The Mumbai evening had that strange golden haze that comes just before sunset, when the heat begins to loosen its grip on the city and the air smells faintly of petrol, sea breeze, and street food frying somewhere outside the campus gates. Students flooded the college courtyard in noisy clusters—laughter, scooters revving, someone arguing about a football match.
And right in the middle of that chaos, Aarav stood leaning against his black Harley Davidson X440, helmet hanging loosely from his fingers.
At twenty, Aarav had grown into the kind of man people noticed without trying. Six feet tall now, broad shoulders stretching the sleeves of his black t-shirt, forearms veined from years of lifting and training. His hair was slightly messy from removing the helmet, and a faint bruise on his knuckle hinted at last week's martial arts sparring.
People around campus knew him.
The debate champion. The guy who topped internal exams without looking like he studied. The one who could knock someone flat in the boxing ring and still walk into class looking calm and composed.
But what most people also knew was that Aarav carried himself with a quiet arrogance. Not loud, not obnoxious, just the steady confidence of someone who had built himself piece by piece.
Self-made. Or at least, that’s what everyone thought.
What no one knew was that somewhere inside the top drawer of his apartment desk lay an old photograph. A slightly faded one.
A girl in a blush pink saree, standing on a decorated stage during a school farewell ceremony. The photo had been printed years ago, folded once at the corner from being carried around too often.
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Back then, Aarav had been fourteen. Skinny. Shorter than her. Voice still cracking when he spoke.
He remembered how much it had irritated him.
How he used to stand in front of the mirror after school, measuring himself against the doorframe, hoping he had grown at least a centimeter. How he hated the fact that when she talked to him, she ruffled his hair like he was a kid.
Because to her, he was.
Just some quiet junior.
He used to watch her during assemblies. During basketball practice. During farewell rehearsals.
Never spoke much. Never confessed. And then she graduated. Just like that.
But the strange thing about crushes that begin too young is that sometimes they grow roots deeper than they should.
Years passed. Aarav grew. Six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. A body sculpted from gym sessions at 5 AM and martial arts training late into the night.
But the feelings? They never really left. Sometimes he even laughed at himself for it.
A grown man holding onto the memory of a schoolgirl who probably didn’t even remember his name.
Pathetic.
That’s what he told himself every time he opened that drawer.
That evening, Aarav was about to swing his leg over the Harley when something—someone—caught his attention across the courtyard.
A girl walking toward the administrative building.
Aarav’s hand froze on the handlebar.
His brain refused to process it for a second.
No.
That’s not—
His heart gave a sudden, heavy thud against his ribs.
She turned slightly while adjusting the strap of her bag.
And he saw her face. The same eyes. A little more mature now. A little sharper. More beautiful than his memory had allowed.
For a moment, the noise of the entire campus seemed to fade into nothing.
Everything blurred.
Because across the courtyard, walking through the same college he had spent three years dominating—
Was the girl whose photograph still sat in the drawer of his apartment.
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Aarav blinked once.
Then twice.
His chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
“...You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.
Because after all those years of trying to outgrow a stupid teenage crush—
She had just walked straight back into his life.
And this time…
He was no longer the fourteen-year-old boy who had to look up to see her face.