A Love Like Paper Flowers
Character Aesthetics
Manjari Srivastava
Manjari comes from a traditional Rajasthani Brahmin family—proud, private, and emotionally restrained. The marbel walls of her haveli have seen more tears than laughter and manjari carries those unshed tears in her heart.
She wasn’t the kind to turn heads when she walked into a room—
But the kind you kept thinking about long after she’d left.
Wheatish skin kissed by dusk, kohl-smudged eyes that always looked a little lost and a little brave.
Her hair? Always slightly undone, like her heart—tangled, soft, and honest.
Manjari didn’t chase attention.
She was quiet, but not invisible.
The kind of girl who forgot to eat but remembered your favourite poet.
Who never remembered to take her medicines,
but never forgot how people liked their coffee.
She was chaos in soft pastels.
Careless with herself, gentle with the world.
There was something deeply old-world about her—like pages of a forgotten diary, or a letter that smelled of rain.
She loved things the world had forgotten:
Handwritten letters with uneven ink,
Pressed flowers tucked between pages,
Mogra gajras wrapped around her wrist,
And ittars that whispered stories instead of shouting them.
Manjari didn’t need to speak loudly—
Her presence lingered in quiet corners,
Like the scent of sandalwood long after you’ve left the temple.
You wouldn’t call her perfect.
But she made you believe in imperfect, tender things.
She was proof that even the most quietly lived lives… leave echoes.
Neerav Mishra
20 year boy from the soulful ghats of Prayagraj
He was the kind of boy silence would sit beside—comfortably.
He spoke rarely, but when he did , even silence paused to listen
Neerav didn’t chase noise—he found meaning in the quiet.
Tall, with eyes that held unread poems, and a presence like the monsoon after a long dry spell.
Clad in simplicity—kurta-clad thoughts and soft-spoken words—he was rooted, rare, and real.
The boy who noticed when she hadn’t eaten, who texted “drink water” like a ritual,
Who carried his hurt in silence, never letting it echo in his tone.
He wasn’t just protective—he was presence.
A soul who didn’t just look at people—he understood them.
And when he heard her voice in that one random voice note
He knew…
This was the melody he could live with forever.
Srishti
A bubbly girl from Rajasthan itself who loved Manjari more than Pani Puri
Some people walk in like warmth, and without trying—become home.
Srishti wasn’t the kind of girl who needed a spotlight.
She was the soft light after a long day—warm, understanding, and achingly human.
With a laugh that reached her eyes, and words that always felt like comfort food.
She and Manjari met when both were learning to breathe through chaos.
In each other, they found familiarity—like forgotten lullabies that still calmed the heart.
Where Manjari was hesitant, Srishti was fire. Fiercely loyal, beautifully blunt.
The kind of girl who would call out your mess, but never leave your side while cleaning it.
She believed in soul connections, in long walks, in shared silence.
She had a soft corner for good poetry, bad coffee, and friends who remembered small things.
If Manjari was a pressed flower in a journal,
Srishti was the handwritten note beside it—messy, real, but full of soul.
