Part of Aryan's Diary, 13th June 2011
The morning started like any other, only buzzing with an irritating, low-level static. Whispers: A new girl is joining our class. She'll sit somewhere in the back. My friends and I wasted ten minutes discussing whether she'd be a nerd or a drama queen—typical, meaningless speculation.
Then she walked in.
The room, usually chaotic, fell instantly silent. She didn't look up. She moved with a quiet self-possession that seemed too mature for our dust-filled classroom. She was unique, exactly how I hadn't guessed. The teacher pointed to the empty desk beside me, and my stomach flipped—a clumsy, unwelcome gesture of nervousness.
She settled in, her movements precise. All I could feel was a sudden, intense pressure to know more about her. This wasn't just curiosity; it felt like a compulsion. I needed to find a bridge, a reason, to cross the small, terrifying gap between our desks.
And then, the universal symbol of our awkward, trend-obsessed school saved me.
The loud, grating bell finally signaled the start of class. As she pulled her things out, I saw it: a brand-new notebook, covered in clear plastic, but plastered with these amazing, dynamic stickers. I had always found the school-wide sticker craze idiotic, refusing to participate. But these weren't fluffy hearts or cartoon puppies. They were sharp, intense, tiny warriors.
"What cartoon is that?" I blurted out, abandoning all tact. My voice sounded deeper, heavier than usual.
She looked up, and her eyes—a startling shade of deep brown—met mine. There was no hesitation, no teenage shyness. Her smile was genuine, lighting up her whole face.
"It's NARUTO," she replied, her voice sweet but carrying a surprising certainty. "He's an incredibly famous ninja. You haven't seen it?"
"No," I admitted, suddenly feeling deeply uncool. The conversation was already slipping away. Panic flared. I seized the moment before the teacher started lecturing.
"I'm Aryan," I said, stumbling slightly over my own name. Why was I nervous?
"Ayra," she replied immediately, a smooth, beautiful sound. "It's nice to meet you, Aryan."
Just like that. One shared interest in ninja stickers, one quick exchange of names, and the awkward barrier dissolved. We started talking instantly, not about school, but about everything that mattered: cartoons, bands, and the ridiculous things our parents did. We became friends right then, in the first five minutes.
What happened next sealed it. She must have noticed how long I kept staring at the tiny ninja on her book. She reached into her bag, pulled out a small, crinkled sheet, and slid it onto my desk.
"Here," she whispered, leaning closer. The sudden rush of her presence was dizzying. "Take these. You need to start your collection."
I stared at the sheet—a whole set of Ninja stickers, given freely. She had noticed my feeling without me having to say a single word. That quiet, effortless sweetness—that understanding—was the most attractive thing I had ever encountered.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I peeled the backing off the first sticker, affixing it carefully to the cover of my most boring textbook. It was the first time I had ever participated in a silly school trend, and suddenly, it didn't feel silly at all.
Having Ayra in my life isn't just luck, I wrote hastily in my notebook margin, feeling a profound, undeniable shift in my world. It's like finding the one essential piece I didn't know was missing.