Aira never believed in forever. She believed in ambition, independence, and protecting her heart until Kian happened.
In the dreamy town of Veloria, between late-night cafes and secret gardens, Aira finds herself caught in a love she never planned f...
She left her dorm room after her mom's words landed like invisible slaps, even though her actual ones had stopped the moment she stepped outside. The silence in her chest was louder than anything. She walked to clear her mind, that's what she told herself.
But it started raining halfway through.
Heavy, angry rain. The kind that soaked your bones and didn't let go. She could've stopped. She should've called Kian. But her feet kept moving like they didn't belong to her anymore. She didn't even know why.
By the time she reached his gate, she was drenched hair plastered to her cheeks, breath fogging in the air.
Kian opened the door in a hoodie, socks half-falling off, a spoon in his mouth.
He blinked. "Aira?"
"I—uh, I didn't call. Sorry."
"You look like you fought the weather and lost."
"Fair."
He opened the door wider. "Come in. You're gonna get pneumonia or something."
Before she could even step in, a warm voice came from behind him.
"Oh god, did you swim here?"
Kian's mom. Fast hands. No nonsense. She was already dragging Aira in, towel in one hand, something floral and soft in the other.
"I'm fine," Aira mumbled.
"Of course you are," Kian's mom said, guiding her up the stairs. "You're young. That's what you all say before you drop from a cold."
She sat on a little ottoman in a room that smelled like sandalwood, something boiling in the kitchen below, and jasmine oil.
"I have a spare dress," his mom said, passing her something with delicate embroidery on the sleeves.
"Thank you," Aira whispered.
"No big deal. Arms up."
"What—?"
"Hair. You'll get sick like this."
Kian's mom started drying her hair with the towel, gentle but focused. No questions, no interrogation. Just warmth. Intentional, quiet warmth.
And something cracked.
Not loudly. Not with drama. But in that dangerous, silent way.
Aira felt her shoulders tremble. Her breath caught. She blinked hard, trying to pretend it was just from the cold.
The towel stopped moving.
She tried to laugh it off.
But the moment their eyes met in the mirror, Aira couldn't hold it anymore.
Tears slid down her cheeks silently.
And when Kian's mom reached for the towel again, Aira didn't let go of her wrist.
She clung to her.
Like something starved for affection. Like a child who had waited too long for a kind touch.
Kian's mom hugged her tightly. No words. Just arms wrapped around her soaked frame.
"You're safe here," she whispered.
And Aira cried harder not loudly. Just honestly. That kind of crying that felt like it had been locked away for years.
No performance. No pretending.
Just grief. And something that felt dangerously close to being held.
Downstairs was another planet.
Kian's dad burned the second batch of naan. His sister was FaceTiming someone and yelling at the curry at the same time. Kian was yelling "Please, no onions!" like he was on a food show.
Aira walked in quietly in the dry borrowed dress.
No one asked about the rain.
"Do you eat spicy food?" his dad asked dramatically.
"She's Indian, dad," Kian rolled his eyes.
"Doesn't mean she's immune! One of my clients was Indian and drank mango juice for spice."
"She's not your client—"
"Stop yelling," his sister said. "Aira, do you want Pepsi, Coke, or the mystery soda?"
"What's the mystery?"
"We don't know. Kian bought it."
"Hey!"
"Pepsi's fine," Aira mumbled, smiling a little.
"We got lemon rice, paneer, two types of rotis, four chutneys, and confusion," Kian's mom said, sliding into her seat. "Eat before it disappears."
The dinner was chaos — voices overlapping, spoons clanging, someone arguing about Team India's batting lineup.
Aira felt warm.
Not from the food.
From something else.
From a family that bickered and laughed and stayed.
As she got up to leave, Kian handed her a folded hoodie.
"Take this," he said.
"Thanks," she smiled.
At the door, Kian's mom hugged her again.
And just as Aira turned to go, she held her back lightly.
"Beta," she said quietly, typing her number in Aira's phone. "My number. Just in case Kian annoys you. You can call and complain."
Aira smiled. But her throat tightened.
They both knew what the number really was.
Not a complaint line. Not a backup.
It was an anchor.
A lifeline.
A doorway to warmth she never had.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Anytime."
Kian Diary Entry
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