Arohi's POV
I'd rehearsed my lines three times in the mirror that morning. Not because I was nervous—just because I liked being prepared. The model was ready, the slides were clean, and my blazer didn't clash with the chart paper. That was enough.
The corridor outside the seminar room buzzed with the usual pre-presentation chaos. People adjusting their collars, flipping through cue cards, pretending not to care. I spotted Nihal leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was watching a chessboard.
Meher stood beside me, quiet as ever.
She hadn't said much since breakfast. Just nodded when I asked if she was ready, then adjusted the cuffs of her white shirt with that same careful precision she applied to everything. Her black trousers were pressed, her shoes polished but not flashy. No makeup. No accessories. Just a clean ponytail and a presence that didn't ask to be noticed—but was.
She looked like she belonged in a courtroom. Or a boardroom. Or anywhere people were expected to speak with clarity and not decoration.
I knew she was nervous. Not visibly. But I could feel it in the way she kept checking her watch, in the way her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her file.
"She's not scared of the stage," I'd told someone once. "She's scared of being seen."
When our names were called, we walked in together. I spoke first—explained the concept, the structure, the logic. Meher stood beside the model, hands folded, eyes steady. She didn't fidget. She didn't smile. But she was present. Fully.
And when it was her turn to speak, something shifted.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't perform. She just explained—clearly, calmly, like the idea had lived inside her long before we built it. The room quieted. Not out of politeness. Out of attention.
I watched Nihal from the corner of my eye. He wasn't blinking much.
But I also noticed Vedant—sitting two rows back, arms folded, expression unreadable. He didn't glance at me. Not once. Not when I introduced the model. Not when I answered the first question. Not even when I made the point I knew he'd appreciate.
It wasn't hostility. It was worse.
It was indifference.
And it made something tighten in my chest.
I didn't need his approval. I didn't. But I'd noticed the way he looked at others when they spoke—curious, engaged, sometimes amused. I'd seen that flicker in his eyes when someone surprised him.
Today, I didn't get that flicker.
And I hated that I noticed.
After the presentation, people clapped. A few compliments. A few questions. Nothing dramatic.
But when we stepped outside, Meher exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for days.
"You were brilliant," I said.
She shrugged. "It was fine."
But I saw the way her fingers tightened around her file. Like she'd survived something. Like she'd given away more than she meant to.
We were halfway down the corridor when Nihal caught up to us. He didn't say much—he never does. Just walked a little too close, like he wasn't sure if he was invited.
Then, as we reached the stairs, he glanced at Meher and said, "You speak like you already know the answer. That's rare."
Meher blinked. "I just explained the model."
He smiled, faintly. "No. You explained it like it mattered."
She didn't reply. Just adjusted her collar and looked away.
But I saw it.
The blush.
Quick. Controlled. But real.
It rose just beneath her cheekbones, like her skin betrayed what her voice wouldn't. She didn't smile. Didn't thank him. But her grip on the file loosened, and her steps slowed.
Later, in the mess line, Nihal passed us again. No words this time. Just a nod.
She didn't look at him directly. Just stared at the rice tray like it held secrets.
I didn't ask.
Some things don't need words.