The day of the fest arrived in a rush of color and cold.

The campus had never looked quite like this, not even during orientation or spring bloom. Tents had sprung up across the quad like wildflowers after rain. Canvas flaps snapped in the wind. Students darted between walkways with trolleys, folding chairs, and armfuls of decorations. Someone had turned an old study tent into a gaming booth strung with fairy lights and hand-painted signs. Someone else had brought giant bubble wands.

The air smelled of roasted peanuts, spice, and melting sugar. Streamers tangled in tree branches. Music bled from three different speakers at once, layered over bursts of laughter, paint-stained sleeves, confetti footprints, and voices calling for scissors, for glitter, for someone to hold this down before it flies away.

Everything looked a little wild. A little magical.

It was still cold—the kind of crisp that nipped at fingertips and noses—but the energy sliced through it, warmth wrapped in noise.

Aria stood beside their cookie stall, shifting her weight from foot to foot, blowing into her hands before tucking them into her sleeves. She watched it come together, piece by piece.

They’d chosen a corner under a bare-limbed tree strung with soft string lights. Maya had hung paper stars from the branches. Reyhaan had somehow installed the QR code board without a single visible wire. Their stall banner read The Flavor of Us in warm gold lettering, painted by Aria the night before while waiting for the dough to chill. 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, holding up a tray of the “fire” batch—chili chocolate with a cinnamon kick.

“Speak for yourself,” Maya replied, adjusting her paper crown. “I’m aiming for emotionally unhinged royalty today.”

Aria laughed, breath fogging. Her hands were cold, but her chest was warm. The slow kind of warmth—the 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 gathering ingredients—wandering the local spice market, haggling for just enough matcha and Earl Grey, sniffing packets of chili chocolate, convincing a vendor to sell them only a handful of dried lavender instead of the whole bag. The coconut had been Aria’s idea. A quiet one, offered while Reyhaan was testing how much vanilla extract was too much (answer: there is such a thing).

She’d thought about flavors that carried memory—familiar warmth, the kind 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 like.”

Now those choices had names and stories. Their cookies weren’t just desserts—they were moments, translated.

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 episode of dramatic script-writing at 3 a.m.

Roasted Green Tea & Dark Coffee: For Reyhaan’s first presentation—half-asleep, and still outshining them all.

Chili-Choco 'Fire' Cookies: For Kian’s infamous attempt at flirting during class, and Maya’s immediate shutdown.

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—slightly overdone, but entirely hers.

Wheat-Coconut-Raisin, in a worn brass tin lined with tissue: For stories that crossed continents. For home that didn’t live in one place. Reyhaan had simply called it ours.

Their hoodies had already drawn attention—not just curious stares, but real compliments.

“Did that really say ‘Bake cookies. Burn ego’?” someone asked, grinning.

“Yes,” Maya beamed. “And we live by it.”

Kian held out the back of his hoodie like it was high fashion. “We’re not a booth. We’re a revolution.”

Aria shook her head, but the smile wouldn’t leave her lips. Not even the chill could dull this glow.

“I can’t believe you actually wore these,” she said, laughing as Reyhaan reached up to hang the last string of lights.

“It’s fashion,” he said solemnly, tugging the hem like it was designer. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Maya burst out laughing. “Oh, he’s delusional today. We love that.”

Aria handed him a clothespin. “Try not to electrocute yourself on string lights. I’m not explaining that to anyone.”

“Wait—so you won’t explain it, but you will record it, right?” Kian called from the side, already filming. “Because that’s what real friendship is.”

“I hate all of you,” Reyhaan said, but he was smiling—properly smiling. Not the usual amused smirk, but the kind that warmed his whole face, crinkled the corners of his eyes into crescents.

The day passed in a blur of movement and tiny, lovely things.

People came in waves. Students scanned, read. Some smiled softly. Some laughed. Some left doodles on the feedback board: a music note, a cup of chai, a cookie with legs. “This one tastes like my breakup.” “Wait, I need to cry.” “Why is this actually the best thing I’ve had all day?”

“Are we accidentally doing performance art?” Kian whispered.

“Don’t ruin it,” Maya hissed.

“Sorry. I’m emotional.”

They rotated shifts at the counter. 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 for a while from behind the display.

Watched him hold the tray while Maya worked the crowd. Watched him crouch to grin at a small kid who had wandered over. He offered quiet jokes and napkins when someone spilled. How he waved off compliments about his band with a modest shrug that felt honest, not defensive.

She watched him sign a girl’s notebook and smile when she asked, Are you that Reyhaan?

He signed a few covers, too. Politely declined to sing. “Lost my voice this week,” he said with a vague gesture. “Too many rehearsals.” No one questioned it.

He didn’t step away often. But once, he had—just for a breath. And Aria caught it. The way he stilled—hands tucked in his pockets, gaze skimming the edge of the noise like he was searching for silence.

She didn’t say anything when he returned. Neither did he. But when she passed him a warm cup of tea later, he took it with a small smile and said, “You’re a lifesaver.”

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. Kian and Maya danced to a nearby band playing retro covers. Someone lent them a bubble machine. Aria got hit in the face by a floating crown Maya refused to remove.

Later, Maya declared the moment required artistic documentation and pulled everyone in for a group photo. Kian draped a shawl over Reyhaan’s shoulders like a royal cape. Aria wore the rogue crown. Someone tossed glitter into the air.

“Say it with me!” Maya shouted. “Burn the ego!”

“Long live the cookie!” Reyhaan echoed solemnly—as if delivering a eulogy, not a sales pitch.

The camera clicked.

Aria blinked against the soft flash, laughing.

Her fingers smelled faintly of vanilla. Someone had left sugar prints on her sleeve. The crown still hung askew on her head.

And in that second—with warm paper in her hand, cinnamon on her sleeve, her friends shouting nonsense, and the sky softening to dusk—she thought: Maybe this was what home could feel like, too.

Not tied to one place. But to people who remembered your quiet ideas. Who didn’t ask you to be loud to be seen. To the rhythm of warmth in cold. Memory in motion. Something small. Something real.

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