The night we met.

The neighborhood park was bustling that evening, the air alive with the sounds of children laughing, vendors calling out their wares, and parents trying to keep their kids in check. Eleven-year-old Aarohi Sharma sat on a bench, swinging her legs impatiently as she waited for her parents to finish chatting with the new neighbors.

She was bored. New city, new house, and now a new set of parents’ friends who couldn’t stop talking about how “nice the community was.” Aarohi didn’t care. She missed her old school, her old friends, and her favorite ice cream shop that wasn’t anywhere near this place.

“Move,” a voice commanded, breaking her sulk.

She looked up to see a boy her age standing there, holding a frisbee in one hand and glaring at her.

“Excuse me?” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“This is our bench,” he said matter-of-factly. “We always sit here after we play.”

Aarohi glanced around and saw several boys behind him, all looking at her expectantly. The leader of the pack, clearly, was this bossy boy with floppy hair and a scowl on his face.

“And?” she said, crossing her arms.

“And you need to find another bench,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Aarohi stood up, dusting off her dress. “Fine,” she said sweetly. Then she picked up the frisbee from his hand and flung it as hard as she could.

The boys watched in stunned silence as the frisbee sailed over the park fence and disappeared into the bushes beyond.

“Oops,” Aarohi said, her tone still sugar-sweet.

The boy blinked at her, his jaw dropping slightly. “What —why did you—”

“You should’ve asked nicely,” she said, brushing past him.

For a moment, the boys just stood there, staring after her in disbelief. Then the leader turned back to his friends.

“Who is she?” one of the boys whispered.

“Trouble,” the leader muttered, his scowl deepening.

---

Later that evening, Aarohi was in the kitchen, helping her mom unpack plates, when the doorbell rang. A few minutes later, she heard her dad call out, “Aarohi, come here!”

She walked into the living room and froze.

Standing there, glaring at her like she’d personally ruined his life, was the boy from the park.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Gill,” her dad was saying cheerfully. “And this is their son, Shubman. Aarohi, they live just down the street!”

“Oh,” Aarohi said, her tone flat.

Shubman folded his arms. “You owe me a frisbee,” he said bluntly.

“You owe me some manners,” she shot back.

Their parents laughed, oblivious to the silent war waging between their children.

“Well, isn’t this wonderful?” Mrs. Sharma said. “You two are the same age. I’m sure you’ll be the best of friends!”

Both Aarohi and Shubman turned to glare at their respective parents.

“Not happening,” they said in unison.