The New Chapter – Ayaan

Ayaan arrived like a headline in bold print - announced, admired, accepted.

He transferred from an elite private school in Chennai, where debate trophies lined his shelves and his every answer in class began with “logically speaking.” He was the kind of boy who knew which fork to use at dinner, who asked teachers thoughtful questions that made them smile, and who kept his hair perfectly combed even after PE.

Vishakha met him again under the school neem tree, where new students were traditionally introduced by the Head Girl. She stood beside him, reciting his achievements like she was reading out loud a resume written in parental pride.

He bowed when introduced. He complimented her.

“You dance like silence speaking.”

He meant her Bharatanatyam performance, but it unsettled her all the same.

For the first time in days, Adhvik wasn’t waiting for her by the library steps.

When he did show up, he wore his sarcasm like armor.

“Ah. Royalty walks among us,” he said, flipping open his textbook as though it were a tabloid. “Should we curtsy or just hand over the kingdom?”

Vishakha rolled her eyes, but inside, she felt the unease grow.

“Don’t be a child,” she muttered.

“I’m not the one marrying one,” he fired back and instantly regretted it.

There was a silence. Not the comfortable kind they used to share. This one was sharp around the edges.

Ayaan, for his part, was present. Thoughtful in the way grownups liked. He texted her articles about publishing young authors. He recommended poetry books and said he was “intrigued” by her writing. He didn’t joke about her dreams. He asked about them.

“You ever plan to publish under your real name?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s easier being Lia.”

“Well, whoever she is... she writes like someone who's learning how to break.”

He didn’t try to touch her hand. But his eyes lingered a little too long on her smile.

That week, Adhvik skipped lunch twice. Didn’t tell her about the prank he and Ravi pulled in the chemistry lab. Didn’t text her before bed. And when he did speak, his words came with thorns.

“You like him?” he asked one evening, voice low, avoiding her gaze.

“He’s... nice,” she replied.

“So is vanilla,” he said, walking away.

She didn’t know if he was angry, jealous, or just afraid.

She didn’t know if she was supposed to choose.

At home, her parents were delighted. Her mother began practicing “Mrs.” before Vishakha’s name when no one was looking. Her father invited Ayaan for Sunday tea and quizzed him on upcoming exams.

And Vishakha?

She wrote less that week.

Because every time she picked up her pen, she wanted to write him.

“If someone comes and fits the mold you were shaped for, does that mean they’re right for you?”

“Or do we owe our hearts more than our family's expectations?”

One afternoon, she found a folded piece of paper in her locker. The handwriting was messy...familiar.

“Do you ever miss us?”

“Or are we a chapter you’ve already closed?”

No name.

No sender.

But it didn’t need one.

Her heart answered before her lips could.