01 | war

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ARYAN AND I ARE DOING IT AGAIN.

No one else is aware of it.

It's like our own little game.

He flashes me a dark look and I debate kicking him under the table. I start saying something to Dima— poor Dima, my best friend who doesn't know that there's blood boiling under the surface of this little brunch—, and Aryan cuts in, with that careless tilt of mouth of his, leaving me to scoff under my breath. And then there's Kajal, perhaps the dreamiest human being I'd ever encountered. It was a wonder he was related to her, with her pretty dark eyes and colourful rayon dresses, and it was no surprise she'd hooked Dima in.

Today her dress was the colour of saffron, ruffled sleeves and polka dots, a braid, fraying apart prettily around her cheeks, strung over a shoulder. Kajal Shankar is sparkling like sunshine. I watch Dima every time she laughs and I can only describe the look that flutters across his face as love.

And she's laughing now. At something he is saying. Aryan grins, his elbows braced casually on the restaurant's oak table, cocking his head as he speaks with that lilting accent of his, stretching syllables and adding notes to everything for no apparent reason.

"Next thing I know, my mate is streaking across the campus with a White Claw, of all things, clutched in his hand, screaming about some woman named Rosita," Aryan finishes with a grin.

I roll my eyes and make sure he sees it. The scowl is barely there, underneath all his grins and bright eyes— this is a trait he shares with his cousin— but I see it nonetheless. And I smile, nothing but thrilled to have ticked him off.

Kajal, oblivious as is Dima, clamps a hand over her lips to restrain her giggles, but they slip past still, tingling and light and wrapping my best friend faster and faster within her web.

She drops her hand and questions Aryan, "I've never heard this one. Was it Raf?"

"It's always Herrera," came Aryan's sighed reply.

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