The sky looked like someone had spilled milk across blue paper—clouds, thick and slow, drifting lazily above a town too quiet to care.
Inside a second-floor apartment, a boy sat cross-legged on his bed, tugging at the thread of a torn bedsheet while a fan whirred loudly overhead. His name was Aarav, but no one in the house called him that.
"Hey, philosopher," his mother's voice rang from the kitchen, "you'll miss your school van again, and don't tell me the universe delayed you."
"I wasn't gonna," Aarav muttered, slipping on his socks with theatrical slowness. He wasn't particularly dramatic. But at 14, everything felt like a poem waiting to happen.
His room was modest: two shelves, one full of books, one full of broken toys he never threw away. His schoolbag lay near the door—half-zipped, overstuffed, always threatening to burst. On the desk sat a worn notebook labeled in pencil:
"Stuff I Think About but Don't Say."
Aarav didn't know it yet, but he was a writer.
"Are you even brushing your hair?" his mother yelled again.
"Not brushing makes me look mysterious."
His father peeked in, face still covered in shaving foam. "You look like a cactus."
"Exactly," Aarav grinned, stuffing his uniform shirt into his pants as if that was the same as ironing.
His mother finally walked in, wiping her hands on her dupatta, and pulled him by the collar. "Hold still. At least leave this house looking like I tried."
Aarav didn't mind. There was something comforting in the way his mother fussed — a reminder that even if the world ignored him, she wouldn't.
Downstairs, his best friend Yuvaan waited by the school van, tapping his foot dramatically like a strict principal.
"You're 43 seconds late," Yuvaan announced as Aarav sprinted down the stairs.
"I stopped to admire existence."
"You stopped to admire your hair in the mirror again."
"Same thing."
The van was old. It squeaked like a sitcom laugh track every time it hit a pothole. The boys always sat at the back—window seat if lucky, next to the open food tiffins if not.
"So," Yuvaan said, halfway through their ride, "today's the day."
"What day?"
"The day you finally say something to her."
Aarav blinked. "There's no her."
Yuvaan raised an eyebrow. "You literally wrote 'Her hair looked like a sunrise that didn't know it was beautiful' in your notebook."
"You read my notebook?"
"It was peeking out of your bag. I was emotionally blackmailed by your metaphors."
Aarav smiled but didn't deny it. Because yes, there was a girl. He didn't know her name. Only that she sat near the back window in Class 9-B, wore red rubber bands, and once lent him her pen during a surprise test. And in that moment, her smile had made him forget all his carefully memorized formulas.
"I think she's out of my league," Aarav said softly.
Yuvaan shrugged. "So? Love isn't cricket, bro. You don't need to score to play."
They both laughed at that, the van rattling behind them.
---
By lunchtime, the sun had dulled to a golden glaze, and Aarav was hiding near the library, notebook in hand. It was quieter here, away from the shouting, ball games, and competitive canteen lines.
He was trying to write something — not for school, not even for himself. Just… something. He didn't always know what he wanted to say. But the words came anyway.
> "Some days, I think we're just empty jars hoping someone will pour stars into us."
"What does that mean?"
He looked up. It was her.
Red rubber bands. Curious eyes. The girl from Class 9-B.
Aarav froze like a power cut had hit his soul.
"I, uh…" he fumbled, trying to cover the notebook.
She tilted her head. "Don't stop. I liked that line."
"I didn't mean for anyone to read it."
"Well, you shouldn't write poetic stuff near school benches then."
Aarav wasn't breathing. She was smiling.
"I'm Niya," she said, and it felt like a chapter beginning.
"I'm Aarav."
"I know. You're the guy who tripped on the stairs last week."
"Tragedy is a form of self-expression."
She laughed. He wasn't sure if the sun got brighter or his heart just started behaving like a lightbulb.
---
That evening, Aarav walked home slowly, still carrying that laugh like a secret in his pocket.
His mother was waiting with two cups of tea.
"One for you," she said, handing him the cup. "You look like someone who saw God."
"Something like that," he replied.
His father was already snoring on the sofa. The television was playing some dramatic soap where people stared at each other longer than they spoke.
"Did anything good happen today?" his mother asked, sitting beside him.
"I wrote something that didn't suck."
"You always write things that don't suck."
Aarav blinked. "How do you know?"
"I read your notebook sometimes."
He gasped.
"I'm your mother. I have top-secret clearance."
They sat in silence after that, sipping tea. He wanted to tell her about Niya. About the way her eyes had laughed even before her mouth did. But he didn't. Some things were better saved for the page.
---
That night, he wrote:
"She laughed at my stupid joke. Maybe that's all love is—someone thinking your nonsense is worth smiling for."
He tore out the page and folded it neatly.
Tomorrow, he'd slip it into Niya's locker.
Just to see if she'd smile again.