
Her hands were shaking.
Later that night, Ayra sat on her bedroom floor, knees pulled to her chest, the moonlight slicing her walls into silver fragments.
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
Not because he touched her.
But because in that small, accidental moment…
She wanted him to