Author’s Note

Humara Internet Wala Pyaar is not just a love story—it’s a feeling many of us have lived without realising it. It’s about quiet connections, unread messages, late-night thoughts, and the comfort found in words written by a stranger who slowly stops feeling like one.

This story begins softly, just like most real emotions do. There is no rush, no dramatic confessions—only curiosity, hesitation, and the slow warmth of two souls finding each other through screens and sentences. It’s about how sometimes, the safest place to fall in love is between paragraphs, comments, and unsent drafts.

If you’ve ever re-read a message twice, smiled at a notification, or felt close to someone you’ve never met this story is for you.

Read it with patience.
Read it with heart.
Because some love stories don’t start with a meeting…
they start with a message. 🤍

9th February. Sunday. 7:00 AM.

The morning didn’t begin with excitement or chaos.
It began with a familiar laziness—the kind Sundays always brought with them.

I’m Aadhya Shrivastava. Seventeen. A 12th-class PCM student. I’ve taken dummy admission to prepare for CLAT.

I blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before registering the soft vibration under my pillow.

My alarm.

Again.

I pulled my phone out, squinting at the bright screen.

7:00 AM | Sunday

My mind whispered, Five more minutes, but growing up in a middle-class Indian home meant five more minutes didn’t exist. Not when the house started moving at 6 AM, and not when responsibilities waited for me like unfinished homework.

I pushed myself up, rubbing my face with both hands, letting out a tiny groan. My hair—messy and soft—fell over my shoulders as I stood up from the bed.

My room was a world I had built myself. CLAT books stacked neatly, sticky notes of legal maxims stuck on the wall, my favourite novels arranged on the shelf, and my notebook… the one I wrote in every night.

I stretched my arms, walked to the window, and pushed the curtains aside.

The morning sun wasn’t too bright yet—just gentle, pale gold, enough to make me feel awake. February had that kind of cold where sweaters were optional but chai wasn’t.

I stared outside for a moment.

And then my gaze returned to my phone.

New notifications.

Mostly normal.

But then… my eyes lingered on something I never admitted out loud.

1 new post from Author_Ekansh.

The name alone was enough to make my heart drop straight to my stomach.

Haan… phir post daal di usne.

I wasn’t obsessed.
No.
I was just… intrigued.

Because for the past three weeks, I had been observing a profile.

A male author. Rare scene, of course.

Someone who wrote a royal love story so beautifully that it crawled into my mind like a song I couldn’t stop humming.

Someone whose words felt like silk—smooth, meaningful, uncomfortably addictive.

Someone named Ekansh Oberoi.

I had never spoken to him.
Never reacted to his posts.
Never commented.

But I read everything.

Every caption.
Every story.
Every two-line quote he posted on alternate days.

I didn’t know why I noticed him.
Or why his writing felt familiar.
Or why my fingers hovered over the message button almost every night.

I just knew… I liked reading him.

Maybe more than I should.

But I wasn’t going to message him.

Of course not.

I’m only seventeen, man. I shouldn’t think about a boy, for God’s sake, I reminded myself.

And he’s—whatever he is. Popular? No. Talented? Of course. Out of my league? For sure.

I shook my head.

Back to reality.

I began my morning routine quickly—brushing, washing my face, tying my hair into a low ponytail. I changed into a simple t-shirt, grabbed the steel glass of warm water my mother kept on the kitchen slab every morning, and walked toward the living room.

My grandfather was sitting on his bed, wrapped in his woollen shawl, looking at me with soft eyes. He always looked at me like that because, of course, I was his princess. His little princess.

“Uth gayi, beta?” he asked, his voice feeble yet warm.

“Haan, Dadu,” I smiled.

I moved to the kitchen and made tea—two cups.

One for me.
One for him.

I returned to Dadu’s room and sat beside him. I poured the tea into a bowl and held it to his lips, letting him sip slowly because his hands trembled too much to hold it himself anymore.

This was our ritual.

I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

“Achhi bani hai,” he whispered.

I smiled.

For me, this was the best part of mornings.

I finished tea with him, listened to him talk about how February sunlight was the best, how winters were kinder this year, how I should revise Legal GK more. I nodded, laughing softly at the last one.

At 8:10 AM, I finally sat at my study table.

The table lamp was still on even though the sun had taken over the room. An open CLAT module lay before me—Reading Comprehension, my favourite section.

I started studying.

Slowly.
Steadily.
Diligently.

Every now and then, my phone buzzed.

Class group.
Notifications.
Random reels.

A fellow writer friend posting about a new chapter.
Girls discussing something loudly on the school WhatsApp group.
Everything… normal.

Yet my eyes wanted to open Instagram.
Wanted to check if he posted again.
Wanted to read the next royal love story update he’d shared.

I didn’t.

Not now.

At 10:58 AM, I stretched my arms and stood up.

A minute later, the doorbell rang.

“Abee yaar ab kaun aa gaya? Ye Sunday se sirf mujhe guests ki wajah se nafrat hai.”

“Aadhya!” my mother called. “Zara dekho kaun aaya hai!”

And as expected—guests.

I opened the door to find a middle-aged couple, relatives I barely remembered meeting. The next two hours melted away into polite smiles, serving water, bringing biscuits, talking about school, marks, future, marriage—because of course Indian relatives don’t miss opportunities, even after knowing I’m just seventeen.

After some time, I stood beside my mother in the kitchen, helping cut fruits and arrange plates for the guests.

It was boring.
But I did it.
Quietly.
Responsibly.
No complaints.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I checked it quickly.

Girls GC: Pagal Khana.

And you know what the topic was?

Ekansh Oberoi.

The fact was, he wasn’t even that famous, but these days he was in talks. And to be honest, I hated that. I hated that other female authors talked about him. That one or two of them had even messaged him.

But I hadn’t.

Even if I decided to text him, what was the guarantee he’d reply?
What if he didn’t?
What if he replied rudely?
What if he felt like I was bothering him?

I was getting frustrated.

So I texted my saviour—Nishi Agarwal.

“Bhai kya karu, bahut buri wali urge ho rahi unko message karne ki.”(Aadhya)
“To kar lo na bhai, usme itni badi baat kya hai?”(Nishi)
“Par kya msg karu?” (Aadhya)
“Bol de ‘Hey I read your story, big fan of yours.’” (Nishi)
“Bhakk!! Main nahi bol rahi. Should I promote my book in his DM?” (Aadhya)
“Haan, ye bhi kar sakti hai.” (Nishi)
“Okay, try karti hu.” (Aadhya)

My heart skipped. It was beating loudly.

I looked up—Maa was busy stirring dal.

I typed again.
“No. I’m not messaging him 💀” (Aadhya)
“Why??” (Nishi)
“I don’t know him.” (Aadhya)
“EXACTLY bhai. That’s the whole point.” (Nishi)
“Bro message him, you won’t die 💀💀” (Nishi)

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

My heart was already doing stupid somersaults.

I opened Instagram.

His profile.

Ekansh Oberoi
Author.
That’s the thing about books—they help you escape without even moving.

My face warmed.

I clicked the newest post.

A two-line excerpt:

“She wasn’t a queen yet,
But she made the palace kneel.”

I exhaled sharply.

Why did he write like this?
Why did words feel different coming from him?

I stared for a long minute.

Nishi spammed:
MESSAGE HIM.
MESSAGE HIM.
MESSAGE HIM!!!

I bit my lip.

My thumb hovered over the message button.

My heart whispered, Do it.
My mind whispered, Don’t.
My heartbeat whispered, Please do.
My self-doubt whispered, Why would he reply to you?

My fingers trembled.

Then, in one breath of reckless courage, I tapped—

MESSAGE.

The chat box opened.

Blank.
Intimidating.
Terrifying.

I pasted my book’s Wattpad link and typed slowly.

“Hey. This is my book link. I hope you'll give my book a chance and I hope you will support it.”

I stared at it.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted again.

Finally, I inhaled deeply and wrote:

“Hey. First of all I’m sorry for sliding into your DMs like this. But this is my book link. I hope you’ll give my book a chance and I hope you will support it. You can give me your book link too, let’s support each other.”

Simple.
Safe.
Not too desperate.

My thumb hovered over Send.

My heart thudded.
My breath stuck.
My entire body froze.

And before I could overthink anymore—

I hit SEND.

The message went.

Just like that.

A tiny notification flew across digital space.

My stomach twisted.
My cheeks burned.
My soul left my body.

I locked my phone and shoved it into my pocket immediately.

Maa looked at me. “Kya hua?”

“Nothing!” I squeaked, too fast.

My pulse was racing.

I messaged him.
I actually messaged him.

Since the guests were still present, I kept serving chapatis and coming back again and again, checking my phone, hoping—terrified—to see a reply.

And somewhere, in a hostel room, on another phone screen, a notification lit up:

“Aadhyaverse sent you a message.”

And that was how something—or maybe nothing—was about to begin.

It was Sunday morning, yet my day began no differently from the rest of the week.

The alarm rang at six—sharp and unforgiving. I groaned softly, one arm fumbling blindly across the bedside table until my fingers found my phone. For a moment, I lay there staring at the ceiling, eyes heavy, mind already crowded with thoughts. Sundays were supposed to be slow, but my mind had never understood the concept of rest.

Eventually, I pushed myself out of bed, my feet touching the cold floor. The room was unusually quiet—no rush, no footsteps in the corridor, no hurried voices. Aarav was still asleep, sprawled messily on his bed, breathing evenly. I glanced at him briefly before heading to the washroom.

The splash of cold water against my face woke me up properly. I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back neatly, and looked at my reflection for a few seconds longer than usual. Dark circles hinted at late nights and overthinking, but there was a calm steadiness in my eyes. After a quick shower, I changed into a simple t-shirt and track pants—comfort over appearance, always.

Before stepping out, I stood near the window. The campus looked different on Sundays. Softer. Slower. The early morning sun filtered through the trees, birds chirping freely as if they owned the place. I took a deep breath, letting the silence sink in.

Mess time.

I nudged Aarav lightly.
“Uth jaa, mess chalna hai.”

He groaned, turned to the other side, then finally sat up with half-open eyes. We walked together to the mess, my hands tucked into my pockets. The air was cool, the path nearly empty. No discussions about classes or deadlines today—just lazy comments, random jokes, and comfortable silence in between.

Breakfast was simple. I ate quietly, lost in my own thoughts, occasionally listening to Aarav rant about how Sundays ended too fast. I only smiled faintly. I had never been good at wasting time worrying about the end of things.

Back in the room, I made my bed properly—an old habit I never let go of. I pulled out my books and laptop, arranging them neatly on the desk. Sunday or not, I had things to catch up on. Notes to revise. Work that couldn’t wait.

Yet, somewhere between reading lines and underlining points, my attention drifted. My phone lay beside my notebook. I picked it up, unlocked the screen, and subconsciously opened a familiar app. A profile I do not check too often.

I didn’t open any chat. I just scrolled, read a post, re-read a line that felt a little too close to my heart. A small smile curved my lips before I locked the phone again and placed it face down.

Focus, Ekansh.

I leaned back in my chair, adjusted my glasses, and returned to studying. Outside, the sun climbed higher, filling the room with warm light. Inside, I sat quietly, balancing discipline with feelings I hadn’t yet learned to name.

That was my Sunday morning—calm on the outside, thoughtful on the inside, moving forward one page at a time.

Near 11:30, I found myself scrolling through Instagram. Honestly, this app sucks. I don’t even know half of its features. I was supposed to write my book’s chapter too, but since the target for the chapter wasn’t completed, I wasn’t feeling motivated enough to write anything at the moment.

As I scrolled randomly, a message from an account @aadhyaverse popped up on my screen.

I looked at it for a moment.

Who’s she?
And why is she messaging me?

Let’s see what the message is.

I opened the chat.

Book promotion.

Again.

But then I read the message attached with the book link:

“Hey. First of all I’m sorry for sliding into your DMs like this. But this is my book link. I hope you’ll give my book a chance and I hope you will support it. You can give me your book link too, let’s support each other.”

At least she told me to send my book link too. Otherwise, I usually only received book links where I was expected to support others’ work while they didn’t even bother to read mine.

I thought for a minute and then replied:

“Okay, I’ll read it as soon as I get time to do so.”
“Thank you so much for thinking of supporting my book too. That’s really nice of you.”
“But my book is not completed. I’ve only written eight chapters.”

As soon as I hit send, the message went—and it showed Seen just now instantly.

It felt like she was waiting for my reply.
Never mind.
I closed the chat.

A few seconds later, another message popped up.

I opened it.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Read it when you’re free.”
“Same here. Mine is also not completed.”
“If you don’t mind, let’s know each other more.”

Know each other more? Why?
What’s the need?

But obviously, I couldn’t say that.

So I replied.

“Yeah, sure.”
“Bataiye, kya jaana hai aapko?”

“Umm… your name? Age? School or college?”

I replied honestly.

“Myself Ekansh Oberoi, 19, BTech student from Mechanical branch, first year.”
“What’s your age?”

“I am seventeen.”

She is a kid bhai.
“You are a college student?”

Of course, man.
If I just told you I’m a first-year student, then what’s the need to ask that again.

But ofcourse I replied "Yes, I am."

The moment my phone vibrated again, my heart dropped.

I was standing in the kitchen, holding a plate in one hand, my mind half-present, half-panicking. I wiped my palm on my t-shirt before tapping on his message, my fingers trembling just a little.

Seen.

My breath hitched.
He saw it.
He actually saw it.

For a second, I just stared at the screen, scared to open the chat. What if he left it at seen? What if that was it? What if this was the exact moment my overthinking won?

Then another vibration.

A reply.

My chest tightened as I opened the chat.

Okay, I’ll read it as soon as I get time to do so.
Thank you so much for thinking of supporting my book too. That’s really nice of you.
But my book is not completed. I’ve only written eight chapters.

I read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time—slowly, word by word, as if the message might disappear if I blinked.

He replied.

Politely.
Warmly.
Normally.

Not rude.
Not dismissive.
Not cold.

I didn’t even realise I was smiling until my cheeks started hurting.

God. He sounds… nice.

My heart was racing, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something lighter. Softer. Like relief mixed with a tiny spark of happiness I wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet.

Eight chapters.

I smiled again.

So he was struggling with consistency too.

He’s human, my mind whispered, oddly comforted by that thought.

I typed my reply quickly, before I could overthink myself into silence again.

Yeah, it’s okay. Read it when you’re free.
Same here. Mine is also not completed.

I hit send.

The moment the message went through, my heartbeat spiked again.

Why did talking to him feel like standing on the edge of something unknown? Then, without much thought—but with a lot of nervous courage—I typed the next line.

If you don’t mind, let’s know each other more.

The second I sent it, I froze.

Why did I say that?
Why did I say that?
WHY DID I SAY THAT?

I locked my phone instantly and shoved it back into my pocket as if it had burned me.

“Aadu, roti leke aa!” my mother called.

“Haan aa rahi hoon!” I replied, my voice a little too high.

I served the guests, nodded at conversations I wasn’t listening to, my mind stuck on one thing—what if he finds it weird?

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

I almost dropped the spoon.

I turned my back to the kitchen counter and pulled my phone out discreetly.

Yeah sure.
Bataiye, kya jaana hai aapko?

I stared at the message, my heart doing the dumbest little flip.

He didn’t ignore it.
He didn’t dodge it.
He agreed.

I swallowed.

Okay. Calm down, Aadhya.
This is normal.
Just two human talking.

Still… my fingers felt light as I typed.

Umm… your name? Age? School or college?

A few seconds passed.

Then his reply came.

Myself Ekansh Oberoi, 19, BTech student from Mechanical branch, first year.
What’s your age?

I smiled at my screen like an idiot.

Ekansh Oberoi.
Nineteen.
Engineering.

My brain immediately noted everything, as if it mattered more than it should.

I replied

I am seventeen.
You are a college student?

The moment I sent it, I realised how stupid that sounded.

Obviously he is, Aadhya.

I groaned silently, pressing my forehead lightly against the kitchen cabinet. But even with the embarrassment, something inside me felt… warm.

Because this wasn’t just a message anymore.

It was a conversation.

And for the first time, the name Ekansh Oberoi didn’t feel like just a username on my screen.

It felt real.

And that scared me a little.

But it excited me too.

But could excitement really survive in a house where there was only work—work, and more work?

No.
Absolutely not.

The moment I thought of replying properly, of feeling that tiny flutter in my chest for a little longer, reality crashed in.

“Aadhya!” Papa called from the living room.

I sighed internally and walked out. The guests were leaving. Smiles, folded hands, polite goodbyes—everything on autopilot. One of them pressed some money into my palm.

I looked down later.

Twenty rupees.

Yes.
Twenty.

I almost laughed.

Chhodo, I told myself. What difference does it make?
At least Maggie would come out of it. Or maybe half a plate of momos if I felt fancy.

The door closed behind the guests, and just like that, the house demanded me back.

Plates on the dining table.
Cups in the sink.
Crumbs on the floor.
Living room looking like a small war zone.

I cleaned everything. Wiped the table. Arranged the cushions. Swept the floor. No complaints. This was normal. This was my life.

Then I went to Dadu.

He sat quietly, waiting, his food untouched. He couldn’t eat by himself anymore. I sat beside him, fed him slowly, patiently, making sure every bite went down properly.

“Aram se, beta,” he said softly.

“I know, Dadu,” I smiled.

Moments like these grounded me. Pulled me back from the floating world of notifications and unread messages.

After everything was finally done—after the house looked calm again—I went to my room.

For the first time since morning, there was silence.

I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling again, phone resting beside me. My body felt tired in that dull, heavy way that only comes from doing too much without stopping.

I thought of him.

Ekansh.

His reply.
His words.
The way he had actually taken the time to respond.

A small smile crept onto my lips before I could stop it.

But my eyes were closing.

I slept.

Not deeply.
Not peacefully.
Just enough.

Because of course, I had tuition in the evening.

When I woke up, the room was slightly darker. Afternoon slipping toward evening. My phone lay exactly where I’d left it. No new notifications.

I sat up, tying my hair again, my thoughts already drifting back.

I’ll text him again, I promised myself.
Shaam ko. Himmat karke.

Because even in a house full of responsibilities, even in between work and duty and exhaustion—

Somewhere, quietly, something had already begun.

First of all if you liked the chapter then please do like the chapter and leave your review in the comment section.

This chapter is just the beginning soft, hesitant, and quiet. Nothing extraordinary happened, yet everything changed. Sometimes, the most important moments don’t arrive with noise they slip in gently, through a message, a reply, or a simple “yeah, sure.”

If this chapter felt slow, it was meant to be. Real connections rarely rush. They grow in pauses, in overthinking, in small courage-filled decisions that seem insignificant at first.

Thank you for reading and for trusting this story. Stay with Aadhya and Ekansh because this internet wala pyaar is only starting to unfold. 🤍