The day had been slow, dragging in that strange way where nothing seemed urgent but everything felt like it was about to tip over.
Aarya was halfway down the main corridor when she saw them.
Mohan.
Ms. Iqbal.
They were standing near the row of tall wooden cabinets that ran along the side wall, half in shadow from the dusty window blinds. Their heads leaned slightly toward each other, voices so low that Aarya couldn't even tell who was speaking.
From where she stood, it didn't look like an exchange about exam timetables or staff meetings. It looked… close.
Too close.
Mohan's posture wasn't the usual relaxed, almost sloppy stance she'd seen when he wandered into class to collect forms. He was upright, shoulders angled in toward Ms. Iqbal as though they were sharing something private.
She had just enough time to register it before Ms. Iqbal glanced up and for a moment, Aarya thought their eyes met.
She turned away quickly, pretending to study the noticeboard on the opposite wall. Her eyes darted over the faded posters about scholarship deadlines and last year's sports day winners, though she couldn't recall a single word written on them.
As she walked past, she caught the faintest thread of sound from their conversation.
"…we can't tell the students yet."
Her steps slowed, but she didn't stop. The words wrapped themselves around her thoughts, burrowing deep.
We can't tell the students yet.
Not don't tell, but can't tell. As if there was some planned moment, a time when they would.
The bell rang, cutting her train of thought, and she found herself heading toward the library instead of her classroom.
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Sid was already there, leaning back in one of the old wooden chairs, a paperback balanced across his knee. His bag was slouched against the table leg like it had given up on life.
"Hey, you," he said with a grin that suggested he'd been waiting for her to show up. "I'm going to miss this library."
"Miss it?" she asked, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Yeah. Can't frequent it much after this."
Her brows pulled together. "Mind you… why?"
"I'm preparing for the NEET exam."
"The medical entrance one?"
"The very same." He closed his book and set it aside, expression softening. "I actually finished school a year ago. Was supposed to start college last year but… family calls, you know?"
"Well, well," she said, leaning her chin on her hand, "you look too smart to just be admin."
He smirked. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Not flattery. Observation."
"You're a humanities student, right? With maths?"
"Yeah."
"What's your plan? Are you judging or what?"
She laughed. "Honestly? I don't know. Everyone's always asking me, and I'm still figuring it out."
"That's fine. Just don't take too long, or life makes the choice for you." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Looks like your class is about to start. See you later?"
"Yeah. Good luck with the studying."
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By the time she reached her classroom, most of the seats were already filled. Bags thudded against chair legs, pages rustled, and someone at the back was still finishing their sandwich.
She had just slid into her chair when she felt a light tap on her back.
Turning, she found a girl she didn't recognize tall, with neatly plaited hair and bright eyes that seemed to size her up instantly.
"Hi, I'm Riya," the girl said. "So… how are you feeling so far? You know everyone here?"
"Uh… not really," Aarya admitted.
"Well, on Sundays a bunch of us meet to discuss ideas. Writing prompts, story bits, sometimes just random inspiration. Do you want to come tomorrow?"
Aarya hesitated. Her brain was still half tangled in Mohan's corridor conversation, Sid's "family calls," and now this unexpected invitation. But saying no felt like stepping out of a circle she hadn't even stood in yet.
"Sure," she said. "Where are we meeting?"
"I'll give you my number."
Riya fished out her phone and held it out. "Do you know Sid? That charmer boy?"
Aarya's mouth quirked. "Nope. A… friend?"
"Yeah, you could say that." Riya smiled knowingly. "Anyway, text me later."
Before Aarya could reply, Ms. Dutta swept in — and the atmosphere in the room shifted like someone had opened a window to let in a gust of unpredictable weather.
Ms. Dutta had a knack for making even the most relaxed students straighten in their chairs. Today, she was wearing a long scarf that seemed determined to slip off her shoulder, and every time it did, she'd toss it back in place with dramatic precision.
"Good afternoon, writers," she said, tapping the edge of her clipboard. "Today, we're going to do something different. Pair up. I don't care with who just don't take all day deciding."
Aarya found herself paired with Riya, who was already pulling out a notebook like she'd been waiting for this moment.
Ms. Dutta continued, "You have twenty minutes to write the opening of a story together. The catch? One person starts, the other continues without asking what the first was trying to do. Surprise each other. Push each other. This is not polite writing. This is creative collision."
There were groans, a few laughs, and the sound of chairs scraping as people turned to face their partners.
Riya looked at Aarya. "You start?"
"Okay."
She flipped open her notebook, twirling her pen once before putting it to paper. Without overthinking, she wrote:
The train had been moving for hours, but he still hadn't blinked.
She slid the notebook over to Riya, who scanned the line, grinned, and began to write. Her handwriting was quick, slanted — impatient but precise.
It wasn't the staring that bothered her. It was the fact that his reflection in the window smiled when he didn't.
Aarya's brows lifted. "Creepy."
"Good creepy or bad creepy?"
"Good creepy."
They passed the notebook back and forth, building a strange little tale about a woman on a night train, a man whose shadow seemed to move independently, and a series of whispered station announcements that didn't match the ones over the loudspeaker.
By the end of the twenty minutes, the story had taken on a life of its own eerie, disjointed, and oddly satisfying.
Ms. Dutta walked between the desks, glancing down at pages and occasionally making approving noises. When she reached theirs, she stopped, read a few lines, and smiled.
"Unexpected," she said. "I like unexpected. Keep it up.
By the time the bell rang, Aarya's head was buzzing. She stepped into the corridor, her thoughts still tangled around Mohan's low voice and Ms. Iqbal's serious expression.
The outside was bathed in a late-afternoon haze, voices rising in uneven bursts as students spilled out of classrooms.
Near the far wall, a boy crouched, striking a match. A thin curl of smoke rose from a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. The flame licked greedily at the edges before he dropped it to the ground and stamped it out, leaving only a smudge of ash.
Aarya recognized him from Ms. Dutta's class the same boy she'd overheard being told to "work on his writing."
She slowed, watching him shove the burnt scraps into his bag. Did he carry a matchbox everywhere just to destroy his work if someone didn't like it? The thought was strange… and, in a way, she almost admired the commitment. Maybe she should carry one too, she thought wryly, in case her own assignments needed a quick funeral.
But the unease lingered