Arohi's POV
I hadn't planned to think about him after leaving class.
I'd done what I came to do—sat beside him, smiled once, left before the silence could turn into something else.
But the silence followed me.
It clung to my wrist as I turned pages in my notebook.
It hovered behind my shoulder as I tried to revise thermodynamics.
It echoed in the way I kept replaying his stillness, his distraction, the way his pen never moved.
I told myself it was working.
That he was unraveling.
That I was in control.
And then Meher knocked on my door.
She didn't wait for permission.
She walked in, sat on my bed, and looked at me like she already knew.
"You smiled at him," she said.
I didn't answer.
She picked up my pen, twirled it once, then set it down. "He didn't take notes."
"I noticed."
Meher tilted her head. "You did more than notice."
I closed my notebook. "It's part of the strategy."
She nodded slowly. "I know. But you looked back."
I met her eyes. "It was a moment."
She leaned forward. "Moments become patterns. Patterns become feelings. And feelings… they blur the edges."
I stayed quiet.
Meher's voice softened. "You're brilliant, Arohi. You know how to move people without touching them. But don't fall too seriously."
I blinked. "I'm not falling."
She smiled, but it wasn't amused. "Not yet. But I've seen the way you write about him. It's not just rivalry anymore. It's curiosity. And curiosity is dangerous when it starts to care."
I looked away. "I'm still focused."
"I believe you," she said. "But I also know you. You feel deeply. You just hide it better than most."
Her words sat heavy in the room.
She stood, walked to the door, then paused. "Just remember—he's not the goal. The rank is. Don't lose yourself trying to bend someone who might already be bending toward you."
And then she left.
I sat there, notebook closed, pen still warm from her fingers.
I hadn't fallen.
But something inside me had leaned forward.
Just slightly.
And I wasn't sure if I'd noticed it too late.