The video call came through just as Aria was tugging her sweater sleeves down over her cold wrists. She recognized the ringtone instantly—the digital tinkle of wind chimes her mother insisted were "good for the nerves."

Ma Calling...

She swiped right, propping the phone against her pillow.

"Hi, Aru!" Her mother's face filled the screen, slightly too close to the camera, hair pulled back in a loose bun that was already escaping its pins. "Are we calling too late?"

Not at all," Aria said, pulling the blanket over her legs. "I just got in from the library. It's good to hear you."

From the background came the mechanical whir of a milk frother, followed by her father's voice drifting into the frame.

"She says that now, but during exam season she vanishes like mist," he teased, stepping into view and handing a steaming mug to her mother. "Barely a text. You'd think she was preparing for monkhood, not finals."

"Papa!" Aria groaned, though she was smiling. "I've been texting."

"Three words a day is a telegram, not a conversation," her mother countered, accepting the coffee. "We were starting to wonder if you'd gone off-grid."

"Just admit you were spoiled when I used to message every morning," Aria said. "Back when I sent you pictures of toast because I was terrified of the toaster."

Her mother laughed at the memory. "Oh! Good old days."

"Come on, Ma! That was the first year. When everything was new."

Her father took a sip from his own cup, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "And now?"

Aria leaned back against the headboard. She let the question sit for a moment. "Now it's... better. Familiar. The terror is gone."

Just then, her mother adjusted the phone angle, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned the frame of Aria's room. Aria's stomach did a small flip.

Thank God she had decluttered that morning. The mess had been starting to resemble a crumbling paper fortress—notes, highlighters, mugs, tangled charger wires.

Now, mercifully, it looked deceptively tidy.

Any second later, and she could've been hit with the "Aru, are you living like this?" lecture, complete with suggestions for reusable drawer organizers and Sunday cleaning routines.

"Good, good," her mother said, seemingly satisfied that her daughter wasn't living in squalor. "And your friends? The group you talk about?"

"Yeah. Everyone's good. Kian's drowning in code but making jokes about it. Maya is currently functioning as a dictator of study schedules."

"And Reyhaan?" Her mother perked up. "That's the boy from the band, right?"

Aria's hand paused on the blanket. "Yes. That one."

Her father leaned in. "Didn't you have a wallpaper of his acoustic set once?"

"That was a lifetime ago," Aria muttered, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "I have evolved."

"He's in your project group?"

"Yeah," Aria said, her voice dropping into a softer register without her permission. "He's... thoughtful. He listens more than he talks."

Her parents exchanged a glance. It was brief—a micro-expression of shared intelligence—but Aria caught it.

"Good," her mother said again, but the tone was different this time. Gentler. "You know, you sound more like yourself again."

Aria blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You used to call and sound like you were... trying," her mother said, searching for the right word. "Trying to be okay. Now, you just sound like you."

Something in Aria's chest unknotted. Maybe it was the way things felt lately—not empty, just steadier. She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

"Hey, Ma?" she asked, the idea forming suddenly. "Do you remember that ginger-honey candy you used to make when I got sore throats?"

Her mother looked curious. "The lozenges? Of course. Why? Are you sick?"

"No. Not me. Just... a friend. Voice issues."

Her father's eyebrows went up. "Someone we should be worried about?"

"Just a friend," Aria insisted. "Can you give me the recipe?"

Her mother smiled, a knowing glint in her eye. "Alright. Grated ginger, raw honey, and a little lemon juice. Don't overheat it, or you lose the healing part. Stir gently until it thickens, drop it onto parchment, and dust with sugar. That's it."

Aria typed it into her notes app. "Thanks."

"Let me know if they help," her mother said.

"I will."

When the call ended, the silence in the room didn't feel lonely. It felt settled. Aria tied her hair back and padded down the corridor to the communal kitchen.

It was late, the kitchen empty save for the hum of the fridge. She wiped down a corner of the counter and set to work.

She grated the ginger, the sharp, spicy scent cutting through the stale air of the dorm. She measured the honey—gold and viscous—into the pot. As it warmed, steam curled up, smelling of home and comfort.

She folded the mixture gently, watching it thicken. She didn't know when she would give them to him. Maybe not tomorrow. But making them felt like an act of silent conversation. A way to say: I thought of you. I stayed.

She dropped the small amber circles onto the parchment paper. They were imperfect, dusted with sugar, looking like little uneven gems.

Imperfect little drops of care. For when he was ready.

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The library was a different world. Here, time thickened, moving at the speed of turning pages and scratching pens.

Kian had left a half-eaten granola bar wrapper on the table like a flag of surrender. Maya had a highlighter clamped between her teeth, looking like a scholar preparing for war. Aria sat across from her, skimming a passage for her Literature course, though her eyes kept drifting.

She wasn't looking at the text. She was looking for him.

Half-hidden behind a pillar of textbooks, thumbing through a volume on film theory. Reyhaan was nodding at something Kian said, his face relaxed, unguarded.

"You've been looking at him for a full thirty seconds," Maya deadpanned, not looking up from her notes.

Aria jumped. "I wasn't."

"You were. It's fine. He has an objectively good face."

Aria lowered her book to hide her expression. "Please stop."

"Have you told him you used to have his concert stills saved in your gallery?" Maya asked, a wicked grin spreading around the highlighter.

"Maya."

"What? He probably wouldn't mind. Might even autograph them."

"I am taking that secret to my grave," Aria whispered violently.

Maya leaned back, crossing her arms. "You know, you were different when we met."

The teasing vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp observation.

"Back then," Maya said, "you walked like you were trying not to take up space. Like you were apologizing for being in the room. I remember during our freshman year—you'd say something sharp and insightful, and then shrink back like you'd overstepped."

Aria stilled, her thumb resting on the corner of a page.

"And now?"

"Now," Maya said, studying her, "you take up space. You claim your ideas. Like with the tram scene. You didn't wait for permission."

"I guess... I just started trusting what I see," Aria said. "And I stopped waiting for people to tell me it was okay."

Maya nodded. "Maybe. Or the Aria you wanted to be is finally showing up.."

Across the room, Reyhaan glanced over the edge of his book. His gaze found hers instantly—steady, anchoring. Like he'd been hoping to see her there. He didn't wave, just offered a small, faint smile before turning back to the shelf.

It was a small thing. But it stayed with her.

She had people now. People who knew the old version of her and liked the new one even better. Who would do silly things. Meaningful things. Even the hardest things—and not leave.

She hadn't wished for a spotlight in a long time. Just this. Laughter over notebooks. A tin of ginger candies sitting on her shelf, waiting for the right moment.

Not grand. Just real. And somehow, that was everything.

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Reyhaan wasn't really looking for the book. He was looking for a pause.

The library aisle stretched out in long, dusty lines of perspective. He walked slowly, letting his fingers trail over the spines of books he wouldn't read. Movement helped. It gave his hands something to do while his mind tried to organize the mess inside.

Yesterday hadn't broken him, but it had cracked something open. Confessing the truth about his voice to Aria had been terrifying, but the aftermath... the aftermath was strange. He felt lighter. Exposed, but not unsafe.

He leaned a shoulder against the shelf, closing his eyes.

"Need help finding something?"

The voice was familiar—dry, soft, amusing.

He opened his eyes and turned.

Aria stood at the end of the aisle, hair pulled back in a messy twist, two books tucked under her arm. She looked like she belonged there, framed by paper and ink.

"Do the answers to identity crises come alphabetized?" he asked.

"Only in the self-help section," she replied, stepping closer. "And you're in Computer Architecture. So unless you're looking for a motherboard for your soul, you're lost."

"Valid." She handed him one of her books. "Here. Hold this. It makes you look busy so no one questions you."

He looked at the cover. Windmills of the Dutch Lowlands.

"Windmills?"

"Endless depth," she said, face perfectly serious.

He laughed, the sound surprising him. It came out free, unburdened. She had a way of doing that—sneaking ease into places it had no business being.

They stood in the narrow aisle, the silence settling around them like dust. She was still looking at him—not expectantly, not gently, just... steadily. Like nothing had changed.

"You're not treating me differently," he said after a moment.

She shrugged. "Why would I?"

"Because of what I told you. About the voice. Most people... they would tilt their heads. Would get careful."

"Reyhaan," she said, her voice firm. "You trusted me. That doesn't make you breakable. It makes you brave."

He looked down at the book in his hands, tracing the title. That was the part no one warned you about—the waiting after the truth. Wondering if the dynamic would shift. But she was just... steady.

"Also," she added, "if I started treating you like a fragile Victorian poet, you'd be insufferable."

"I would," he agreed. "I'd demand a chaise lounge."

"Exactly."

They chuckled at the absurdity, and it felt like the library didn't exist. Like it was just the two of them suspended in that familiar quiet, pages and shadows all around.

He bumped her shoulder lightly. "Thanks. For still being you."

"I don't really know how to be anyone else," she replied simply, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled yellow square. "Also, found this in my bag. Thought you should update your resume."

She handed him the sticky note. In her slanted handwriting: Reyhaan – professional existential wanderer, ambient sound enthusiast, closet metaphor addict.

He grinned. "This is defamation."

"I call it journalism."

They started walking back toward the main table. As they neared the hum of Kian and Maya bickering, Aria hesitated. She glanced at him, then away.

"Hey," she said, lowering her voice. "I made something. For you. But I... didn't bring it."

His brow lifted. "Why?"

"Because it felt like too much," she admitted, looking at the floor. "Or not enough. I couldn't tell."

He wanted to tell her that just the thought was enough. That she didn't need to weigh her kindness so carefully with him.

"Now I'm curious," he said instead.

"You'll get it," she said. "When it makes sense."

"I trust your timing," he said.

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, everything seemed to recede. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was the kind that didn't ask for an explanation. It just wrapped around them, comfortable and warm.

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Aria hadn't given him the candies yet.

They sat in a small metal tin on her shelf, tucked behind a stack of textbooks to keep them out of the sunlight. Waiting.

That morning, she had put them in her tote bag. Then taken them out. Then put them back in. And finally, left them on the shelf.

Maybe she was overthinking it. Or maybe she was waiting for a moment that felt less like a transaction and more like a conversation.

She picked up the tin now, the metal cool against her palms. The lid clicked softly as she opened it. The candies inside gleamed amber, dusted with sugar. They smelled of ginger and care.

She ran a finger along the rim.

He was okay.

Not fixed. Not whole.

But okay.

And that should have been enough.

But she wondered if she was holding back because the moment wasn't right, or because she was afraid. She used to mistake giving for proving—offering pieces of herself to earn her place.

But this felt different.

She thought of him in the library aisle, laughing over a book about windmills. The way he had said, I trust your timing.

She closed the lid with a soft snap, placed the tin back behind the books, adjusting the angle so it wouldn't catch the light.

Maybe that was what she was doing, too.

Trusting her own timing.

She wasn't hiding it. She was saving it.

"Soon," she whispered to the empty room.