Dehradun — 6:45 AM
“Kiara! Wake up! You’re going to miss assembly again!”
The voice came from somewhere between anger and desperation — her mother’s, echoing up the stairs.
Kiara groaned, face buried deep into her pillow.
The ceiling fan hummed above like a lazy helicopter. Her phone alarm had already snoozed itself three times and was now glowing weakly beside her — 6:46 AM.
And then, her brother’s voice: “Mom said she’s coming up!”
That did it.
Kiara shot up straight, hair wild, eyes half-shut, and heart still running from the dream.
---
It wasn’t just any dream.
It was the weirdest one she’d had in weeks.
A boy standing in the rain — not showing his face — holding something glowing in his hand.
Then thunder.
Then her name.
Then… nothing.
She blinked.
And suddenly remembered she hadn’t finished her chemistry assignment.
“Perfect,” she muttered. “First dreams, now nightmares.”
---
Her room looked like a cyclone had taken personal offense.
Books everywhere. Half-eaten chips on the study table. A motivational quote on the wall — “You Can Do It!” — now half-torn, hanging sideways.
“Kiara!” came the final warning from downstairs.
“Coming!” she yelled back, already pulling on her uniform one-handed while brushing teeth with the other.
Her younger brother, Aryan, peeked in — a devilish grin on his face.
“You’ve got toothpaste on your blazer.”
Kiara glared. “You’ve got two minutes to live.”
He grinned wider and ran out. “Mom! She’s threatening me again!”
---
By the time she reached the breakfast table, her hair was still wet, one sock was missing, and her backpack looked like it had survived a small explosion.
Her mother sighed. “Every morning with you is like a government operation.”
“Then you should be proud,” Kiara said, biting toast. “I’m efficient under pressure.”
“Efficient? You forgot your tie yesterday and wore two different shoes.”
Kiara chewed. “Details ruin creativity.”
Her dad peeked from behind the newspaper. “One day, creativity will ruin your grades.”
“Already working on it,” she said.
---
The clock struck 7:10.
The school bus honked outside — long, impatient, angry.
“Kiara!” her mother shouted.
“Relax! I’m just—” she stopped mid-sentence, realizing she’d forgotten her phone.
Then her notebook.
Then her ID card.
Then the toast in her mouth.
Within seconds, she was a blur of motion — running, tripping, laughing — as she dashed out the door, shouting to Aryan:
“Tell Mom I love her! And tell Dad I borrowed his charger again!”
---
The bus door slammed shut behind her.
She stumbled inside, breathless. The usual chaos greeted her — loud music, screaming friends, someone arguing about who took whose tiffin last week.
Rohan waved from the back seat. “You look like you wrestled a hurricane!”
Kiara flopped beside him. “I won.”
He laughed. “Barely.”
She smiled back, pulling her earphones on.
Outside, the morning mist of Dehradun blurred into sunlight.
Her dream flickered again — rain, a boy, that voice.
She shook it off. “Weird,” she whispered.
Rohan glanced at her. “What weird?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just a feeling. Like something’s about to start.”
---
And somewhere in another part of the city, a boy looked at his new school ID card — the name Aarav Mehra gleaming faintly under the light.
He exhaled slowly.
Somewhere, without knowing it, their worlds had already begun to move toward each other.