Mr. Kho answered, warm as ever. “Riya! What a nice surprise.”
“Hi, Mr. Kho. I’m just here to drop something off—Kian left his notebook in the library.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you. He’s around somewhere, I think. Come in, come in.” Mr. Kho moved aside, letting Riya in.
She stepped into the familiar scent of garlic and spices.
“Actually, Riya—can I ask you something?” Mr. Kho said suddenly, almost shyly, as he closed the door behind her.
“Of course.”
“When did you and Kian meet? He... never tells me anything.”
Riya adjusted her glasses, hesitating.
It wasn’t the question itself. It was the way he asked it—gentle, but probing. Like he was trying to fit her into a story he already half remembered.
“...Just a few weeks ago,” she said.
He tilted his head. “Funny. You remind me of someone. Someone Kian used to talk about a long time ago. I thought maybe...”
He trailed off, shaking his head. “Ah, never mind. Just an old man’s brain playing tricks.”
But Riya didn’t smile.
The memory hit hard this time—eighth grade, the bloodied knuckles, the weight of guilt that had never quite lifted. The way Kian had looked at her, that very first day.It’s you. Of course it’s you.
She’d dismissed it all before, convinced herself it was all just meaningless coincidence. But what if she was wrong? What if each was a sign, a thread she could no longer ignore?
She shook her head. Tightened the grip on his notebook. “Can I—can I talk to Kian...?”
“Of course.” Mr. Kho hesitated. “Although, I don’t know where—”
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Kian’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Riya?” His voice was scratchy, his eyes red-rimmed, skin pale. He looked like someone who hadn’t properly slept in days, maybe weeks.
“Hey.” She handed him the notebook, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “You left this at the library.”
He took it carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands. “My music notebook.Thank you, Riya,” he murmured. “You saved me. I was in the middle of working on something.”
Mr. Kho’s brow lifted. “Music? You’re still writing?”
“It’s nothing, Dad.”
“I just thought—” Mr. Kho paused, searching for the right words. “I thought you’d given it up.”
Kian’s jaw tensed. “I gave up on piano. Not music.”
His thumb circled the edge of the notebook. Riya wasn’t sure he even realized he was doing it.
A silence stretched—awkward, expectant.
Then Riya broke it.
“I’ve actually seen him writing in it. All the time.” She glanced at Kian. “He really cares about it.”
Kian looked away, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.
