By the time dusk had steeped the sky in deep blue, the crowd had thinned—leaving behind laughter in echoes, cinnamon in the air, and crumpled cups like confetti near the bins. The lanterns along the walkways glowed amber, flickering like they were catching their breath. Somewhere in the distance, a mellow acoustic cover played from a speaker no one was really listening to.

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

Kian and Maya had vanished just before the announcement. Aria had caught the mischief in Kian’s grin and the way Maya looped her scarf tighter before nudging him along the main path. Probably a quiet walk. Or some odd little surprise he’d saved for her. Aria smiled faintly. They’d earned that kind of quiet, whatever shape it took.

She stayed.

And Reyhaan had stayed too.

They didn’t speak much as they walked toward the open patch where the fire was beginning to bloom—just the hush of footsteps over dry grass, the rustle of coats, and the soft ambient quiet that follows a day full of noise.

Around the bonfire, students had settled into loose, lazy circles, clutching paper cups and half-roasted marshmallows. String lights draped between low-hanging branches—some lopsided, some blinking out of sync. The unevenness made it charming. Like everything had been done with tired joy. Some sat cross-legged on quilts. Others leaned into each other against the tree trunks, pooling warmth where they could.

Aria and Reyhaan found space near the edge of the circle, where the firelight flickered across the grass and their breath curled white in the night air. The flames rose taller than she expected, painting every face nearby in flickers of gold and orange.

Someone passed them a skewer and a little paper packet of marshmallows. Aria’s fingers brushed Reyhaan’s as she took one.

“Remember the rules,” Reyhaan said lightly, holding up his stick. “Three seconds in the flame. Anything past that, you lose roasting 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 while distracted by a conversation about the weirdest cookies they’d ever tasted. Reyhaan 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,” she added, grimacing.

When their second marshmallow slipped off and dropped into the fire with theatrical timing, they laughed—not loudly, but the kind of laughter that stayed in the chest for a while after.

“Well,” Aria said, holding up her half-melted skewer. “Clearly, we’re experts.”

“I’m putting this on my resume,” Reyhaan replied, flicking the charred bit into the flames. “Master of Controlled Food Failures.”

They leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire seep into their spines. Aria tugged her sleeves over chilled hands. Her hoodie still 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 for a moment, letting the fire crackle between them.

“Maybe it’s both,” she said. “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.

So she smiled—a small, careful thing—and said, “You’re catching up just fine.”

They sat in silence after that. Not awkward. Not fragile. Just a stillness that didn’t ask to be filled.

The fire cracked again, its warmth drifting over their hands and the space between their shoulders. Nearby, someone began strumming a slow tune. A few voices joined in—unsure, imperfect, but earnest.

Across the lawn, silhouettes moved gently beneath the string lights. People began to leave in quiet twos and threes, some whispering, some laughing softly.

Eventually, when the flames softened and the crowd thinned, Aria and Reyhaan stood and began the slow walk back. No hurry. No need to speak.

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 reached a quiet corner near the old oak tree. A few benches. Forgotten candles flickering in jars, their flames soft and tired.

Aria stopped, tugging her sleeves further down.

“You don’t have to explain everything,” she said. “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 something warm still lingered between them.

“That’s good,” she said gently.

He met her eyes—quiet, a little tired, but grateful.

Then they started walking again. Aria pulled her hoodie tighter. Reyhaan matched her pace without thinking. And in the hush between footfalls and fading music, she felt it again—that quiet shift, that gentle pull of something changing.

Not loud. Not certain. Just the comfort of presence. The slow bloom of something steady.

She didn’t say it aloud, but she walked a little closer. And Reyhaan didn’t step away.

And between them, something quiet caught flame—not wild, not fast, but steady.