The first time Aarav Pradhan kissed Sanya Bhattacharya, the world they felt burned gold like their love had encompassed everything. Yet the irony being their love became as fleeting as the evening sky. She had scoffed, “Idiot,” but kissed him back, gripping his collar like he was something fragile. Because at seventeen, love felt like forever. Until the night it all fell apart. One call. One scream. And Sanya was gone. Her mother—her anchor, her home—was ripped from her world, leaving behind nothing but silence and grief. Sanya stopped answering his calls, stopped meeting him behind the old banyan tree. When he finally found her, the girl who once traced hearts on his palm was a ghost of herself. "I don’t need you, Aarav." "You don’t mean that—" "Just go." Her voice had been sharp, final. But her hands had trembled. Aarav had begged, pleaded, but she had only walked away, leaving him with nothing but questions and the taste of something unfinished. Years later, she stood before him again. The same Sanya. But different. "Sanya." She smiled. Slow. Almost… pleased. “Aarav. It’s been a while.” "Not long enough," he muttered, but the words felt hollow. She only laughed, tilting her head. “Still so soft.” Something about the way she looked at him—like she knew him, owned him—sent a shiver down his spine. Nostalgia clawed at him, memories of stolen glances and whispered confessions tangling with the bitterness of abandonment. "Do you ever think about us?" he asked. She leaned in, voice a whisper. "Every. Single. Day." And just when Aarav thought he could finally unravel the mystery of her absence, a scream cut through the air. His breath hitched. And he saw over there Sanya as she lay on the pavement,with blood pooling around her.