You know how spring leaves? Not all at once. It slips away slowly, like when you're saying goodbye to a friend and you keep turning back to wave. The jacaranda trees still have some purple left. The amaltas still drops a few yellow flowers. But the air changes. It gets heavier. And then one morning you wake up and smell mangoes.

Not the sweet ripe ones. The green ones. The ones that make your mouth pucker just thinking about them. That's how summer arrives in our town. Not with an announcement. Just with a smell.

I was seventeen. I had just finished tenth class. Two months of nothing stretched ahead of me before eleventh started. Two months of no uniforms, no homework, no early mornings. I should have been happy. Instead, I was bored.

So bored that I was actually watching the TV serial my mother loved. Some woman crying about her mother-in-law. I wasn't really watching. I was just... there.

"Zara!"

I jumped.

"Go call your brother. Snacks are ready."

I dragged myself up. The floor was cool under my feet. Through the window, I could hear them—shouting, laughing, the sound of bat hitting ball. Ayan was at the municipal ground, same as every day.

I walked the three minutes to the ground. Found him behind the stumps, arguing with the batsman.

"Amma said now," I told him.

"Five minutes."

"Ayan—"

"Five minutes, Zara. We're almost done."

I sighed and sat on the boundary wall. The stone was warm from the sun. I watched the game for a while, but I don't understand cricket. I never have. So I looked around instead. The neem trees. The crows starting to gather. The dust in the air that turned everything golden at this hour.

That's when I saw him.

He was keeping wickets at the pitch next to ours. Crouched down, waiting. But the ball wasn't coming his way. The captain had moved the field or something. He was just... waiting. Spinning the ball in his fingers. Looking around.

His eyes found me.

He didn't look away. Just stood up and walked over.

"You go to St. Mary's?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Veer. Twelfth section B."

I knew that. Everyone knew the seniors. But I didn't say it.

"I'm Zara," I said. Then, because I felt stupid just standing there: "My brother plays here."

"I know," he said. "You're Ayan's sister."

He said it like it was a fact he'd known for a while. Not like he was surprised.

"Ayan!" I called out, turning away. "Let's go!"

My brother finally came, bat dragging behind him. He said something to Veer about tomorrow's game. I didn't listen. I just started walking.

"See you around, Zara," Veer said.

I waved without turning back.

At home, the mangoes were on the table. Green, hard, not ready yet. Amma cut them into slices and sprinkled salt and chili. I ate two pieces. Ayan ate five.

I didn't think about Veer again that evening. Not really. He was just a senior from school who knew my brother's name. That was all.

But summer had started. And summer has a way of making small things grow.

Summer settled in like it always does. Heavy. Slow. The kind of heat that makes you move less and dream more.

Ayan went to the ground every evening. Not sometimes. Every day. Like it was his job. Amma would make snacks and I would go call him. Not always. Maybe three times a week. The other days she sent the neighbor's kid or just shouted from the balcony until he heard.

But when I went, I saw Veer.

Not that we talked. We didn't. He would be at his pitch, I would be on my wall, and sometimes our eyes would meet. Just for a second. Then I would look at the neem trees or my phone or anything else. He would go back to his game. That was it. A nod sometimes. A half-smile if he was close enough. Nothing that meant anything.

This went on for days. Then weeks. The green mangoes turned yellow. The crows stopped gathering in the neem trees and moved to the banyan near the temple. Summer was half-over and I hadn't done anything worth remembering.

Then one evening, everything changed.

I walked to the ground slower than usual. Amma had made mirchi bajji and my fingers still smelled of chili. I was thinking about nothing, humming some song from the radio, when I saw her.

A girl on the wall. Not me. Someone else. Sitting with her legs dangling, her shadow falling on the dust.

I walked closer. She looked up.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she said back.

I stood there for a moment. The wall was long enough for two people. I sat down a little away from her, leaving space between us.

"You're waiting for someone too?" she asked.

"My brother," I said. "He plays there."

I pointed. She followed my finger and smiled.

"Mine too. Ram. The one in the yellow shirt."

I looked. The boy in the yellow shirt was Ayan's friend. I had seen them together.

"I'm Maya," she said, sliding over a little. "Which school do you go to?"

"St. Mary's," I said.

Her eyes lit up. "Me too! Which class?"

"Eleventh. Section B."

"No way," she said, laughing. "I'm Eleventh A. Same class, different section."

I looked at her properly then. She had small eyes and a nose that turned up slightly at the end. She was pretty in a quiet way.

"I thought I saw you," she said. "In the corridor near the library. You carry a blue water bottle."

I stared at her. "You noticed that?"

"I notice people," she said simply. "I thought you looked familiar. Now I know why."

We smiled at each other. That click. That small spark when a stranger becomes someone you might know.

"I've seen you too," I said. This time it wasn't a lie. Maybe I had. In assemblies, in corridors. We just never had a reason to talk.

We sat there in silence for a while. It wasn't uncomfortable. The game went on. Ayan hit a four and shouted something. Ram—her brother—threw the ball back with more force than needed.

"Your brother is good," Maya said.

"Yours too."

"They're friends, I think," she said. "Ram talks about Ayan sometimes. At dinner."

"Ayan never talks about anyone at dinner," I said. "He just eats."

Maya laughed. It was a nice laugh. Not loud, not careful. Just real.

"Ram too," she said. "Boys, no?"

"Boys," I agreed.

We watched the game. The sun started going down, turning everything orange. I realized I had forgotten to feel bored.

"Do you come every day?" Maya asked.

"Sometimes. You?"

"First time. Amma said I should get out of the house. I was reading too much, she said. Like that's a problem."

"What are you reading?"

"Some novel. Love story. You?"

"Not love stories," I said quickly. Too quickly. She looked at me, curious.

"Why not?"

I didn't have an answer. I still don't. I just knew they felt far away from my life. Like stories about people who lived in bigger cities, who had bigger feelings. Not girls like me who sat on walls waiting for brothers.

"Too much drama," I said finally.

Maya smiled like she didn't believe me. But she didn't push.

Ayan and Ram walked toward us together, sweaty and happy, already arguing about some ball that was or wasn't a six. I stood up. Maya stood up too.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said.

"I'll be here," she said. "Same time. If you want."

She said it casually. Like it didn't matter either way. But I heard something else in it. An invitation.

"Maybe," I said again. But I was already thinking about what to wear.

We walked home in opposite directions. Ayan talked about the game the whole way. I didn't listen. I was thinking about Maya. About how easy it had been. About how I had made a new friend.

A real friend. Maybe.

I couldn't wait for tomorrow.

The next day, I woke up feeling light. Not excited, exactly. Just... looking forward to something. Like when you know there's a good movie on TV later. Nothing big. Just nice.

I went to the kitchen. Amma was frying bajjis. The smell of chili and oil filled the room.

"Going to call Ayan?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. I took the box she handed me. "Extra for his friends?"

"For whoever is there," she said.

I walked to the ground. Not fast, not slow. Normal. But I was smiling a little. The sun was warm, not burning yet. A dog crossed the road with a puppy behind it. I stopped to watch them for a second. Then kept walking.

The ground was noisy when I arrived. Same as always. I looked at the wall.

Empty.

I sat down anyway. Opened the box. Ate one bajji while waiting. Told myself she was late. Told myself maybe she was helping her mother.

I finished the second bajji. Then the third. The game went on. Boys shouted. Dust rose and fell.

She didn't come.

I went again the next day. Same empty wall. Same excuses in my head. By the third day, I stopped making them.

On the fourth day, I asked Ayan.

"Ram?" he said, mid-bite of his bajji. "He's gone. Village. Some family thing. Back when school starts, I think."

"Oh," I said.

That was all. Oh.

I walked home slower that evening. The mangoes were ripe now, sweet and heavy. Amma had made aam ras for dinner. I ate it but didn't taste it.

I wasn't sad. Not really. I had known Maya for one evening. One conversation. You can't be sad about someone you barely know.

But I was... something. Disappointed in a small, stupid way. Like when you save the last piece of chocolate and someone else eats it. Not a tragedy. Just a small letdown.

I told myself it was fine. We would meet in school. Eleventh A and Eleventh B weren't far. We would pass in corridors. We would smile, say hi, maybe share a bench during assembly. We had time. All year, actually.

Never mind , I thought. We can meet after summer. We can become proper friends then.

It helped a little.

The next evening, I almost didn't go to the ground. What was the point? But Amma had made samosas, and Ayan would sulk if they got cold, so I went.

The wall was empty again. Of course it was. I sat down, pulled out my phone, pretended to be busy.

That's when I saw him.

Veer. Walking toward the pitch, bat in hand. He saw me too. Our eyes met across the dust and the noise.

He raised his hand. A small wave.

I waved back—too fast, too stiff, like a puppet with broken strings. Then I immediately looked down at my phone, cheeks burning. Why was I awkward? We had waved before. Nodded before. This was nothing new.

But something was different. I was different. Off-balance. The empty wall, the missing Maya, the samosas growing cold in my bag—it all made me feel exposed.

I stood up. The samosas in my bag were getting cold. Ayan would complain if they lost their crunch.

"Ayan!" I called out. "Snacks are getting cold!"

He looked at me, then at the game, then back at me. He knew Amma's samosas. He picked up his bat and walked over.

"You're no fun," he said.

"You're welcome," I said.

We started walking home. I didn't look back at the ground. But I felt it—that small moment sitting on my shoulders like a weight. His wave. My wave. The way I had turned away too quickly.

It was nothing. Just a wave between two people who went to the same school. That was all.

But I kept thinking about it the whole way home. The samosas were still warm when we arrived. Ayan ate four. I ate one and went to my room.

Stared at the ceiling. Told myself I was being stupid.

But I kept seeing his wave. Small. Casual. Nothing special.

And I kept seeing mine. Too fast. Too eager. Too much.

Never mind , I told myself. But this time, it didn't help.