The sun was sinking behind the old rooftops of Nandipur, painting the narrow lanes in dusty amber. The air smelled like cardamom, burnt sugar, and the faint tang of the day's heat still clinging to the brick walls. Purvi Sharma sat outside her family's sweet shop, the wooden bench warm beneath her. Her hands were sticky with crushed rose petals — her mother's secret ingredient for the gulkand they sold in recycled glass jars.
She wiped her fingers on the edge of her dupatta and glanced up, more out of habit than curiosity.
That's when she saw him.
Ayaan Qureshi.
Tall. Slouched posture like he didn't care about much. His school shirt untucked, his backpack slung on one shoulder — like it was too much effort to wear it properly. He was surrounded by his usual crowd — boys from the senior class who always walked like they owned the street. They laughed loudly, half their sentences in English, the rest in that casual, clipped Hindi that made everything sound cooler than it was.
Ayaan never looked her way. Not really. She doubted he even knew her name.
But today was different.
He stopped.
Just like that — in the middle of the road. His friends kept walking ahead, still laughing. But Ayaan had turned his head slightly.
He was looking at her.
Purvi looked over her shoulder, convinced he must be smiling at someone else — maybe that girl from the stationery shop next door. But there was no one else.
Just her. Fingers pink from roses. A smear of syrup on her wrist.
And him. Smiling.
It wasn't a huge grin. Just a quick, crooked smile, like he'd remembered something funny. But it was enough to make her heart skip — once, then twice.
She looked down immediately, pretending to fuss with the jar in her lap.
When she glanced up again, he was already crossing the street.
No. This wasn't happening.
"Hey," he said, stopping just in front of her. Casual. Like they talked all the time.
Purvi blinked. "Hi."
"I always see you here," he said. "You help with the shop?"
"Uh... yeah. I do." Her voice came out quieter than she intended. "I mean... my mom makes the sweets. I help her."
"You're in eleventh, right?" he asked, squinting like he was trying to remember something.
"Yeah. You?"
"Twelfth. Commerce," he said, like it didn't really matter. His eyes flicked to the jars lined up on the bench beside her. "What's that smell?"
"Gulkand," she said. "Rose preserve."
He nodded thoughtfully. "My dadi used to talk about this. You make it?"
"Sort of. My mom makes it. I crush the petals."
He grinned. "Sounds fancy."
She smiled, just a little. "It's not."
"I'll take one."
Purvi looked at him, unsure. "You... want to buy gulkand?"
"Why not?" He shrugged. "Could make Dadi happy. And maybe I'll like it too."
Her hands suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else as she wrapped the jar. She almost dropped it. Twice.
Ayaan laughed — not in a mean way, but like it was all okay. "Take your time. Not in a hurry."
She handed it to him, and he gave her a folded note in return.
"I'm Ayaan, by the way."
"I know," she said before she could stop herself. Heat rose to her face immediately.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? Am I that famous?"
She gave him a small smile. "Kind of."
"Nice to meet you...?"
"Purvi."
"Nice name," he said, tucking the jar into his bag. "Maybe I'll see you around, Purvi."
And just like that, he walked back the way he came. No drama. No music. Just... gone.
She sat there for a while, long after the sun had disappeared and her mother had started calling her inside. The note was still crumpled in her hand. Her pulse was a little louder than usual.
It was only a jar of gulkand—a two-minute conversation.
But it felt like the beginning of something she wasn't ready for — and couldn't stop thinking about.