The annual "Utsav" festival at our school was always a whirlwind of half-finished posters, the smell of samosas from the canteen, and the deafening sound of the music system being tested in the auditorium. But this year, the air felt different. It felt heavier, charged with a strange electricity that had nothing to do with the faulty wiring on the stage.

"Maya, if you step on my left sneaker one more time, I’m going to start charging you rent for the space," Aarav muttered, though his hands were steady as they rested on my waist.