After his birthday, something quietly changes.Not suddenly. Not loudly. But undeniably.
Like a slow drift in the air.Like warmth slipping through a crack in the door.
He still doesn't talk much.Still helps without being asked.Still appears beside me — steady, silent, uninvited — like always.
But now… there's more.
A glance that lingers.A smirk that curls up when I speak.A shoulder nudge — soft, teasing — like we're in on some secret we haven't even named yet.
Ezra watches me more.And I notice, because I'm watching him too.
One morning, while I'm unloading, my dad calls out:
"Eira!"
I don't even flinch."It's Arya, Dad," I mutter, not caring who hears.
No one reacts.Not my dad. Not the others.And definitely not Ezra.
Or so I think.
Days pass. We fall into our familiar rhythm — quiet help, lingering looks, unspoken things hanging in the air.
Until one evening, just as I'm about to leave — hair a mess, hands dusty, heart full — Ezra looks at me and says:
"Byee, Eiraa."
Drawled out. Playful. Light.
I freeze.My stomach drops… then flips… then floats.
He smirks like he's won. Like this was intentional. Like he's been waiting.
"It's Arya!" I protest, but my voice catches on a smile I can't stop.
Because I loved it.
I loved that he remembered.That he noticed.That he waited — then said it like it was his.Like I was his to tease.
And sure, I hated that name.
But from him?It sounded like something else entirely.
Like an inside joke.Like he'd carved out a version of me that only he gets to say.
That night, I went home with his voice still echoing.
"Eiraa."
And just like that — I didn't hate it anymore.