Chapter 1 – The Glance That Meant Nothing
The first time Mehar saw Aarav, he didn't even glance at her. Not really.
It was the summer before her final year of school, and she had tagged along with Anaya, her best friend, to a casual family dinner. The Khurana house was all warmth and old money charm — high ceilings, earthy tones, a golden retriever named Max who acted like a toddler, and a faint scent of books and coffee that seemed to live in the air.
Mehar was seventeen. Not naïve, but not yet hardened by reality. Quiet by nature, she always blended into the backdrop — a habit she had learned over the years in a world that rarely paused for soft voices.
Aarav was twenty-one. Tall, serious, and intimidating in the way someone becomes when they've seen too much too soon. He was studying architecture, home for a break, and had the kind of presence that filled a room before he spoke. His shirt was half rolled up to his elbows. There was graphite smudged on his wrist. His voice was low, thoughtful. And his eyes — they never once met hers that night.
Mehar noticed everything.
He only smiled when Anaya teased him. He ignored his phone when it buzzed twice. He poured water for his mother without being asked. When someone asked about his work, he shrugged like it didn't matter.
Mehar sat across the room, watching through lashes and sips of cold lemonade. She listened to him laugh — just once, briefly — and told herself she wasn't staring. It wasn't love. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But there was something inside her that pulled toward him, like her heart recognized something long before her mind did.
Anaya nudged her that evening as they changed into pajamas, music low, the scent of face wash and vanilla lip balm mixing with the soft hum of the fan. "He's a snob, you know. My brother. Don't bother."
Mehar had smiled then. "I'm not. He's just… interesting."
Anaya raised an eyebrow but didn't press further.
From that night, something shifted inside Mehar — not loudly, not immediately. But like a soft breath fogging a mirror. Subtle. Delicate. Almost invisible unless you knew to look.
A few days later, Mehar found herself writing. Not for anyone to read. Just for herself. Her diary became a place she confessed things too fragile to say out loud.
> "He walked past me today. He was humming. I don't think he even knows my name."
She didn't expect him to notice her. People like Aarav didn't notice people like Mehar — the quiet ones, the ones who wore oversized sweaters and tried too hard to blend in with the furniture. But the heart doesn't care for rules. It writes its own laws, and Mehar's had quietly made him its center.
Summer passed in slow-motion memories — moments stolen from family lunches, birthday celebrations, and the occasional group movie night. Always with others. Never alone. Mehar always stayed on the sidelines, quiet and smiling, soaking in pieces of him like light through stained glass.
Aarav, meanwhile, remained unchanged. Unaware. He didn't speak much to her. Didn't look at her longer than politeness required. Didn't know that her heart stuttered every time he walked into the room.
She didn't mind.
She never wanted him to fall for her. She just wanted to exist in the same world as him for a while.
She didn't realize the danger of that kind of longing — the way it latches on, roots itself, blooms in secret places of your soul.
It wasn't until one evening — two months after that first dinner — that something small, seemingly meaningless, happened.
They were all gathered for Anaya's pre-birthday dinner at a cozy little hillside resort an hour outside the city. The sun was setting. Laughter filled the space. Mehar had gone to the deck alone to watch the sky turn orange. For once, she felt peace.
And then — footsteps.
She turned. Aarav.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood beside her, watching the same sky.
"You like sunsets?" he asked finally.
Mehar blinked. His voice wasn't deep this time. Just… soft.
"Yes," she answered, barely trusting her voice.
"They end too fast," he murmured. "But maybe that's what makes them worth watching."
She wanted to say something back — something clever or meaningful. Instead, she nodded.
Then he smiled. Not at her. Just to himself. And walked away.
She stood there long after he left.
Later that night, when she opened her diary, her hands trembled slightly.
> "He spoke to me. It meant nothing. But I'll remember it forever."
It was the beginning.
Of a story only she knew was being written.
Of a love only she would feel.
If only he had turned around.