Nihal's POV
I couldn't sleep.
The ceiling fan spun above me, slow and steady, slicing the silence into pieces. My roommate had already drifted off, his breathing rhythmic, unbothered. But my mind was restless—looping back to a moment that shouldn't have mattered, but somehow did.
Meher. Room 306.
I hadn't planned to notice her. First day chaos, mess line noise, the usual scramble of names and faces. Everyone was loud—trying to be seen, trying to be liked. I just wanted food and quiet.
And then she dropped her spoon.
It hit the steel tray with a sharp clang, louder than it should've been. She bent to pick it up, her hair falling forward in a soft curtain, and said "Sorry" like she'd broken something sacred. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just... sorry. Like she meant it, even though she hadn't done anything wrong.
I said it was fine. She looked up and smiled.
Not the kind of smile that asks for attention. Just a flicker—brief, clean, like she'd handed me something without asking if I wanted it.
That was Meher.
She wore a soft green kurta that day. Cotton, slightly creased at the elbow, like she'd ironed it carefully but didn't obsess. The neckline was simple, the sleeves a little long, brushing her wrists as she moved.
There was something innocent about it. Not childish. Not naïve. Just... untouched by the need to perform. Like she dressed for herself, not the world. Like she knew how to be seen without trying.
And maybe that's what unsettled me.
Because most people fill silence to escape it. She didn't. She shaped it.
I remembered her posture in orientation—straight, but not stiff. Her handwriting—neat, deliberate, like she didn't waste motion. Her presence—calm, contained, like she'd built herself carefully and didn't need to explain the architecture.
She didn't speak much. But when she looked at people, it felt like she'd already read them. Like she was waiting to see if they'd match the version she'd sketched in her head.
I told Vedant later, "She's quiet, but there's something about her. Like she's listening even when she's not talking."
He nodded slowly. "She doesn't need to fill space to occupy it."
Exactly.
Some people speak in gestures. In restraint. In the way they don't escape silence—they inhabit it.
Meher was like that.
And maybe that's why I couldn't sleep.
Because she hadn't done anything loud. But she'd left a mark anyway.
I turned on my side, staring at the wall. The green of her kurta stayed in my mind longer than I wanted. That smile—unbothered, unearned, but still given—lingered like a question I hadn't asked.
She hadn't tried to impress me. She hadn't even noticed me, really.
But I noticed her.
And now, I couldn't stop.