"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME TODAY'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?" He crosses his arms and tilts his head ever so slowly, movements so calm and fluid that I immediately react oppositely.
"It's— not," I lie, darting straight into flight or fight mode. Deny, deny, deny. Which fails miserably because Aryan regards me like he wants nothing more than to laugh.
Asshole.
I glare, ears ringing as my mind rushes to concoct another plan of action that does not involve Aryan Shankar smiling at me like I'm his favourite Netflix special while telling me foolish things like Happy Birthday.
My body moves before my brain. Feet sailing across the bathroom tile, I retreat a sharp step back, only to knock right into the very small onlooking child who possesses, I soon learn, a very whiny voice.
"Hey!" Shreya complains in the whiniest pitch known to man. I visibly wince.
I feel his eyes on me, even as I dart around, back to him, and hastily, clumsily steady her by her small shoulders. This annoys her even more because she darts out of my hold with a deadly glower.
I try to offer some mumbled one-worded apology but I'm distracted by the muted, knowing amusement of his gaze on my back. Skin prickling, I halfway conclude my apology, then I'm straightening and fleeing out the door like a fired canon.
Generally speaking, when a boy smiles at you and makes your heart flutter like a wild, caged bird in your chest on your birthday, you're not supposed to respond violently.
But then again, nobody's perfect.
My new plan of action: Violence. Murder. Vengeance.
Already glaring, I storm out the bathroom on hot heels.
Behind me, there comes a shuffle as Aryan, sensing brewing animosity, makes to slow me.
I'm faster though, breaking into the hallway and seeing nothing but red.
Not the pink handprints on the walls, no. I see red.
Red like the blood of my traitorous, backstabbing best friend who I would hate to have to kill in front of his girlfriend.
Doesn't mean I still won't do it.
"You," it's a fierce snarl ripping from my lips at Dima's back as I stomp across the hardwood.
