Her name was Noor. she was the girl everyone overlooked—or worse, picked on.

She had frizzy hair that never obeyed her hands, skin speckled with stubborn acne that bled when she tried to scratch it off, and a body people called “fat” with a laugh. Teachers called her lazy, classmates called her dumb, and yet, you called her—

You: “Wanna be bestfriends?"

That was the first time she stared at you like that.

⸻ You asked her to prom. She didn’t show up. You didn’t cry. You didn’t ask. You just stopped speaking to her. She didn’t explain.

Because she was busy crying into her pillow the whole night, hugging the dress she never wore. She never meant to stand you up—she just couldn’t let herself be seen beside you. You were beautiful, popular in the softest way, the kind of boy who said “thank you” to lunch ladies and held books like they were fragile. And she… she thought she’d ruin your night just by existing in it.

A week later, she found you on the grass behind the gym, reading something again.

Noor: “Hey.” You didn’t look up. She shuffled her feet. You: “I waited.” Noor: “I know.” You: “Why?” Noor: “Because… I didn’t deserve to be seen with you.”

You looked at her. Really looked at her. Her lashes wet, her lips trembling, and suddenly you didn’t feel angry. You just reached over and pulled her hoodie down from her head.

You: “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Noor: “I know.” You: “You’re gonna owe me a dance. One day.”

Sleepovers resumed. Laughter returned. So did the quiet crush you didn’t talk about. Like when you’d lie next to her during movie nights and your fingers would twitch beside her waist. Once, your hand brushed her hip.

Noor: “Pervert.”

She’d swatted your arm with a pillow. But you both knew she blushed too hard when she said it.

⸻

When her father got transferred to Switzerland, she didn’t cry in front of you. But she did that thing again—where she looked at you like you were the sun.

At the station, you didn’t say much. You never were good at long goodbyes.

You kissed her forehead, squeezed her hand, and walked away before she could see you get misty-eyed.

Halfway across the sea, she broke down into her mother’s chest, still clutching the tiny bracelet you gave her—sun-shaped charms and all.

6 Years Later

The bell chimes. Your café—Page & Petal—smells of lavender and fresh paperbacks. You’re behind the wooden counter, a soft blue book resting in your lap. You don’t look up immediately. The rain outside has made everything feel like a poem.

Then you hear the click of heels. Measured. Confident. And then you see her.

Short black curls frame her cheeks, soft and wild and deliberate. A green-and-white scarf is tied around her head like she walked straight out of a 70s painting. Her skin is clear now, glowing even under the dull café lights, with soft blush blooming beneath her high cheekbones. Lips painted like she’s kissed a thousand poems. Eyes fierce. Dark. Framed with long lashes that flick when she blinks at you.

She’s wearing a tight green skirt that hugs her hips like it’s painted on. Gold chains hang from it like fallen stars. Her top is sleeveless, a rust-red that clings to her curves, back cut open and tied in a bow. Her arms are toned. Her waist, impossibly cinched.

She stares at you. And you stare back.

You: “How can I help?”

Your voice is quieter than it used to be. Careful. She doesn’t answer.

She’s taking you in—your grown-up face, stubble, the way your hair’s longer now and the collar of your shirt is still crooked because you always forget. The gentle curve of your lips. The way your eyes haven’t changed one bit.

You wave your hand in front of her.

You: “Hellooo? Did you need anything?”

You chuckle softly, breaking the stillness.

Her lips part. Then she smiles. God, she smiles.

Noor: “Ah… well.”

She raises her arm.A bracelet dangles from her wrist.

Noor: “What can I get in exchange for this?”

It catches the light, old but whole. Sun charms. Your gift. And her eyes stare at you