The name floated to her ears a week later, during lunch break, half-drowned in gossip and half-alive in her thoughts.
"Ayaan Gazi."
The name belonged to the boy she couldn't stop watching.
A tall, effortlessly cool presence who walked like the corridors belonged to him. A boy whose laughter could be heard even when you tried to block it out. He wasn't loud, not arrogant—but something about him was magnetic.
Girls whispered about him constantly.
"He's the Gazi boy," one of Simran's friends said, unwrapping her tiffin like it was a side note. "His dad owns half the city. Gazi Constructions, Gazi Mall, Gazi Heart Centre—you name it."
"Ohhh, that Gazi?" another girl chimed in, eyes wide. "My cousin tried to get an internship at his dad's firm. No chance. He's like a king."
Ahaana didn't speak. She stirred her sabzi slowly, heart thudding.
Ayaan Gazi.
Now the name had a weight to it—one she wasn't sure she could carry.
It wasn't just his face or the way he dressed. It was everything around him. The air shifted when he walked past. Teachers tolerated his arrogance because his father's name came up at every annual function as a "chief guest." Boys admired him. Girls adored him.
And her?
She was Ahaana Singh, daughter of two doctors—respected, but not flashy. She lived in a quiet neighborhood, read old poetry, and wore secondhand confidence. Her elder sister was in Canada on a research scholarship. Her parents were loving and open-minded—always had been—but they didn't live in a world of parties and pageants.
They lived in books. Hospitals. Sincerity.
So when Ahaana fell for Ayaan Gazi, it felt like a story that wasn't supposed to happen.
But it did. Quietly. Day by day.
She timed her walks between periods to catch a glimpse of him near the football field. She memorized the way his hoodie sleeves were always rolled up. The way he leaned back in his chair during chemistry practicals. The way his voice dipped when he was bored.
She saw everything.
He didn't see her.
Not yet.
But then came the idea. The safest route to his world: Instagram.
She made a new account. A prettier, quieter, hidden version of herself.
No full-face photos, only artistic angles.
No mention of her school or last name.
Just poetry quotes, aesthetic filters, and half-lit selfies with layers of makeup.
A curated fantasy. A safe mask.
Late one evening, she found him:
@ayaan.gazi_
5.2K followers. Bio: "Not looking. Just chilling."
Her heart raced. She clicked "Follow."
It took three hours and eleven minutes.
But he accepted.
And then came the message.
> "You're in S.S.V., right? I've seen you around. Pretty aesthetic profile, btw."
She stared at that message for five full minutes before replying:
> "Yeah, Section A. You're from C?"
> "Yup. You always walk with Simran. Didn't know you were artsy."
The irony was almost laughable.
He was noticing everything—except who she really was.
But for now, that was okay.
Let him fall for the illusion.
Let her live inside it.
Because outside that little profile, Ahaana Singh was just a scarred face in a school uniform.
And Ayaan Gazi?
He was the prince of a world that didn't even know she existed.