The day of the fest hit the campus like a shockwave of color.

The quad had transformed overnight. Tents sprung up like wildflowers, canvas flaps snapping in the wind. Students darted through walkways with trolleys and armfuls of decorations. Someone had turned an old study tent into a gaming booth strung with fairy lights; another group was blowing giant bubbles that drifted over the crowd.

The air smelled of roasted peanuts, spice, and melting sugar. Streamers tangled in tree branches. Music bled from three different speakers, layering a bass beat over bursts of laughter and the chaotic energy of a thousand students released from the library.

Everything looked a little wild. A little magical.

Aria stood beside their stall, blowing into her cupped hands. They had claimed a spot under a bare-limbed tree, now strung with soft lights. Maya had hung paper stars from the branches. Reyhaan had engineered the QR code board to stand without visible wires. The banner read The Flavor of Us in warm gold lettering—painted by Aria at 2 AM while the dough chilled. The tablecloth didn't quite reach the edges, but Maya had solved that by pinning illustrated tags around the sides: nostalgia, chaos, late-night ideas, half-done sketches, burnt-but-loved.

"I swear the cookies are better than our aesthetics suggest," Kian said, arranging a tray of the 'Fire' batch—chili chocolate with a cinnamon kick.

"Speak for yourself," Maya replied, adjusting a paper crown she had acquired. "I'm aiming for emotionally unhinged royalty today."

Aria laughed, her breath fogging in the crisp air. Her hands were cold, but her chest felt warm. The slow kind that builds in layers, like a song you don't realize is your favorite until you're halfway through.

They had spent two days sourcing ingredients—haggling for matcha, hunting for specific chili blends. The coconut had been Aria's quiet suggestion, offered while Reyhaan measured vanilla extract with surgical precision. She wanted flavors that triggered memory—familiar warmth that lingers without needing a name. She still remembered Reyhaan holding up a tiny pack of roasted green tea and saying, It smells like the kind of silence we all are fond of.

Now, those choices had names.

Each came with a scannable QR code in a minimalist design. When curious students hovered near, they found a note—a shared memory, a private joke, a screenshot moment from their group chat.

Lavender & Earl Grey: For Maya's 3 AM script crisis.

Roasted Green Tea & Dark Coffee: For Reyhaan's first presentation—half-asleep, yet brilliant.

Chili-Choco 'Fire' Cookies: For Kian's failed flirting attempt.

Coffee-Vanilla-Sea Salt: For group meetings that started awkwardly and ended at midnight, full of laughter.

Ginger-Honey: For Aria's first test batch—imperfect, but hers.

Wheat-Coconut-Raisin: In a worn brass tin at the back. For stories that crossed continents. Reyhaan had simply called it ours.

Their hoodies drew immediate attention.

"Did that really say 'Bake cookies. Burn ego'?" a student asked, grinning.

"Yes," Maya beamed. "It's a lifestyle."

Kian modelled the back of his hoodie. "We're not a booth. We're a movement."

Aria shook her head, unable to wipe the smile from her face. "I can't believe you actually wore these," she said to Reyhaan as he hung the last string of lights.

"It's fashion," he said solemnly, tugging the hem. "High concept. You wouldn't get it."

Maya cackled. "Oh, he's delusional today. We love that."

"Try not to electrocute yourself. I'm not explaining that to anyone." Aria said, handing him a clothespin.

"Wait—so you won't explain it, but you will record it, right?" Kian called out, phone raised for filming. "Because that's what real friendship is."

"I hate all of you," Reyhaan said, but the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes betrayed him completely.

The day blurred into a montage of faces and laughter. People came in waves. They scanned codes, read the stories, and ate the cookies. Some left notes on the feedback board: "This tastes like my breakup." "Wait, I need to cry." "Why is this the best thing I've eaten?"

"Are we accidentally doing performance art?" Kian whispered.

"Don't ruin it," Maya hissed.

"Sorry. I'm emotional."

They rotated shifts. Aria started with Kian, who convinced four people to buy Fire Cookies just by saying, "It's spicy. Like your ex."

Maya took over with Reyhaan next, and Aria watched from behind the display as he worked the counter. He held the tray, crouched to high-five a kid, and offered napkins with a quiet charm that never sought the spotlight. He waved off compliments about his band with a modest shrug that felt honest, not defensive.

When a girl asked, Are you that Reyhaan?, he signed her notebook and smiled, declining to sing with a polite gesture.

Once, he stepped away, just for a breath. Aria watched him stand at the edge of the noise, hands in pockets, seeking a moment of quiet. When he returned, she passed him a cup of tea.

"You're a lifesaver," he said.

She didn't say I noticed. She just nodded.

And they returned to the rhythm of it—swapping trays, adjusting signs, reading notes that visitors left behind. Later, Maya declared the moment required artistic documentation and pulled everyone in for a group photo. They huddled together—Kian draping a shawl over Reyhaan like a cape, Aria wearing the rogue paper crown. Someone tossed glitter into the air.

"Say it with me!" Maya shouted. "Burn the ego!"

"Long live the cookie," Reyhaan echoed, deadpan.

The camera clicked.

Aria blinked against the flash, laughing.

Sugar on her sleeve, cold air on her face, her friends shouting nonsense. In that second, she thought: Maybe this is what home feels like, too. Not a place, but a rhythm. People who remembered your quiet ideas. Warmth in the cold. Memory in motion. Something small. Something real.

Something she hadn't known she'd needed—until now.

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Dusk steeped the sky in deep blue, thinning the crowd and leaving behind echoes of laughter. The lanterns along the walkways glowed amber, flickering in the wind like they were catching their breath. Somewhere in the distance, a mellow acoustic cover played from a speaker that no one was really listening to.

A gentle announcement floated through the speakers near the admin block, inviting everyone to a last-minute bonfire on the far lawn. Marshmallows. Music. Maybe a few sentimental toasts. Most had already begun drifting.

Kian and Maya vanished almost immediately—a conspiratorial grin from Kian, a nudge from Maya, and they were gone, slipping into the evening like they had a secret destination. Aria smiled faintly. They'd earned that kind of quiet, whatever shape it took.

She stayed.

And Reyhaan stayed with her.

They walked toward the fire in companionable silence, the hush of footsteps on grass replacing the day's frantic energy.

Around the bonfire, students had settled into loose circles. String lights draped between branches, lopsided and charming. Like everything had been done with tired joy. Some sat on quilts, others leaned against tree trunks. The flames rose tall, painting faces in flickering gold and orange.

They found a space near the edge where the heat flickered across the grass. Someone passed them a skewer and a packet of marshmallows. Aria's fingers brushed his as she took one.

"Remember the rules," Reyhaan said lightly. "Three seconds in the flame. Any longer, and you lose rights."

Aria raised an eyebrow, easing onto the low bench. "I don't remember agreeing to those rules."

"You did. Silently."

She gave him a look. "You just make things up when it suits you, don't you?"

He tilted his head solemnly. "Absolutely."

They both burned their first marshmallow, distracted by a debate about the weirdest cookies they'd ever eaten. Reyhaan said that he once had a wasabi-lemon biscuit on tour in Osaka. Aria countered with a mango-chili macaron made by her aunt. No one survived it twice.

When the second one slipped off Aria's skewer and fell into the fire with tragic timing, they laughed—not loudly, but deeply, the sound settling in her chest.

"Well," Aria said, holding up the empty stick. "Clearly, we're experts."

"I'm putting this on my resume," Reyhaan replied. "Master of Controlled Food Failures."

They leaned back, letting the fire's warmth seep into their spines. Aria tugged her sleeves over her hands. Her hoodie smelled faintly of cinnamon—warmth she could wear.

Her legs ached. Her hair held the scent of smoke and spice. But for the first time in weeks, she felt... steady.

Reyhaan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He tossed his empty skewer into the flames and watched it catch.

"Can I ask you something, Aria?"

She looked toward him and nodded.

"Sometimes," he said, voice low, "I wonder what it means to start over. If it's brave... or just what you do when there's no other choice."

Aria was quiet. The fire cracked, sending sparks spiraling upward. The question felt heavy, personal, but he asked it without looking at her, giving her the space to answer or deflect.

"Maybe it's both," she said finally. "Maybe starting over isn't about running or failing. Maybe it's just... making space. For something better. Or more honest."

Reyhaan turned to look at her. And the look wasn't admiration or flirtation. It was something quieter. Recognition—like he'd heard those words before, somewhere inside himself.

"You always say things like that."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Like what?"

"Like you've already lived through the end of the story," he said. "And you're just waiting for the rest of us to catch up."

She didn't know what to do with that. But there was no teasing in his tone. Just a sort of quiet truth.

She looked down, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're catching up just fine."

They sat in silence after that. Not the heavy kind that demanded filling, but a stillness that felt safe. Nearby, someone began strumming a guitar—imperfect, earnest chords.

When the flames softened to embers and the crowd thinned, they stood to walk back. No hurry.

Leaves rustled underfoot. Light clung to the branches like whispers of celebration. Aria found herself listening to the rhythm of Reyhaan's footsteps beside her—not ahead, not behind. Just there.

"You know," she said as they reached the winding brick path behind the humanities block, "I think restarts are like drafts."

He looked over, curious. "Yeah?"

"You don't lose what you tried," she said. "It just... layers."

He smiled. "Even the messy ones?"

"Especially the messy ones."

They stopped near the old oak tree. Forgotten candles flickered in jars, their flames soft and tired. Aria tugged her sleeves down.

"You don't have to explain everything," she said, her voice soft in the dark. "To everyone."

Reyhaan didn't answer right away. He stared ahead, then exhaled slowly.

"Feels easier sometimes," he murmured. "To just... perform. Even when it's not a stage. Even when it's just people who mean well."

She understood that. Maybe too well.

"But tonight," he added after a beat, "it didn't feel like performing."

Aria looked up at him. The firelight was gone, but warmth lingered.

"That's good," she said gently.

He met her eyes—tired, but grateful.

They started walking again. Aria pulled her hoodie tighter. Reyhaan moved closer, matching her stride without thinking. And in the hush between footfalls and fading music, she felt it again—a shift.

Not loud. Not certain. Just the comfort of presence.

She walked a little closer. And he didn't step away. Between them, something quiet caught flame—not wild, not fast, but steady.