Riya's POV
I didn't go back to my room after rehearsal.
I climbed to the terrace instead.
The air was heavy with August heat, but the sky was clear—stars scattered like secrets no one had claimed.
I sat on the ledge, sketchbook in my lap, trying to draw something that didn't look like him.
It didn't work.
I heard footsteps.
Then laughter.
Then Meher's voice: "Found her."
Arohi, Meher, and Isha joined me, each carrying something—chips, a bottle of cold mango juice, a blanket someone had stolen from the common room.
No one asked why I was here.
They just sat.
Meher leaned her head on my shoulder. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
Arohi raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
I looked at her.
And for once, I didn't deflect.
"I think I'm in love with him."
Silence.
Not shock.
Just stillness.
Isha smiled first. "Mudit?"
I nodded.
Meher squealed. "I knew it! That monologue was not acting."
Arohi didn't say anything.
She just looked at me like she understood.
"He said it like he meant it," I whispered. "And I felt it like I wasn't supposed to."
Isha pulled the blanket over our legs. "You were supposed to. That's the point."
Meher passed me the juice. "You looked at him like you'd been waiting to hear that line your whole life."
I laughed. "I didn't even know I was waiting."
Arohi finally spoke. "That's how it happens. You think you're fine. Then someone says something true, and suddenly you're not."
We sat there for a while.
Four girls.
One rooftop.
One quiet confession.
And I realized—this was love too.
This warmth.
This safety.
This knowing I could say something real and not be alone in it.
I looked up at the stars.
Then down at my sketchbook.
I drew his hands again.
This time, I didn't try to make them perfect.
Just honest.
We stayed on the terrace longer than we meant to.
The mango juice was warm now.
The chips were mostly crumbs.
But no one moved.
Meher was humming something soft.
Arohi was staring at the stars like they owed her answers.
Isha was quiet.
Too quiet.
I nudged her. "You, okay?"
She nodded.
Then shook her head.
"I think I need to say something," she whispered.
We all turned to her.
Not with pressure.
With space.
She looked down at her hands.
Then up at us.
"I think I'm in love with Aryan."
Silence.
Then Meher gasped. "Wait—Aryan Aryan?"
Isha nodded. "Yeah."
Arohi blinked. "The one who calls you 'madam' and steals your pens?"
Isha smiled. "That one."
I laughed. "You've been hiding this?"
She shrugged. "It wasn't hiding. It was… waiting."
Meher leaned in. "Since when?"
Isha looked at the sky. "Since he stayed back after robotics club to help me fix my circuit. He didn't know what he was doing. But he stayed. And he listened. And he made me laugh when I wanted to cry."
Arohi's voice was soft. "That's how it starts."
Isha nodded. "I didn't mean to fall for him. But I did. Slowly. Quietly. And now it's loud in my chest."
We didn't tease her.
We didn't dissect it.
We just let her say it.
Because tonight was about truth.
About letting the words out.
About naming the things we usually keep folded inside.
I reached for her hand.
She took it.
And I thought,
This is what love looks like too.
Not just romance.
But friendship.
The kind that holds your confessions like they're sacred.