Nihal's POV
She noticed.
Of course she did.
I'd been quieter all day.
Not sulking. Just… distant.
Like I was watching the world from behind glass.
Meher caught up with me outside the library, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
"You okay?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah."
She didn't believe me.
Later, in the common room, she sat beside me on the couch, close enough that our knees touched.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked again.
I nodded again. "Just tired."
She didn't believe me then either.
It wasn't until that evening, when we were walking back to the hostel and the sky had turned the color of bruised lavender, that she stopped, turned to me, and asked one last time.
"Nihal. What's wrong?"
I stopped walking.
The words had been pressing against my chest all day, and now they spilled out.
"I hate how invisible I feel sometimes. I hate watching you laugh with Aryan and Vedant and wondering if I ever made you smile like that. I hate pretending I'm fine when I'm not. I get jealous—not because I don't trust you, but because I don't know where I stand. I feel like I'm orbiting you, hoping you'll notice, hoping you'll choose me. And I know it's messy and unfair and maybe even selfish, but I love you. I love you so much it scares me. And I didn't know how to say it until now."
I looked at her, eyes burning. "I think I've been in love with you for longer than I've known how to say it. It's not just the way you sketch or the way you listen—it's the way you exist, quietly, like you're holding the world together without asking for credit. I feel safe when you're near, and lost when you're not. And I know I'm not perfect, but I swear, every time I look at you, I want to be better. Not for the world—for you."
She didn't speak.
She stepped forward and hugged me—tight, trembling, like she'd been holding something in too.
Her voice cracked as she whispered, "I love you too, Nihal. I've loved you quietly, patiently, and maybe even stubbornly. I didn't say it before because I thought you needed time. But I've been waiting. And I see you. I've always seen you."
She was crying.
"I love you, Nihal," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I've loved you quietly, for months. I didn't say it because I was scared—not of you, but of what it might mean. You come from a world that's different from mine. You don't talk about it, but I see it—in the way you never check prices, in the way your shoes are always new, in the way you offer to pay without thinking twice. And I come from a world where every rupee is counted, where I've learned to fold dreams into corners so they don't take up too much space. I thought maybe you'd love someone easier. Someone who didn't carry the weight of budgeting emotions. But you kept showing up. You kept seeing me. And somewhere between your silences and your softness, I realized I didn't have to hide anymore. I love you—not in spite of our differences, but because you made me believe they didn't have to divide us."
So was I.
We stood there, wrapped in each other, the sky darkening above us, the world softening around us.
And in that moment, everything felt like it had finally landed where it belonged.
Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I held her like I'd been waiting my whole life to do it.
She cried quietly into my shirt.
I pressed my cheek against her hair, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping me grounded.
"I thought you'd never say it," she whispered.
"I thought I'd ruin it if I did."
"You didn't."
We stayed like that—wrapped in each other, the world quiet around us.
Her fingers traced slow circles on my back.
I kissed the top of her head, once, gently.
She looked up, eyes red but glowing. "You're mine now."
I smiled. "I always was."
And just like that, the ache turned into something softer.
Not perfect.
But finally ours.