The thing about Vihaan was—he didn't try too hard.
And somehow, that made everything easier.
We started texting the same night after Café Arts. Nothing dramatic. No long paragraphs or cheesy emojis. Just:
Vihaan: Made it home with no dessert casualties.Me: Good. The sorbet is sacred.
By the end of the week, we'd already planned to hang out again.
Our second "non-date" was a photography walk he invited me on. I showed up in white sneakers, he had a film camera slung around his shoulder, and we walked through the old parts of town like we had nowhere to be.
He shot photos of strangers, signs, street cats. I took a few of him—because duh, content. But not once did he complain or pose too much.
We ended up sharing fries at a roadside café that only took cash.
"This place has no Google reviews," I said.
"That's how you know it's real," he grinned.
I wasn't used to this. No pressure. No show. No feeling like I had to be the "influencer version" of myself.
Just… me.
After our third outing—ice cream, a walk, and a very cute accidental hand touch—he asked.
Not in some grand, dramatic way. Just under a tree, in the middle of a story I don't even remember now.
"So… I really like you," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean—if that wasn't obvious already."
I smiled. "It kind of was."
"I was thinking… if you wanted to—uh—maybe we could actually call it dating?"
My heart did that fluttery, stupid thing.
"I'd like that," I said.
So, we were dating.
Not officially announced. Not on social media. Not even a hint in my stories.
Just something quiet. Mine.
And I was okay with that.
Actually, more than okay.
I was happy.