Meher's POV
The courtyard was quieter than usual. Late afternoon sun filtered through the neem trees, casting soft shadows across the stone benches. I sat with my sketchbook open, pencil in hand, pretending to work on the retreat layout.
But I wasn't sketching domes or gardens today.
I was sketching Nihal.
He didn't know, of course. He was seated across the lawn, talking to Aryan, gesturing with his hands as he explained something—probably about the project. His shirt sleeves were pushed up again, and his hair was doing that thing where it refused to stay neat. I didn't mind.
I'd started with the curve of his shoulders, the way he leaned slightly forward when he was focused. Then the angle of his jaw, the quiet concentration in his eyes. I hadn't drawn his face fully—just the suggestion of it. Enough to remember the way he looked at me when I said he mattered.
I didn't know why I was doing it.
Maybe I just wanted to hold the moment.
Maybe I wanted to understand it better.
I was halfway through shading the folds of his shirt when I heard a voice behind me.
"That's not a meditation dome."
I turned sharply. Arohi stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk tugging at her mouth.
"It's not what it looks like," I said, too quickly.
She stepped closer, peering at the sketch. "It looks like Nihal."
I closed the sketchbook, but she was already grinning.
"You're sketching him," she said, delighted. "Meher. You're sketching him."
I rolled my eyes. "It's just a study. For posture. For—"
"For your heart," she teased, sitting beside me. "Don't worry. I won't tell him. Yet."
I laughed, despite myself. Arohi rarely teased. But when she did, it felt like sunlight through fog—unexpected and warm.
We sat in silence for a moment, watching Nihal from a distance. He laughed at something Aryan said, and I felt that quiet shift again. The one that made my chest feel full and light at the same time.
"He's good for you," Arohi said softly.
I looked at her. "You think so?"
She nodded. "He sees you. Without trying to own you. That's rare."
I didn't respond. I just let the words settle.
Then I nudged her. "And what about you? Still pretending Vedant doesn't exist?"
She scoffed. "He's a rival. Not a person."
I raised an eyebrow.
She didn't answer. But her silence was telling.
We laughed again, and something shifted between us—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to feel like the beginning of something real.
A friendship built on quiet truths.
On teasing that didn't sting.
On knowing when not to ask.