Meher's POV
He sat beside me like he belonged there. Not with noise. Not with bravado. Just with presence.
I didn't look up immediately. I let my pencil move across the page, tracing the curve of a meditation dome, the outline of a garden path. But I felt him. The warmth of his coffee. The quiet of his breath. The way he didn't rush the silence.
When I finally glanced at him, I noticed the details.
A charcoal grey shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. Faded jeans, clean but lived-in. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run his hands through it while thinking too hard. And his eyes—they weren't trying to read me. They were just... waiting.
There was something about Nihal that made me feel like I didn't need to explain myself. Like he'd already decided I was worth listening to, even if I said nothing.
"You always dress like this?" he asked, voice low.
I looked at him, amused. "Like what?"
"Like you know exactly who you are."
I smiled, barely. "I dress for silence. And comfort."
He nodded, and I saw it—the way his gaze lingered, not inappropriately, but with quiet appreciation. Like he was cataloguing something he didn't want to forget.
I returned to my sketch, but my thoughts drifted.
He wasn't like Vedant. Vedant filled rooms. Nihal noticed them. He didn't interrupt. He observed. And somehow, that made him harder to ignore.
I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to be seen by him—not just noticed, but understood. Not admired, but chosen.
He said something about wanting to matter. About hoping I'd be impressed.
I didn't answer right away. I let the words settle.
"You already matter," I said finally. "You just don't know where yet."
He looked at me like I'd handed him something fragile. And maybe I had.
I returned to my sketch, but my hand moved slower now. Because something had shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just enough to make me wonder what he'd look like if he smiled without hesitation.
Just enough to make me hope he'd sit beside me again.
And then I noticed something —his fingers. Long, slightly ink-stained, like he'd been writing before he came here. There was a quiet intelligence in the way he held his coffee, like he was thinking even when he wasn't speaking.
I wondered what his room looked like. If his books were stacked neatly or scattered with intention. If he had a playlist for rainy days. If he ever wrote things he didn't show anyone.
And then I noticed something else—his eyes.
Green. Not the bright, showy kind. More like moss after rain—quiet, earthy, thoughtful. They weren't the kind of eyes that demanded attention. They invited it. Gently. Like they'd seen too much and still chose softness.
I remembered the way they looked at me when I said he mattered. Not surprised. Not flattered. Just still. Like he was holding the moment carefully, afraid to drop it.
I hadn't drawn his eyes yet. I wasn't sure I could. They weren't symmetrical. They weren't easy. They were layered.
And I wasn't ready to sketch something I hadn't fully understood.
I didn't know why I cared. But I did.
He shifted slightly, and I caught a glimpse of the notebook tucked under his arm. A corner of a diagram, some scribbled notes. His handwriting was sharp, angular. Focused.
"You sketch like you're building something real," he said suddenly.
I looked at him. "I am."
He nodded. "I believe you."
And that—those three words—felt more intimate than any compliment I'd ever received.
I didn't blush. I didn't flinch. But I felt it. A quiet warmth blooming in my chest.
I kept sketching. He kept sitting.
And in the space between our words, something gentle began to grow.