Quite Hearts

“Everyone has a dream, right?

Or at least, they’re supposed to.

But what if you don’t?

Or worse-what if you have one, and the world keeps asking you to prove that it deserves to exist?

What if your dream wants to prove itself worthy of reality… and you’re just trying to keep up?”

My desk was a disaster.

Half-empty coffee mug, three pens that didn’t work, a stack of crumpled Post-its that were supposed to hold “genius ideas” but mostly had grocery lists. My laptop sat in the middle of it all, screen glowing with a blank document titled: College Application Essay – Draft 1. The cursor blinked at me like it was mocking me.

I’ve always wanted to study in New York-a place that feels big enough for dreams like mine. A college where stories matter, where words can actually build something. But my parents don’t see it that way. To them, literature isn’t a future; it’s a phase I’m supposed to grow out of.

Somewhere between the shouting matches and the silence that followed, the fight stopped being between us and turned into something quieter-something inside me.

To tell stories that move people, that help them find themselves-when half the time, I feel like I’m still searching for me?

I was supposed to be writing about transformation. Dreams. “What makes you you.” Except right now, what made me me was the fact that I’d been staring at this screen for twenty-three minutes and all I had typed was:

Dreams are…

And then nothing.

I leaned back in my chair, tapping my pen against my knee, scanning my room like maybe the answer would be hiding somewhere between my unmade bed and the bookshelf stuffed with novels I hadn’t finished. My curtains were drawn just enough to let in a sliver of pale afternoon light. The fan hummed lazily above me.

I thought about writing something honest, something about how I’d been the same person for so long it scared me. But instead, I just sighed, closed my eyes, and wondered how bad it would really be if I submitted the essay next week instead.

The next thing to find me wasn’t a thought at all, but a smell, sneaking in from the kitchen.

Warm, buttery, sharp with spice. My stomach growled so loudly it was practically a command. Dinner. Or maybe late lunch. Either way, I was suddenly very motivated… just not about the essay.

I slid out of my chair and headed for the door, already calculating the trip like I always did. before my momcould notice. I don’t want to fall in her eyes taking the lecture about future again.

One minute fifty-six seconds , that’s the average time it takes me to get all the way downstairs, grab my food, and race back to my room. I’ve timed it. Multiple times.

But that day, the clock stopped ticking.

A car had just pulled up, its engine cutting through the quiet like a clean rip in the air. A second later, a door shut with a dull thud, and then he appeared , a hoodie pulled low over his head, dressed head to toe in black. He didn’t pause. Just moved quickly toward the house next door, glancing around like he was looking for something. His room, maybe. Or a way out.

My feet froze the moment I saw him from our front door for the first time.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

But I did.

As his eyes started to scan the unfamiliar hallway through the open door, I slipped back into my room, heart in my throat, and peeked through the gap in my curtains. I watched him from behind the glass, half hidden, like a cliché movie stalker - but I couldn’t help it. I needed to know who he was.

And then-he looked up.

And saw me.

Our eyes met.

The hallway, the world, the rushing beat of time-everything around me stopped.

He had the kind of eyes that weren’t just dark brown, but warm, rich, deep,like burnt cinnamon and black coffee. Eyes you could fall into and never quite find your way out.

And they looked… familiar.

As if I’d seen them before. As if I was supposed to see them again.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All I could think about in that moment was how unfair it was that the world kept spinning. I wanted everything to freeze, just so I could stay there, looking at him for a few seconds more. Memorize the way those lashes framed his stare. The slight tilt of his head. The unreadable expression in his eyes that somehow made me feel both seen and invisible.

It was only a moment, no more than four or five seconds, but it felt like the kind of moment that burrows into your memory without asking permission.

Then, just as suddenly, he broke the gaze. His eyes dropped, and he disappeared into a room, swallowed by the shadows of the hallway.

Out of sight.

But definitely not out of mind.

I closed my window, even though my mind kept drifting back to those beautiful dark brown eyes ,the way they met mine. I pushed the thought away, pulled my curtains tighter, and opened my laptop instead.

The blank document on my screen stared back at me: College Application Essay – Draft 1. I cracked my knuckles and tried to remember the prompt ,something about growth,dreams, transformation, what makes you you.

I typed a few words. Deleted them. Typed again. Then paused.

All I could see behind the blinking cursor were his eyes , dark, deep, somehow familiar.

I groaned, leaning back in my chair, and muttered out loud, “You just saw him, Beccaaaaa.” The words were half-scolding, half-pleading, like maybe if I said them hard enough, my heart would listen.

But of course, it didn’t. i wanna see him again.

I fiddled with the keys, typing nonsense now. Words that didn’t belong. Lines that didn’t flow. My focus was a million miles away. I pulled up a random tab ,music, memes, the weather , anything to shake the feeling off. But nothing helped.

The front door slammed shut downstairs, heavy enough to rattle the frame, just like always.

“Becaaa!” someone yelled , the voice half laughter, half breathless panic , and then the footsteps came, thudding up the stairs faster and louder, like a heartbeat pounding toward my room. I didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

“Beca!” she gasped when she burst through my door, her hair wild from running, cheeks flushed pink. She was clutching a piece of paper, waving it in the air like a flag.

Renu Singh.

My best friend since god knows when.

She was clutching a sheet of paper in her hand, waving it like a flag of victory. I barely had time to register anything before she leapt forward and wrapped me in a tight hug.

“What happened?” I asked, heart already picking up speed with hers, even before I knew what this was about.

She pulled back just enough to squeal, “Yes! Yes! YES!”

And then, like it was the most important thing in the world, she thrust the paper into my face.

I took it, smoothing it out, and read the words that were bolded at the top:

“Congratulations! You have been accepted into the National Institute of Fashion Design, Fall 2025.”

I looked up slowly, and she was grinning at me, tears welling in her eyes , the kind of tears that only come when a dream finally stops being a dream. Her black curls framed her glowing brown skin, and her gold nose stud caught the light just enough to sparkle, like the universe itself was proud of her.

“You did it,” I whispered, my voice catching. “Renu, you actually did it.”

She nodded, biting her lip like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m going, Beca. I’m actually going.”

I threw my arms around her again, laughing this time. “Ms. Renu Singh, future fashion icon!”

We both collapsed onto the bed, giggling, holding the acceptance letter like it was a treasure map. She pointed out the little details , the orientation dates, the scholarship mention, the city she’d be moving to. Every line was a step closer to the life she’d imagined for herself , ever since we were fifteen and she used to tape magazine cutouts all over her walls.

“You’re gonna change everything there,” I said, brushing her hair back. “They don’t even know what’s coming.”

She beamed. “Neither do you. You’re still stuck with me until September.”

“Lucky me.”

But really, I meant it. Because Renu wasn’t just my best friend. She was my anchor — the bright, beautiful chaos that made my grayscale world bearable. Even when I wanted to disappear into my own shadows, she pulled me back with nothing but her light. Her joy was the kind that spread like wildfire. The kind that made you believe, even for a second, that maybe life wasn’t always going to be this heavy.

I didn’t tell her all of that, of course. I just laughed and let her talk about what she’d wear on her first day and how she already had ideas for her first student collection.

But inside, I felt it , the warmth, the pride, the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be spoken. The kind that just lives quietly in your chest, blooming every time you see the person you love becoming who they were always meant to be.

And in that moment, the world didn’t feel quite so broken.

It felt, just for a little while, like home.

I glanced at the letter again, at her name printed at the top in bold letters: Renu Singh. The girl who made even the darkest days feel worth sticking around for.

“I think I know where to celebrate this,” I said, my grin matching hers now.

She tilted her head, curls swaying. “Where?”

I smirked. “You’ll see.”

We both burst into the same mischievous smile, the kind that meant trouble and joy in equal parts.