Ayana.
A name that tasted like morning sunlight and felt like a soft hymn whispered after Sunday mass. At 23, she was not just a girl she was an emotion, a vibe, the kind of presence that made even silence feel less lonely.
She lived in a small, humming corner of a middle-class neighborhood, where the church bell rang at six and the smell of puttu and curry leaves drifted from kitchen windows. Her home was simple, two rooms upstairs, a squeaky wooden staircase, and a small prayer corner filled with flickering candles. Her parents were warm, grounded people who believed more in good hearts than good fortunes. And then there was Aaron her younger brother, a 10th-grade hurricane who danced like nobody was watching and ate like the world was ending.
Ayana was curvy, yes. But not the kind of curvy people whispered about—more like the kind that made sweaters look softer, and laughter feel fuller. She had eyes that twinkled when she talked about books, and a laugh that came straight from the belly. Though she often blended into crowds, around the right people she glowed.
Her best friends, Nithin and Aryan, had known her since she was a tiny thing in oversized shoes. Both orphans, both chaos in their own right, they had grown into strong men with even stronger bonds to her. Nithin was sarcastic and sharp, with a heart he pretended not to have. Aryan was gentler, the calm to Nidin’s storm. Around them, Ayana became someone else louder, wittier, a total clown.
“Oh, so now I’m the driver too?” Nithin would say as she slid into the back seat of his bike without asking.
“You have muscles, use them,” she’d shoot back, sticking her tongue out.
And with Aryan, it was constant mock debates on who would survive a zombie apocalypse Ayana insisted she’d be the final girl. Aryan would just shake his head and mutter, “You’d probably try to befriend the zombies.”
They had shared everything—banana chips, heartbreaks, bad poetry, and playlists titled Songs to Cry and Eat Cake To.
She was studying to be a teacher not because it was safe, but because she loved the idea of shaping minds with stories and chalk dust. Each day was a little routine of tea, bus rides, doodled notes, and dreams that grew in quiet corners.
To strangers, Ayana was just another girl walking with her head down and her earbuds in. But those who truly saw her—saw joy. Saw a girl who laughed so hard she snorted, who sang terribly but with soul, who could lift spirits with just one meme or a dramatic re enactment of a Malayalam movie scene.
She never looked for love. She wasn’t even sure she believed in it. But love… well, it had a funny way of finding people like her—when they least expected it.
And so begins the story of Ayana—the girl with a sunshine name, a stormy laugh, and a heart as soft as her favorite blanket.
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