The sky over Rosewood High was streaked with orange and lavender, a sunset that looked like it belonged in a painting. The school rooftop—technically off-limits—was Aryan's chosen spot that day. He had waited weeks for the right moment. The timing had to be perfect. Weather, lighting, mood. He had thought it all through. Down to the last breath.
He had texted Aanya earlier, a soft message laced with charm: "Found the perfect place to watch the sunset. Want to join?"
She said yes.
Now, they sat together, legs dangling over the edge of the terrace. The stone was warm from the sun but quickly cooling with the breeze. Aanya's bag rested beside her, one notebook sticking out. She had removed her blazer and tied her hair back loosely, but a few strands danced in the wind, light as feathers.
Aryan turned toward her slowly, deliberately. He didn't stare. He glanced—like a boy would when he's unsure. When he's learning the language of closeness. He was good at this. The shy gaze. The slight lean. The soft breath.
She turned to meet his eyes. Her lips parted slightly, not with words, but with a kind of teenage wonder.
"It's beautiful," she said, eyes on the horizon.
"It is," he replied, but he wasn't looking at the sky.
A strand of her hair drifted across his face. She moved to tuck it behind her ear, but he reached up first, brushing it aside with a feather-light touch. His fingertips grazed her cheek.
Aanya blinked. Her breath hitched—just for a second.
Then it happened.
Aryan leaned in. Not abruptly. Not hungrily. Like he was asking permission without speaking.
And Aanya met him halfway.
Their lips touched—barely at first. It was soft, uncertain. The kind of kiss two people share when they're still unsure what it means. When they're just discovering the feel of someone else's skin.
It lasted maybe four seconds.
She pulled back and immediately looked down, laughing in that way people do when they're surprised by their own courage.
"Sorry," she said, still smiling.
"It's okay," Aryan whispered. "You don't have to be."
His voice was low. Calming.
She didn't notice that he hadn't laughed.
She didn't notice how still he had become. How his shoulders hadn't moved at all when they kissed.
Inside his mind, Aryan was cataloguing.
He calculated the humidity in her breath.
The direction the wind had blown her hair during the kiss.
The precise tilt of her head—fourteen degrees to the left.
The scent of her shampoo: floral, faintly citrus, Pantene. He'd checked her bathroom cabinet once, when she'd been in the living room.
Every detail was data.
He stored it all in his journal later that night. Not written like a love letter. Written like a crime scene breakdown. Clinical. Objective. Obsessive.
And as he wrote, he realized something disturbing:
It already felt dull.
Not the memory. The emotion of it.
It didn't spark anything inside him. Not joy. Not guilt. Just... a record. A moment.
He would need another.
A better one. Something more intense. Something that would push the boundaries further. A new layer to peel back.
He closed the journal, eyes distant.
The kiss wasn't a moment of connection for Aryan.
It was a test.
And it had only made him hungrier.