The Passenger Princess & The Boy Who Replied
It all began as an escape.
A silly story I blurted out to my best friend one sleepy afternoon during math class. I leaned over and whispered it between scribbled equations and half-solved problems.
"I dreamt of this… scene," I told her. "Like something from a film."
She raised her eyebrows with interest, abandoning her notebook, and I continued. I painted it in words—the way I had seen it play out so clearly in my head. It gave her butterflies. Mine were already in flight.
In that dream, I met a guy through Instagram.
Young. Tall. Ridiculously handsome.
He drove a black jeep—shiny, sleek, the kind that turns heads in slow motion. He pulled up near my after-school math coaching and rolled down the window with a lazy smile.
"Need a ride?"
I became his passenger princess. No questions asked.
He drove like he owned the world—one hand on the wheel, the other on the music controls, like he knew what I wanted to hear before I did. And then, my favorite song began playing.
Not the trending one. Not the one you'd expect. But the one that felt like home.
I looked at him. He looked like someone who believed in God, in silence, in values… someone raised on stories and honesty. He spoke the way you wish people would—slow, sincere, steady. The kind of voice that makes you trust even the things unsaid.
He leaned in gently and brushed a strand of hair from my face. My breath caught somewhere between my throat and my ribcage.
And just like that, the class ended.
My delusion ended with it.
"Tell me more tomorrow!" my best friend whispered, eyes twinkling.
I smiled like a child caught daydreaming. "I'll imagine the rest on my way home."
But that night, life caught up with me again—faster this time. There was homework, upcoming exams, tuition classes, and the constant travelling between places that drained the color out of everything.
The dream began to fade.
So did the silly little crush I had on that not-so-cool boy who used to be my friend—the one dating the girl who always glared at me like I was a threat. Maybe I was. Or maybe I was just a reflection she didn't like.
Either way, I stopped thinking about love. I stopped thinking about stories. I stopped thinking, honestly.
Until three days later.
I was lying on my bed, endlessly scrolling through Instagram like muscle memory, when I saw a story. It wasn't from someone I regularly talked to. Just… a familiar name from an old, half-forgotten chapter of my life.
Shresth Jaiswal.
We went to the same school once, back in second grade.
He wasn't someone who had stayed on my radar. He was just a name, a face I vaguely remembered… until now.
His story was about a protest. Something powerful—about women's safety. It felt raw, real, honest. Not performative like most people's.
Before I could overthink it, I replied.
That was the first time I ever messaged him. The first spark.
And he replied instantly.
He told me about his two elder sisters—one barely a year older, the other much older and doing her masters. He told me how growing up around them made him more aware, more alert, more protective. He said he couldn't stand the way women were treated, that he wanted to be the kind of man his sisters would be proud of.
It wasn't just words. I could feel it.
We talked a bit more—nothing too long, just enough to feel the pulse of sincerity. Then, the conversation ended. A natural pause.
Until the next morning, when I noticed something.
He had sent one more message before sleeping.
A soft, simple "Goodnight."
I hadn't even seen it the night before. I hadn't replied.
But the next morning, still in bed, I found myself typing back without a second thought:
"Good morning."
It was August 15th—Independence Day.
I went to school for the function. Everyone was in festive spirit. I wore my tricolor badge, laughed with friends, clicked pictures, grabbed snacks afterward. Everything around me felt light and routine.
But something inside me felt different.
There was a shift I couldn't name. A quiet undercurrent.
This conversation with Shresth—it didn't feel like idle small talk. It felt like the beginning of something unspoken. Something quietly powerful.
I didn't know what it meant.
I didn't know this boy with the old name and the gentle replies would become the most significant chapter of my story. I didn't know he would hold my thoughts, shape my choices, and pull me into a whirlwind of emotion I wasn't ready for—but would never forget.
I didn't know that a casual message on Instagram would someday turn into a bond so deep that even my dreams would fall short trying to describe it.
But that's the thing about destiny.
It doesn't announce its arrival.
It doesn't knock.
It just slips in… silently, unexpectedly.
And before you realize what's happening,
you're no longer the same person you were yesterday.
I didn't fall in love that day.
But I think the wind shifted.
And a page quietly turned in the story I didn't even know I was writing yet.