Wishing Star

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a college fest, another winter night, music bleeding from the auditorium into the December fog. I wasn’t even planning to go, but Reva dragged me out, said I looked like a sad poem folded in a drawer.

And then she was there. Not Reva—her.

Wearing a black kurta with silver embroidery, standing near the chai stall like she didn’t quite belong but didn’t mind it either. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, loose strands falling like they didn’t care what anyone thought. She wasn’t dancing, wasn’t talking, just standing there with a cup in hand, eyes skyward. Like the noise around her didn’t exist.

I looked up too. Just to see what she was seeing.

One of those meteors crossed the sky—fast, vanishing, maybe not even real. Everyone around us gasped or clapped or made wishes.

She didn’t.

She turned slightly, met my eyes like I had just trespassed into her quiet.

“Did you wish for something?” I asked, more breath than voice.

“No,” she said. “Wishes feel... expensive. I just watched it burn out.”

I don’t know why I replied the way I did. Maybe it was the cold, or the scent of sugared chai, or the fact that I hadn’t spoken to someone without pretending in weeks.

“I didn’t wish either,” I told her. “I just… asked for you.”

She blinked, not in shock, not in flirtation. Just silence. The kind that waits to be trusted.

“Too soon?” I added, embarrassed now.

She tilted her head. “Too honest,” she said. “But I like that.”

We didn’t exchange numbers that night. Didn’t talk for hours. She just handed me the last sip of her chai like it was proof we were real, and walked away with a smile that stayed behind.

And now, weeks later, I still watch the sky like a fool. Still remember her saying wishes feel expensive. Still wonder if I ever crossed her mind again.

She was a falling star. I didn’t need to catch her.

I just needed to see her, once, and know that I could still feel something that pure.