Shivansh Singhania

He looked like calm dressed in white.

Tousled black hair that always fell a little wrong, and eyes that somehow held entire sunsets — steady, unreadable, golden at the edges. His voice was low, the kind that could turn silence into comfort.

There was something effortless about him — like he didn’t chase the world, he just belonged to it.

A sketchbook tucked under his arm, a silver bracelet glinting when light kissed his wrist, and that faint scent of rain and coffee always following him.

He dreamt of skies — not metaphorically, but quite literally. The kind of boy who looked up at airplanes and saw

home.

Ishika Srinet

She looked like a story half-read and half-written.

Loose strands of wavy hair brushed against her cheeks as she scribbled in the margins of her notebook — not homework, but a dream she was too shy to say out loud.

Her glasses always slid down her nose, and there was ink smudged on her fingers like she’d shaken hands with a poem. She smiled softly, the kind that didn’t ask for attention but somehow held it anyway.

Her world was made of paper and possibility — chapters, coffee cups, and the quiet wish to be more than what the syllabus allowed.

And somewhere between balance sheets and bestselling dreams, Ishika Srinet was learning that maybe… stories don’t always stay in books.

Dedication

To every dreamer who stayed up writing stories between exam sheets and heartbreaks.

To every whisper of fate that led you to the right person, at the wrong time — or maybe, just the right time after all.