Life had a strange way of moving fast and slow at the same time. I was in Bhopal, a city of lights and noise. Bela was back home in Madhya Pradesh, a place where the air smelled like rain. The distance should have made our bond weak, but it didn't. It became more beautiful, like a strong vine growing between two far-off towers.

Our talks got deeper. The short videos and secret messages turned into long talks about life. She asked about my daily life and my dreams. I told her about the quiet mornings in Bhopal and how school felt heavy. She told me about her town, the friendly neighbors, and the small parties. Every detail made me feel like I knew her better.

But she still teased me. Even with the distance, she would say playful things. One night, she wrote, "You know, Kartik, you're more loyal than him. No one really needs someone loyal like me, but maybe... I did." Her words made my heart feel both tight and happy. It was a joke, but it had a little truth in it. I wrote back something funny to keep the fun going, and we laughed.

Days passed. We still sent short videos, but now they had secret meanings: a quick look, a song, a line of a poem. She wrote little things that made me stop and think, like, "If I could hold the sunset in your eyes, the sun would never rise." It was fun to imagine a magical world just for us.

We started joking about our habits. "You," she typed, "take your coffee too seriously. But at least you're loyal." I shot back, "And you, Miss Bela, act tough, but I know the soft person inside. You are like a sharp sword hidden in silk." I could almost hear her laughter through the screen.

Even with all the fun, a little worry was always there. Who would text first? Who would test the other person? Every joke could turn into a serious moment. I waited for her messages with a fast-beating heart, and she was always ready, sending messages that were bold, shy, and dangerously playful.

We began sharing secrets. I told her about my school stress, and she shared her quiet fears. In these talks, the distance between us didn't matter. It was like a fantasy: two people far apart, but connected by something small and strong.

The jokes got bigger. One day she wrote, "Kartik, you think you can stay calm in front of me? You can't. You'll always stumble when I look at you." I didn't believe her at first, but her words stayed with me. Another day, she sent a song with bold words, and I had to reply with my own fun words.

We were careful with each other's feelings, but also daring. It was a balance—one wrong word and our little world could break. But that danger made it more exciting. It was like walking on glass over a deep hole, but neither of us wanted to stop.

By the end of this time, our talks weren't just about fun. They were like mirrors, showing us parts of each other's lives. I learned about her favorite spots in her town and the songs that made her dream. She learned about my small routines in Bhopal and the streets I walked when I needed peace.

Still, the suspense was there. Who would be the first to break the game? Every message had two sides—light words, but also the chance to open a deeper door. At the end of this time, I felt like I knew her better than anyone, but she was still a puzzle I couldn't solve.

The fantasy was not just in the poems or the imagined towns; it was in the feeling itself, in the things we didn't say, in the secret fun of knowing that one look could change everything. In the quiet of the night, I knew we had built a special world—small, fun, and close. Even with the miles between us, I felt completely and wonderfully a part of her story.