Chapter One: A Small Town Called Faith
The sun dipped low over the dusty lanes of Nandipur, casting golden light over the crumbling walls of old houses and the laughter of children echoing off the rooftops. Purvi Sharma sat on the narrow ledge outside her family's sweet shop, her fingers stained pink from crushed rose petals — her mother's secret ingredient for the homemade gulkand.
She looked up from the jar she was sealing, eyes drifting toward the school gate across the street. The final bell rang, and like clockwork, a flood of uniforms rushed out. She wasn't waiting for anyone.
At least, that's what she told herself.
Then she saw him.
Ayaan Qureshi.
Tall, messy hair that always looked accidentally perfect, with a backpack slung over one shoulder like he didn't care whether it fell. He was walking with his usual group — loud, confident, joking in that half-English, half-Hindi way all the cool boys spoke.
He didn't see her. He never did.
But today was different.
He stopped.
Looked across the road.
And smiled.
Purvi's heart did something odd — it stuttered. She immediately looked down at the jar in her hands, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the glass lid. Her fingers shook slightly. Had he really smiled at her? Maybe he was smiling at someone behind her.
She risked another glance.
Nope. He was still looking. Still smiling.
Then — the impossible.
He crossed the street.
"Hey," he said, as casually as if they'd spoken every day.
Purvi blinked. "Hi..."
"I've seen you here before. You help your mom, right? You're in 11th standard?"
"Yes. I mean—yes, I help her. And I'm in 11th." Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else.
He nodded, glancing at the gulkand jars. "Smells amazing. You sell these?"
Purvi nodded again. "We make them at home."
"I'll take one."
She stared at him. "You want to buy… gulkand?"
"Sure." He grinned. "My dadi loves this stuff. And maybe I'll like it too."
Purvi fumbled to wrap the jar, nearly dropping it twice. He laughed, not unkindly.
"I'm Ayaan, by the way."
"I know," she said before she could stop herself. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Good to know I'm famous."
Purvi handed him the jar. "I'm Purvi."
"Nice name." He handed her the money, paused. "Maybe I'll see you around, Purvi."
And just like that — he was gone.
She stood there long after he'd disappeared, heart racing, fingers still clutching the note he'd given her.
It was just a moment. A two-minute conversation. A jar of gulkand.
But it was the beginning of something she would never forget.