The sunlight flickered through the narrow windows of the classroom, falling in uneven stripes across Niya's hair. She was laughing at something Yuvaan said—loudly, openly. Her head tilted slightly, a hand brushing back strands that didn't even fall, her eyes shut in a moment that felt too cinematic to be real.
Aarav didn't hear the joke. He just watched.
From the back bench, arms folded on the desk, he wasn't part of the laughter. But somehow, he wasn't completely outside it either. Because Niya turned—just slightly—and looked toward him.
And smiled. Not the way she smiled at Yuvaan.
This one was smaller.
Brief.
But real.
And for a second, everything stopped.
No metaphors. No overthinking. No poetry. Just one moment where Aarav felt something in his chest soften—like a string that had always been pulled too tight finally let go.
---
Lunch break was louder than usual. The noise of steel tiffin boxes, plastic wrappers, a hundred teenage voices colliding without rhythm.
Yuvaan plopped down beside him, peeling an orange with the kind of ease only someone with no emotional burdens could. Aarav was still halfway through opening his own lunchbox.
"She called you cute," Yuvaan said between bites, like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
Aarav blinked.
"...Who?"
He hated how fake that sounded. He knew.
"Niya," Yuvaan said. "When she dropped her pen and you gave it back. She told Manya you're 'quiet-cute.' You know, like... the mysterious boy who writes sad poetry in the library."
"I don't write sad poetry," Aarav mumbled.
"Yeah, but you look like you do."
He didn't respond. There was nothing to say. But something tightened and warmed inside him at the same time.
---
That evening, at home, he sat at the corner of the dining table, trying to pretend the rice on his plate was more interesting than his thoughts.
His mother was on a call in the kitchen, her voice half-laughing, half-instructing someone. His father hadn't come home yet.
The room was full of low domestic noises—the whirr of the ceiling fan, the occasional sound of a spoon against steel, the creak of wood when Aarav shifted his weight.
But his mind was still at school.
That moment. That smile. That word.
Cute.
He didn't know if he liked the word. It felt too small. Like describing a song with one lyric. But he also didn't want to let it go. So he turned it over in his mind like a coin—examining both sides, wondering what it was worth.
"Aarav," his mother called out from behind the fridge, "you remember to bring back your bottle today?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, maa."
"Because I'm not buying another one. It's not raining water here."
He smiled. "It's in my bag."
She walked over, peered at him for a second, then ruffled his hair gently.
"You look... peaceful today. Who's the girl?"
Aarav almost choked. He coughed, avoiding eye contact.
"I'm just tired," he said.
His mother narrowed her eyes, mock-suspicious. "Tired doesn't make people smile at rice."
He didn't reply. But in his head, he thought: Maybe this is what it feels like.
Not love. Not yet. Just… being seen.
---
Later that night, Aarav stared at the blinking cursor on his Notes app.
He had typed and deleted the same line five times.
He wasn't even sure what he was writing. A poem? A thought? A feeling? He didn't know.
But the line that finally stayed was this:
She smiled like she didn't know it mattered. That's what made it matter the most.
He put the phone aside.
And for once, he didn't scroll through anything. He didn't check how late it was. He didn't listen to sad music or dramatize it in his head.
He just lay there, in the soft dark, thinking about how this—whatever it was—wasn't fireworks. It wasn't obsession. It wasn't even a story yet.
It was just… something quietly blooming where no one could see it.
And somehow, that felt more real.
---
The next few days blurred together like pages flipped too fast. But within them, little things left marks like underlined lines in a book.
Niya laughing when he whispered a pun during History.
The way her fingers lingered on his when they passed the same notebook.
The way she said "Aarav" differently from how everyone else did—soft, but not pitiful. Light, but not careless.
One time, during a group project, she looked directly at him and said, "You're good at this."
He wanted to say something cool back. Something funny. Something confident.
But all that came out was: "I like writing."
And she smiled again. "That's obvious."
He laughed. "Is it that bad?"
"No," she said, tilting her head, "it's that honest."
---
One day, Aarav found himself walking home with Yuvaan, unusually quiet for someone who usually filled silence with jokes.
"You ever think about… not saying anything?" Aarav asked suddenly.
Yuvaan looked over. "What do you mean?"
"Like… sometimes you like something or someone so much, you don't want to put it into words. Because words feel smaller than what it is."
Yuvaan threw his hands up. "Bro. You're literally a writer. You have to believe in words."
"I do," Aarav said. "I just don't always believe they're enough."
Yuvaan didn't reply immediately. Then, casually:
"She's not a poem, you know."
"I know."
"She's a person. And people change."
"I know."
Yuvaan looked at him. "And if she changes her mind?"
Aarav didn't hesitate. "Then I'll write that too."
---
That night, Aarav's mother came into his room with a cup of tea and sat beside him.
"You're smiling in your sleep these days," she said.
"Am I?"
"Yeah. Don't act surprised. I birthed you, I get to notice these things."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just... content."
She looked at him closely, eyes a little tired but full of quiet understanding.
"You know, Aarav… content is a rare place. Most people chase happy and end up tired."
He didn't say anything. Just let her words sink in.
As she left, she said, "Whatever or whoever it is—don't lose yourself in it. But don't run from it either."
---
The next day, Aarav found a folded note in his notebook.
It wasn't dramatic. No hearts. No perfume. No "I love you."
Just one sentence.
"Do you want to walk with me after school?"
No name. No explanation. Just handwriting he already knew too well.
He held the note for a long time.
Maybe this is what it feels like.
To not be chasing something.
To not be drowning in feeling.
To just… float.
In a moment that doesn't need to prove itself.