Kiran liked things quiet.
His dorm room was organized, his notebooks color-coded, and his life carefully planned out three semesters in advance.
He wasn’t rude, exactly. Just... allergic to chaos.
Which made Aarav, his new roommate, an allergic reaction in human form.
---
Aarav arrived with three duffel bags, two potted plants, and one enormous smile.
“Hey! I’m Aarav. I bake when I’m stressed. Hope you like banana bread.”
Kiran blinked. “I’m allergic to bananas.”
“Oh. Uh... chocolate chip, then?”
Kiran sighed.
---
Over the next week, Kiran discovered:
Aarav couldn’t fold laundry to save his life.
He sang Bollywood songs while brushing his teeth. Loudly.
And he left little paper planes all over the dorm, each with dumb doodles and dumb messages like “Don’t forget to smile today :)” or “You’re doing great, probably!”
Kiran didn’t smile. Not even once.
(Okay. Once. But only when Aarav wasn’t looking.)
---
One Friday, Kiran came back from a brutal exam, dropped his bag, and sat on his bed in silence.
Aarav peeked up from the floor, where he was trying to get his cactus to “bond with jazz music.”
“You okay?”
Kiran rubbed his temples. “No.”
Aarav nodded seriously.
Then he stood, walked over, and without a word—placed a steaming mug of coffee in Kiran’s hands.
“Kiran,” he said solemnly. “This coffee loves you. Even if you got question 3 wrong.”
Kiran almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, he muttered, “You’re annoying.”
Aarav grinned. “Thanks.”
---
Slowly, things shifted.
Kiran found himself waiting for Aarav to come back from his classes.
He started saving a seat in the library “just in case.”
He even memorized the days Aarav baked cookies in the shared kitchen—just to make sure he was around for leftovers.
It wasn’t a big thing.
It was thousands of little ones.
---
One night, it was raining.
Thunder cracked through the sky, and Aarav sat on the floor, hugging his knees.
Kiran looked up from his laptop. “Hey. You okay?”
Aarav smiled quickly. “Yeah. Just... storms make me nervous.”
Kiran hesitated—then got up, grabbed a blanket, and sat beside him.
“Here,” he said, tossing half the blanket over Aarav’s shoulders.
Aarav blinked. “Are you... cuddling me?”
“No,” Kiran said flatly. “I’m insulating your annoying warmth.”
Aarav chuckled softly.
They sat like that until the rain stopped.
---
Two weeks later, there was a paper plane on Kiran’s pillow.
This one didn’t have a doodle. Just six words.
“I think I might like you.”
Kiran stared at it for a long time.
Then wrote a reply on the back.
“You’re tolerable. In a dangerous way.”
He slid it under Aarav’s door and walked away before his heart could change its mind.
.....
That night, when Kiran came back from his study group, a new plane waited on his desk.
This one read:
“Dinner tomorrow? Just us?”
Kiran smiled. For real this time.
.....
They never made it to dinner.
They ended up sitting on the roof with instant noodles and talking about their favorite childhood cartoons. At one point, Aarav leaned his head on Kiran’s shoulder.
“You’re warmer than I expected,” he whispered.
“You’re heavier than I expected,” Kiran muttered.
Aarav laughed—and Kiran didn’t stop him.
....
By mid-semester, everyone on campus referred to them as “the grumpy one and the sunshine one.”
And honestly? Kiran didn’t mind.
Not when Aarav looked at him like he was worth every doodled note.
Not when Kiran caught himself folding laundry for two.
Not when love snuck in so quietly, it felt like it had always been there.
.....
One year later, Kiran opened a drawer and found a shoebox full of paper planes.
Every one of them, a little love letter in disguise.
He walked into the kitchen, held one up, and said, “Do you still write these?”
Aarav shrugged. “Only when I’m too shy to say it out loud.”
Kiran pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Then write me a thousand more.”
.....
