> "You're in S.S.V., right? I've seen you around. Pretty aesthetic profile btw."
Ahaana blinked at her screen.
She had read the message five times now, each time holding her breath like it would run away if she moved too fast. Her fingers trembled as she typed back:
> "Haha yes. Section A. You?"
> "C. Football team. You're friends with that girl... Simran, right?"
She nearly laughed. He remembered Simran. Not her.
Not surprising.
Ahaan had carefully curated her Instagram. The username was poetic and anonymous: @inked.stardust. Her face was always hidden behind filters, good lighting, or distracting captions. Even her bio was vague—just a quote about broken stars and rebirth.
In real life, she was the shortest girl in the class. A little chubby, painfully average, always wearing her scarf just a little higher on one side. The burn scar on her left cheek, though faded, still made her turn away from mirrors.
But online?
Online she was anyone she wanted to be.
And with him, she could finally speak.
They chatted for hours during winter break. Funny memes. His football matches. Her book obsessions. He spoke to her like she was normal—like she was enough. He didn't know about the scar. Or the way people looked at her during assembly. He didn't know that sometimes even she didn't want to see her reflection.
With him, she didn't have to hide.
Because he never truly saw her.
He was more real on Instagram than in person.
No followers watching. No friends mocking. No rich-kid pressure.
He sent her casual pictures of his dog, his gaming setup, even a blurry selfie once. She never dared to send her real face—only shadows of it.
He was Ayaan Gazi—the boy whose name echoed in school corridors.
Every girl knew him, even if he didn't know them.
The son of Mr. Gazi, one of the most powerful businessmen in the state.
Everyone talked about the mall his father built, the politicians he dined with, the way his security guards waited outside in black cars.
But Ayaan didn't act superior.
He laughed like a normal boy. Teased her about her book collection. Sent voice notes that made her heart race.
For a while, it felt like magic.
Then came the café party.
Simran's birthday. A warm winter evening. The café was lit with fairy lights and music. Ahaana had taken hours to get ready. Her scar was hidden under layers of makeup. She wore a soft pink dress, curled her hair slightly, even wore earrings—something she hadn't done in years.
She wasn't trying to impress. She just didn't want to disappear.
But the moment she walked in, her eyes found him.
Ayaan.
Sitting with two boys near the window, sipping iced coffee, scrolling through his phone. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and he looked just like she'd imagined—and nothing like she deserved.
Simran caught her staring.
"Now or never," she whispered. "You talk to him every day. Just go say hi."
Her heart thudded in her ears. Her feet moved on their own. She walked slowly, awkwardly, towards his table.
"Hi," she said softly.
He looked up. His expression was blank.
"Uh... hey?"
His eyes scanned her face, then drifted away.
She tried to smile. "I'm Ahaana… from Instagram? @inked.stardust?"
A pause.
Then a polite, confused nod. "Oh. Ohh… yeah. Hey."
But it was too late.
That split-second—the way he had to search her face—had already destroyed her.
She didn't wait to hear anything else.
She nodded and turned away. Her throat was tight. Her chest, hollow.
For a moment, she forgot about the music, the fairy lights, the cake.
She only felt one thing: shame.
She had walked into his real world.
And he didn't even recognize her.