....
If Gen Z had a representative mascot, it would be Kiara Malhotra — chaotic, caffeinated, emotionally fluent, and permanently online. A walking aesthetic board in oversized hoodies and chunky sneakers, she had a skincare routine longer than the Indian Constitution and could kill a man with her sarcasm… or at least cancel him online.
She swore by iced coffee, used “slay” as both greeting and insult, and refused to make phone calls unless it was to complain about a late delivery.
Enter Aarav Sinha — 32 years old, a card-carrying member of the millennial club. He wore ironed shirts unironically, thought Facebook was still kind of useful, and believed that a Sunday well spent involved grocery shopping and arguing with Zomato support. He still said “cool beans” sometimes. People thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
Their first meeting was at a bookstore café. She was browsing the “Self-Care & Sarcasm” section. He was next to “Finance for People Who Panic in Excel.”
And then… the universe played DJ.
Kiara’s phone beeped.
“Ugh, 2% battery,” she muttered, eyes darting for a charging point. None.
That’s when Aarav, sipping his hot cappuccino like a pensioner, noticed her dilemma.
“Need a charger?”
Kiara blinked.
“Do you have a Type-C cable?”
He smiled faintly. “I have a power bank. It’s old, but it works. Like me.”
She laughed — the first genuine laugh that day.
“Wow, okay Grandpa, thanks.”
“Excuse me,” he sniffed dramatically, handing her the power bank. “I’m technically still under warranty.”
They sat across from each other. One scrolling memes, the other reading a hardcover. She had AirPods. He had patience. Opposites didn’t just attract — they collided.
---
The next few meetings weren’t planned. But they kept happening.
Kiara came for her usual iced caramel macchiato with oat milk and no foam. Aarav came for silence and strong coffee. They began sitting at the same table out of mutual irritation with the rest of the loud crowd — and each other.
“So,” he asked one day, “are you ever not online?”
She sipped. “Are you ever not forty-five in spirit?”
They bickered like cartoon rivals — over emojis (“Why are yours always yellow? It’s creepy.”), over fonts (“Comic Sans has personality, okay?”), and over life goals.
Kiara: “I want to run a creative house where we blend fashion, mental health, and activism.”
Aarav: “I want to clear my credit card bill.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wow. Romantic.”
He raised a brow. “Stable.”
---
But the teasing turned to talking. The talking to lingering glances.
She showed him TikToks. He showed her indie music that wasn’t on Spotify. She helped him start an Instagram page for his travel photography. He edited her resume with proper punctuation. She made him take selfies. He made her try green tea that wasn’t in bubble form.
He told her she reminded him of colour — loud, sharp, alive.
She told him he reminded her of calm — steady, kind, warm.
One evening, during a blackout, they sat on her balcony. She complained about influencers. He nodded, sipping water from an actual glass because "plastic is evil." She wrapped his hoodie tighter around herself — it smelled like old books and coffee beans.
“Hey,” she said softly, “you know what I like about you?”
“I’m afraid,” he replied.
She smiled. “You’re like... 4G when everyone else is buffering.”
He chuckled. “And you’re 100% battery in a world of 20% souls.”
They didn’t need to say "I like you."
It was there — in shared playlists, eye rolls, inside jokes, and the way he made her feel safe without asking her to be less.
---
Of course, they had fights.
He didn’t understand why she cried during Instagram Reels. She didn’t understand why he read every terms & conditions page. He planned five years ahead. She didn’t even plan her outfit the night before.
But somewhere between memes and miscommunication, they found a rhythm.
He called her “Gen Z Gremlin.”
She called him “Boomer Boy.”
And when he first kissed her, just outside the café where it all started, she whispered:
“Wow, you actually did something spontaneous. What are you, 29?”
He smiled.
“Just trying to keep up with you.”
---
It started innocently.
Aarav, in his perfectly pressed shirt and cautiously optimistic mood, had just texted Kiara:
“So… should I meet your parents this weekend?”
She replied with:
“OMG YES. But I must warn you… We’re not normal.”
He thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
---
That Saturday evening, Aarav showed up at Kiara’s house holding a bouquet and wearing a shirt that screamed “respectful tax-paying boyfriend.”
He should’ve brought holy water.
Kiara opened the door wearing pajama pants, a glittery oversized tee that read “Mentally Offline,” and hair that looked like it had recently survived a Category 5 cyclone.
“Why are you early?” she asked, chewing gum. “They’re still sober.”
Aarav blinked. “Sober?”
She waved him in. “Too late now. Come, come. It’s like a reality show, but nobody wins.”
Inside, her dad, Colonel Malhotra, was watching WWE like it was a religious experience, and her mom, Mira Aunty, was loudly yelling at the mixer grinder because it “was possessed again.”
“Papa,” Kiara said dramatically, “this is Aarav.”
Colonel Malhotra squinted.
“Hmm. Tall. Decent hair. Can he lift?”
“I—what?” Aarav stuttered.
“Lift. Deadlift. How will you carry children if you can’t carry weights?”
Kiara sighed. “Papa’s very into gym memes now.”
“Family bonding through protein powder,” her dad declared.
---
Dinner was… memorable.
Her mom served everything spicy enough to reset Aarav’s taste buds. Between wiping tears and drinking five glasses of buttermilk, he tried to smile through stories about Kiara’s childhood—especially the one where she tried to marry a cartoon character at age six.
“She printed wedding invites,” Mira Aunty said proudly. “With glitter!”
“She was very loyal to that Shinchan boy,” her father added.
Kiara did not deny it.
Aarav was laughing so hard he almost forgave the chilli attack in his mouth.
---
Later, on the terrace, Kiara looked at him cautiously.
“So? Still alive?”
He leaned on the railing. “Barely. But yes. Your family is… a lot.”
She grinned. “But it’s never boring.”
He nodded. “You’re like a daily soap. I keep waiting to see what happens next.”
She mock-punched his arm. “You mean we’re like a daily soap. You’re in this now, remember?”
He looked at her then, the soft light of the fairy lights making her eyes glow.
“You know,” he said, “it’s not what I expected… but it’s real. Loud. Crazy. Honest. And I love that. I love you.”
Her eyes widened.
“You what?”
He blinked. “I—I mean, I just—”
“Nope. No takesie backsies. You said it. You love me. OMG, you love me!”
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “This is going to be tweeted, isn’t it?”
“It already is,” she said, holding up her phone. “Hashtag: MyBoomeoSaidILoveYou.”
---
In the weeks that followed, it was his turn to introduce her to his side of the world: his neat apartment, his Google Calendar obsession, and his mom, who wore sarees with sneakers and called Kiara “beta” on the first meeting but said “we’ll see” about the wedding.
Kiara tried to be prim and proper. For exactly 17 minutes.
Then she accidentally spilled turmeric latte on Aarav’s mom’s beige couch and panicked so hard she offered to pay EMI for a new one.
His mother burst out laughing.
“I like her,” she said, patting Aarav’s shoulder. “She’s real. Even if she talks too fast and uses slang like she’s coding in emoji.”
---
Eventually, their worlds blended.
She taught him how to take mirror selfies without looking like an insurance agent.
He taught her how to read a bank statement without crying.
They fought over thermostat settings, merged Spotify playlists, and created a shared grocery list named “Stuff to Buy or We’ll Starve.”
One night, curled up under a blanket after a movie she picked (a romcom where nobody died, for once), she whispered:
“Hey, Aarav?”
“Mmm?”
“I think we’re becoming one of those Pinterest couples.”
He chuckled. “With mood boards and matching hoodies?”
She grinned. “Only if we still roast each other in public.”
“Deal,” he said.
And they did. From there on.
In DMs, across dinner tables, and under soft glowy lights — they teased, laughed, loved, and lived.
Different decades.
Same heart.
