The first time Aira met Kian, she was standing on her rooftop, blowing bubbles into the fading orange sky, when a paper plane smacked her right in the face.
She blinked, startled, as the little craft fluttered to her feet. Across the narrow alley between their buildings, a boy with tousled black hair and too-big glasses peeked over the edge of his rooftop and shouted, "Sorry! I was aiming for the air, not your head!"
She picked up the plane, unfolded it carefully, and read:
"I'm bored. Wanna be friends?"
Aira grinned. She didn't know his name yet, but something about his messy handwriting and crooked folding made her like him instantly.
She grabbed a crayon from her pocket and scribbled on the paper:
"Only if you promise not to crash into me again."
She folded it back up and launched it toward him. It didn't fly far, but he clapped like she'd just won a gold medal.
From that day on, the rooftops became their kingdom.
They were ten—too old to be toddlers, too young to understand anything else—but they had the sky. Every day, paper planes carried jokes, drawings, dreams. When it rained, they shouted through cups tied with string. When the wind was too strong, they yelled across the alley.
One of Kian's letters read:
"My parents keep fighting. It makes my stomach feel weird."
Aira sent back:
"Mine too. But I made a playlist that helps. Wanna listen?"
Another said:
"Promise you won't move away?"
She replied:
"Promise. Always."
Their world was small but perfect.
As they grew older, the planes became rarer. Phones replaced folded notes, and the rooftop meetings happened less. Kian got braces. Aira joined the school's drama club and started writing poetry on napkins. They were still best friends—sort of—but the silence between them grew like shadows at sunset.
At thirteen, Aira had her first crush. His name was Logan. Kian didn't like him, though he never said why. When Logan asked Aira to be his girlfriend, Kian started hanging out with the loud kids who rode skateboards and skipped class.
Still, at night, Kian would climb to his rooftop, hoping to see Aira brushing her hair or talking to the stars. Sometimes, she did. And sometimes, she saw him, too.
Once, after a school play, Aira stood outside the auditorium, cheeks flushed from applause. Kian had skipped it—like he always did—but when she walked home, there he was on her roof, holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
"I always believed you'd be amazing," he said.
"You should've come."
"I didn't want to cry in public."
She laughed. Then he said, quieter, "I like you, Aira."
She went still. "Kian…"
"It's okay," he said too quickly. "Wrong timing. I get it."
And just like that, the air between them changed.
Aira left for high school in another city on a scholarship. Kian stayed back, repeating a year he didn't pass. They texted at first. Then less. Then barely at all.
He started a band, dyed his hair, and played at smoky cafes. She studied hard, fell in love with a boy named Daniel who talked like the future and made her laugh with his terrible cooking. When he proposed at twenty-four, she said yes.
Kian found out through Instagram.
He didn't cry. He just lit a cigarette on his rooftop and stared at the horizon until the sun went down.
On her wedding day, Aira stood in front of a mirror, veil in place, makeup perfect. But her heart thudded strangely when her mother handed her a small box—inside it, old paper planes she had found while cleaning Aira's childhood room.
One had a scribbled line:
"When we're grown up, maybe we can run away and live on the clouds."
She smiled. And cried.
Kian got the wedding invitation in the mail. Maybe it was a mistake, or maybe she had sent it knowing he wouldn't come.
He didn't.
Instead, he folded a plane, the cleanest one he'd made in years, and wrote on its wings:
"I always thought we'd end up together. But I hope he loves you the way I never knew how to."
He stood on the edge of the old rooftop and threw it. The wind caught it, swirled it, and dropped it on the sidewalk.
Days later, Aira found it while walking her dog. She recognized his handwriting instantly.
She didn't pick it up.
She just looked at it for a long time before whispering, "I loved you, too. Just not at the right time."
Years passed.
They saw each other again by chance in a quiet bookstore. Aira wore glasses now. Kian had silver strands in his hair.
She was buying books for her son.
He was browsing for poetry.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them said "I missed you," but their silence said everything.
They went for coffee. Talked about the past like it was a dream they both remembered differently.
He asked, "Still chasing stars?"
She smiled. "Still folding planes?"
He pulled a small one from his coat pocket. It was blank. But on its wings was a little drawn heart.
She didn't cry this time.
She just said, "Thank you."
When they parted ways, Kian walked home slower, humming an old tune. Aira held the paper plane all the way back to her car.
She wouldn't keep it.
She'd let her son fly it later in the park.
Because some stories aren't meant to be kept in boxes.
Some stories are meant to soar.