Mudit's POV
I wasn't looking for her.
But there she was—again.
Sitting on the low wall near the badminton court, legs crossed, notebook open, pen tucked behind her ear like she was trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
She saw me before I could look away.
"Twice in one week," she said. "You stalking me?"
I smirked. "You wish."
She patted the space beside her. "Come sit. I hope you not to psychoanalyze my handwriting today."
I sat.
The sun was low, casting long shadows across the court. A couple of juniors were playing half-heartedly, their rackets thudding against the ground more than the shuttle. Someone was singing off-key from a nearby room. The air smelled like dust and jasmine.
Riya flipped through her notebook, pages fluttering like wings.
Then she stopped on one.
A poem.
I didn't read it, but I saw the title: "The Girl Who Forgot How to Breathe."
"You write like you're trying to remember something," I said.
She glanced at me. "You always talk like you're trying not to be overheard."
"Maybe I like quiet," I said.
"Maybe I don't," she replied. "But I'm tired of being loud."
That surprised me.
Not because she said it.
But because she meant it.
I looked at her—really looked.
The gloss was still there.
The curated outfit, the perfect eyeliner, the practiced posture.
But her eyes were tired.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a human way.
Her eyes met mine.
Hazel.
Not brown.
Not amber.
Hazel.
The kind of color that shifts with the light.
That holds gold when she's laughing and green when she's guarded.
That looked at me now like I wasn't just passing through her day.
I froze.
Not visibly.
Just inside.
Because I'd seen those eyes before—across classrooms, in rehearsals, on posters advertising her next performance.
But I hadn't really seen them.
Not like this.
Not when they were quiet.
Not when they weren't trying to be anything.
"You know," I said, "you don't have to be interesting all the time."
She blinked. "What if I don't know who I am without it?"
I didn't answer.
Just leaned back, let the silence stretch.
Eventually, she spoke again.
"My friends think I'm fine. My followers think I'm thriving. And you—"
She paused.
"You just sit here like you see through it."
"I don't see through you," I said. "I see you. That's different."
She didn't respond.
But she didn't look away either.
A breeze picked up, rustling the notebook pages. One fluttered out and landed near my foot. I picked it up.
It wasn't a poem.
Just a list.
Things I'm scared to say out loud:
1.I don't always like who I am.
2.I feel replaceable.
3.I don't know if anyone would notice if I stopped trying.
I handed it back without a word.
She took it, folded it slowly, tucked it into the back of her notebook like it was something fragile.
"I didn't mean for you to read that," she said.
"I didn't mean to understand it," I replied.
She smiled.
Not the kind she wore in photos.
The kind that slipped out when she forgot to be careful.
"You're weird," she said.
"I'm quiet," I corrected.
"Same thing," she said, nudging my shoulder.
We sat there until the sun dipped below the hostel roof, until the juniors packed up their rackets, until the jasmine faded into night.
And when she stood up to leave, she didn't say goodbye.
She just looked at me and said, "Same time tomorrow?"
I nodded.
And that's how it started.
Not with a spark.
Not with a confession.
Just with a second glance.
And the kind of quiet that feels like safety.