Their hideout was unofficial but sacred - beside a misty pond at Delhi Zoo. Tucked under the wide, lazy sweep of a banyan tree. An old Mughal-style stone bench waited there, always.
The storks - silent and proud - glided over the pond like secrets that refused to be rushed.
One evening, the sky dimmed to copper and the drizzle returned. Shia arrived in a faded cotton kurta, two fingers clutching a jar of something wrapped in foil.
"Chocolate," she grinned. "Made them last night. Only slightly burnt."
They shared them like kids skipping tuition. Talking nonsense, eating too fast and laughing with mouths half-full. Their knees brushed. Their shoulders touched.
Something shifted.
She turned to him, lips still curved in a laugh.
He looked back - quietly, deeply.
Long enough for her smile to soften.
Long enough for the whole world to hush.
He gently cupped her cheek, more reverence than romance. His fingers trembled.
She leaned in. Eyes fluttering closed.
The kiss wasn't movie-perfect.
It was real.
It tasted like coffee and melted chocolate.
His thumb brushed her jaw. Her fingers curled around the collar of his shirt.
The rain didn't rush them. It wrapped around them.
Above them, the banyan whispered through the drizzle. The storks fluttered.
This wasn't just a kiss.
It was the kiss.
The kind you don't forget.
The kind that makes your heart stammer. The kind that etches itself into memory like poetry written with fingertips. The kind that feels like the universe giving you exactly one perfect moment to carry forever.