“Will you remember this?” she asked softly.

She stepped closer, touched his heart with one finger, and smiled. “Then we’ll be mad together.”

That night, Ayan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan. He tried to read. He tried to write. He tried to sleep. Nothing worked. His mind was a broken record, replaying her laugh, the tilt of her chin, the way she said his name.

“You’re getting soaked,” she said, pulling him under the narrow eaves of the old library porch.

As the stars began to blink awake, Ayan walked her to the iron gates. He knew that in three minutes, her car would arrive, and this magic would end.

She tilted her head, a droplet of rain tracing a path down her cheek. “What’s your name, philosopher?”

One evening, standing on the same bridge where they’d watched the monsoon clouds gather, Ayan finally said it. “Zara. I can’t think. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. You’ve ruined me.”