Meher's POV
I should've been asleep.
Arohi was. Her breath was soft and steady, the kind of rhythm that usually calmed me. But tonight, it felt like a reminder of everything I couldn't quiet inside myself.
The moonlight spilled across the floor in broken lines, catching the edge of my desk, my sketchbook, the half-finished drawing I couldn't bring myself to complete.
I turned over again.
The sheets felt too crisp. My thoughts too loud. My body too still.
It wasn't anxiety. Not exactly. It was something quieter. A tension beneath the skin. A pulse that didn't match the silence.
I hadn't meant to drop the spoon.
I hadn't meant to look up.
And I definitely hadn't meant to meet his eyes.
Nihal.
I don't know him. Not really. But I remember the way he said "it's fine" like he meant it. Like he wasn't trying to be kind—he just was.
And then I smiled. Reflex. Habit. Courtesy.
But it felt like more.
I hated that.
I sat up, pulled my sketchbook into my lap. The page stared back at me—half a face, unfinished. The eyes were wrong. Too symmetrical. Too easy.
I hadn't drawn his eyes yet.
Green. Not bright. Not loud. Just... mossy. Thoughtful. The kind of green that doesn't ask to be noticed but stays with you anyway. I remember how they looked at me—not searching, not startled. Just still. Like he was holding the moment carefully, afraid to drop it.
I closed the book.
Restlessness isn't always noise. Sometimes it's the ache of a moment replaying itself. A spoon. A smile. A boy who doesn't fill silence just to escape it.
I lay back down, eyes open to the ceiling.
I didn't want to think about him.
But I did.
I remember his voice—low, unhurried. The way he stood in line, not fidgeting, not scrolling through his phone like everyone else. Just... present. Like he wasn't trying to be anywhere else.
And I remember what I wore that day. A soft green kurta, cotton, slightly creased at the elbow. I'd ironed it that morning, carefully but not obsessively. The neckline was simple, the sleeves a little long, brushing my wrists as I moved. I hadn't dressed to be noticed.
But he noticed.
And now, I couldn't stop wondering what that meant.
I turned again, facing the wall. Arohi murmured something in her sleep, then settled. I stared at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to name the feeling in my chest.
It wasn't attraction. Not exactly.
It was curiosity. Unease. The sense that someone had seen me—not the version I curated, but the one underneath.
And that scared me.
Because I've built myself carefully. Discipline. Restraint. Precision. I don't like being read. I prefer to be the one doing the reading.
But Nihal looked at me like he'd already understood something.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
I reached for my sketchbook again, flipped to a blank page. My pencil hovered.
I didn't draw his face.
Just the outline of a spoon.
And beside it, a pair of eyes—unfinished, uneven, too green to be real.
I stared at them for a long time.
Then closed the book.
And lay back down.
Still not sleeping.