The village of Mehrabad was always noisy—children running with kites, aunties gossiping loudly, shopkeepers arguing about change—but in the middle of all the chaos sat Amaya, quietly sketching under the old peepal tree.
Her silence was her shield. Her calmness was her defense.
And then came Arman.
A boy with messy hair, ink-stained fingers, and a grin that could melt glaciers.
He approached her with a dramatic bow. "It is I—your friend, Prince Charming!" he declared.
Amaya looked up blankly. "…Prince Charming?"
"Yes!" Arman puffed his chest. "Because I make people smile."
He mimicked blowing bubbles. Amaya tried SO hard not to smile.
But she did. A tiny one. Barely there. But Arman noticed.
"Ha! Victory!" he said. "You smiled. My job here is complete."
Arman looked away shyly. "You're strange."
"Strange is beautiful," Arman replied. "And I think you're beautifully strange too."
Amaya smiled.
"By the way, I am Arman and I am a poet. Amm... I mean I love to write." He added.
"Are you new in this village? I haven't seen you before." Amaya asked him.
Arman noded.
"Alright I am Amaya amd I love to draw." She said.
Arman gave a smile at her.
From that day, Arman started joining her under the peepal tree.
He talked. She listened. He asked. She answered softly.
Slowly, their worlds blended.
One day he peeked at her sketchbook. "Amaya… you drew me?"
She snatched the book away, blushing. "No! I mean—maybe."
Arman laughed softly. "That means you like me at least a little. Enough to draw my beautiful face."
She whispered, "Your face isn't that beautiful. And it's not true I am not in love with you"
"Rude," he gasped. "Heartbreaking. I'm wounded."
Arman knew that Amaya is in love with him but she is feeling nervous.
"I know the truth. I know what you think about me but I will not force you to say that whenever you are ready talk to me." Arman added
She smiled again.
And that's how it all began.