After that chaotic first meetup near the bookstore, things began to shift. Not drastically. Not like in movies. But slowly — in a way Ayaan barely noticed until it became a routine.
Whenever Meher stepped out — for errands, groceries, a library visit, or just because she was bored — her message would pop up.
“I’m near the temple lane. Come.”
“Walk me home?”
“I forgot my umbrella. Come carry my bag and suffer.”
And every single time, Ayaan showed up.
---
One day, she texted just after school ended.
Meher__x:
“Leaving school. Meet me halfway?”
Ayaan was already putting on his shoes when she sent the location.
He met her two blocks from her school. She was walking with earphones in, bag hanging low, eating some chips like it was her post-school therapy.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up.
“I’m literally three minutes early.”
“Late in my mind. That’s what matters.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you treat all your friends this nicely?”
She grinned. “Nope. You’re my favorite punching bag.”
---
As they walked side by side, Meher kept talking — about her teachers, her annoying classmates, the girl who thought she invented eyeliner.
“And then she said, ‘You should try my style.’ Like ma’am, your style is trauma in a bottle,” Meher said, laughing.
Ayaan chuckled. “You’re savage.”
“I’m honest.”
“No, you’re violent.”
She elbowed him playfully. “And you’re too polite. You need to roast people more. Be mean. Be dark.”
“I’m already dark. My humor is dead inside.”
She paused. “Okay, fair. That’s true.”
---
They stopped by a small tea stall.
“You want something?” Meher asked.
“Tea. With extra sugar. I need strength to survive your sarcasm.”
She ordered for both and handed him his cup. “Here. Fuel up, weakling.”
“Thanks, storm cloud.”
Their eyes met. There was a smirk in hers and something softer in his.
---
Over the next few weeks, their post-school walks became... expected.
No plans. No drama. Just Ayaan showing up wherever Meher was, bag slung over one shoulder, quietly listening while she narrated her life like a stand-up show.
She’d randomly stop mid-sentence to chase a street cat or buy a toffee.
“You’re so chaotic,” he said once, watching her stuff a handful of sour candies in her mouth.
“I’m the flavor your life was missing,” she declared proudly.
He nodded. “Like expired pickles.”
She gasped. “You traitor.”
---
Sometimes, Meher would vent.
About her school pressure, about feeling invisible at home, about people pretending to care only when it was convenient.
Ayaan didn’t give advice. He just listened — the way no one else ever did.
One day she looked at him and said, “You’re like... peace. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there. That’s rare, you know?”
He looked away and smiled. “You’re like chaos in sneakers. But I think I needed that too.”
---
They’d always stop a few houses before hers.
She never let him walk all the way to her door.
“Why?” he asked once.
“Because then it’ll feel too real,” she said softly. “This... whatever we are... it’s perfect because it ends just before it gets too much.”
Ayaan didn’t understand it then. Not fully. But he respected it.
He watched her walk away every time, waving back once with a lazy grin, her ponytail bouncing with each step.
And each time, he’d stay a little longer, staring at the road, before turning back.
---
This was how it grew.
Not with grand moments or cinematic gestures.
But with random walks, shared drinks, roasted jokes, and two broken kids who never said everything — but somehow always said enough.
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