Ayra told herself she wasn't watching him.
She just… happened to open her curtains.
At the same time.
Every morning.
And evening.
Just coincidentally.
It wasn't like she was obsessed or anything.
It wasn't like she memorized how his hoodie always hung just a little off his shoulder, or how his fingers always twirled a pen — even when he wasn't writing anything.
It wasn't like she stared so long that she forgot to blink sometimes.
Or breathe.
Or think about anything else.
It wasn't like that.
At all.
She was just curious.
About Zayn
Most people on the street didn't notice him.
Or they whispered.
"That boy from number six."
"He doesn't talk to anyone."
"Scary face."
"Doesn't smile."
But Ayra saw something else.
Like today
She opened her window just as the afternoon sun hit his side of the street. Zayn was sitting on his balcony — cross-legged, hunched slightly over a sketchpad.
His pencil moved quickly. Fluid. Focused.
She leaned in a little, squinting from across the distance.
Drawing?
He was drawing?
Not something she expected.
Not from him.
He was always too still, too unreadable. She hadn't thought there was anything soft beneath the silence.
But now…
Now he looked like a boy lost in his own little world. Like something lived inside him he couldn't say out loud — so he poured it into lines and shadows and charcoal smudges instead.
Ayra's breath caught in her throat.
And before she could stop herself—
She waved.
Just a small one.
A flick of fingers.
Zayn looked up.
Their eyes locked.
Her hand froze mid-wave.
She panicked.
Started pulling her curtain—
But then—
He waved back.
Just once.
Just one small motion.
But it was enough to make her knees wobble
That night, Ayra couldn't sleep.
Again.
She found herself sketching too. On her notepad. Random shapes. Her own hands. A pair of eyes that refused to leave her mind.
Zayn's eyes.
Focused. Intense. But always… far away.
What was he always thinking about?
What had life done to make him build so many walls?
What was he hiding behind that quiet face?
The next evening, she opened her window again.
This time, he was already looking.
He didn't wave.
But he didn't look away.
And Ayra?
She didn't either.
They just watched each other.
Silently.
Softly.
Like maybe the distance between their balconies was shrinking — day by day, look by look