Since the paper airplane, something had subtly shifted. Not everything, not in a sudden flash, but enough to set a new rhythm. Now, every evening arrived with a quiet, anticipatory hum. Aanya found herself glancing at the clock more often, her thoughts drifting to the possibilities: what song Ruhan might play, if he'd wave (he always did, a small comfort in the growing twilight).
And then came the playlists.
It began as a playful provocation. One afternoon, Aanya stepped onto her balcony to discover a tiny speaker precisely angled in her direction. Seconds later, the air filled with a jazz instrumental — soft, undeniably dramatic, and perhaps a touch over-the-top.
She looked up. Ruhan, from across the way, offered a charming, mischievous grin.
"Your vibe," he declared, his voice carrying clearly. "Moody, mysterious, but secretly warm."
Aanya raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're assigning me a soundtrack now?"
He merely shrugged, an easy gesture. "I like imagining people have theme songs."
The next day, she left a neatly folded note on the edge of her balcony, secured by a small, smooth pebble. He spotted it, his smile widening as he unfolded it.
"Here's your theme song: 'You Talk Too Much'."
Touché.
Soon, the notes became a delightful barrage. Music recommendations, witty one-liners, tiny scraps of paper meticulously folded into intricate airplanes and miniature boats.
She sent him a song called "Solitude" one evening, a hint of melancholy in her choice.
He countered with "Stay," a more direct, tender offering.
She playfully labeled his music "a little too dramatic."
He shot back, calling hers "a little too safe."
And somewhere between the good-natured teasing and the shared tunes, their conversations deepened. They began asking real questions, peeling back the layers.
"What's your dream job?" he inquired one night, his voice unusually soft.
"I don't know," Aanya replied, her finger tracing the cool rim of her cup. "Something creative. But quiet."
"You'd be a brilliant children's book illustrator."
She blinked, genuinely surprised. "I've never even tried."
"You should. Your sketches sing with stories."
A comfortable pause settled between them.
"What about you?" she asked, turning the question back to him. "You want to be a musician?"
He hesitated, a fleeting shadow crossing his face. "I want to matter. With music. Or without it." His voice had dropped to a near whisper, laden with a vulnerability she hadn't heard before.
Aanya looked at him. Truly looked. And in that quiet moment, a profound realization dawned on her Ruhan didn't fear failure. He feared disappearing.
That night, she lingered on her balcony longer than usual. The stars over Velunia, though veiled by the city's gentle haze, began to twinkle. The only music between them was the soft rustle of the breeze and the gentle rhythm of their breathing.
"Hey," Ruhan said suddenly, breaking the tranquil silence. "You ever think about how bizarre this is?"
"What is?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Us. Talking like this. From two separate balconies. Sharing music. Arguing about theme songs."
She chuckled softly. "It's not bizarre. It's just... unexpected."
"Unexpected is starting to feel like my favorite thing," he murmured, his gaze holding hers.
And for once, Aanya didn't look away.