Purvi hadn't stopped thinking about him all week.Not in that filmy, slow-motion way — but in quiet moments. While rinsing rose petals, while waiting for class to start, while pretending to listen to her friends talk about exam stress and Bollywood gossip.
Every time the school bell rang, her eyes would flick toward the gate.Every time someone casually said "Ayaan," her stomach would twist before her brain could stop it.
It wasn't love — not yet.But it was something.A curiosity. A soft ache that sat in her chest and refused to leave.
She kept telling herself it was stupid.He was Ayaan Qureshi — confident, social, the kind of guy who didn't need to try to be liked.She was just Purvi Sharma — practical, quiet, invisible to most.
They lived in the same town, attended the same school. But sometimes, it felt like they existed on two different frequencies.
On Friday, he came back.
Same time, same street. Only this time, he didn't wait for her to look up or pretend it was an accident.
He walked straight up to her.
"Hey, Gulkand Girl," he said, flashing that teasing grin.
Purvi rolled her eyes, trying — and failing — not to smile. "Is that what I'm called now?"
Ayaan leaned on the shop's wooden counter, elbows resting like he'd done this a hundred times before. "Well, I had to call you something. And Dadi says your gulkand is better than anything she's had in Delhi."
Purvi smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll tell my mom she's been certified by the capital."
He chuckled, then paused — and for a second, he just looked at her.Not like a boy staring at a girl, but like someone trying to figure out a riddle they didn't mind being confused by.
"You're different," he said quietly.
Purvi blinked. "Different how?"
"Everyone at school's either trying too hard or faking it. You're not. You're... just you."
She didn't know what to do with that, so she looked down at the jar she was labeling.
He didn't push.
After a beat, he cleared his throat. "Hey — are you going to the school fest tomorrow?"
Purvi hesitated. "I wasn't planning to."
"Come," he said, voice softer this time. "Come for me."
The next evening, Purvi stood at the edge of the school ground, fingers curled around a fest ticket someone else had bought for her.
The air was filled with pulsing music, the smell of samosas and cheap perfume, and the chaotic energy of students trying to make memories before graduation.She scanned the crowd until she found him.
Ayaan.Wearing a black kurta, laughing at something one of his friends had said.
He saw her.
Didn't wave.
Just walked toward her — steady, unhurried — like she was the only person in the whole place.
"You came," he said, sounding almost surprised. Almost relieved.
"You asked," she said, her voice barely louder than the music.
They spent the evening together — awkward at first, then easier.Laughing at bad jokes, sharing a cold drink that was too sweet, whispering dumb comments during the student play, pretending not to notice the stares from others.
And then, just as the sun dipped and the sky turned a soft indigo, Ayaan tugged her gently toward the side of the school — behind the building where no teachers or friends would follow.
It was quiet there. Only the distant thump of music and the buzzing of a nearby streetlight.
"I don't usually do this," he said, staring at the cracked concrete beneath their feet.
"Do what?" she asked, her heart thudding a little too hard.
"This. Talk to someone like this. Feel like this."
She didn't say anything. She wasn't sure she could.
But that didn't stop him.
"I think I like you, Purvi."
The words came out rough, unpolished — like they'd been sitting inside him all week.
Purvi swallowed. And then, before she could overthink it, before the moment passed:
"I like you too."
No one clapped. No music swelled. No fireworks lit up the sky.Just two teenagers standing under a broken streetlight, the silence between them warmer than any hug.
It wasn't dramatic.It wasn't perfect.
But it was real.And it was the beginning of something they didn't have a name for yet.