Arohi's POV
He won.
Of course he did.
Vedant Kapoor—precise, composed, maddeningly good at everything he touches. Best model. Best pitch. Best speaker.
I clapped. Everyone did. But my fingers felt stiff.
It wasn't just that I wanted the award.
It was that I wanted to be the one who surprised them. The one they didn't expect to win but couldn't ignore. The one who made them pause.
Instead, it was him.
Again.
And the worst part? He didn't even look proud. Just calm. Like excellence was routine. Like applause was background noise.
I hated that.
I hated how effortless he made it seem.
I hated how the judges leaned in when he spoke, how Nihal grinned like they'd already won, how Meher smiled at Nihal like he'd just rewritten gravity.
And I hated how I noticed all of it.
I stood still, chin lifted, expression neutral. But inside, something twisted.
Because I had worked. I had prepared. I had delivered.
And still, I wasn't the one they remembered.
I wasn't the one they awarded.
I wasn't the one Meher smiled at.
And then he turned.
Vedant.
Certificate in hand, posture straight, eyes scanning the crowd—and they landed on me.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
My heart stuttered.
Not because he looked at me.
But because he didn't look away.
There was no smirk. No triumph. Just quiet recognition.
And something else.
Something I didn't want to name.
I held his gaze longer than I should have. Then looked down, pretending to adjust my sleeve.
I didn't want him to see it—the flicker of jealousy, the rush of admiration, the way my chest tightened like I'd been caught in a story I didn't write.
Because the truth was, I had imagined this moment differently.
I had imagined my name being called. The applause. The certificate in my hand. Meher's proud smile. Vedant's unreadable expression.
I had imagined him watching me.
Not the other way around.
And now, standing in the shadow of his win, I felt something sharp and small and bitter settle in my chest.
Jealousy.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind that lashes out.
The quiet kind.
The kind that sits behind your ribs and whispers, Why not you?
The kind that makes you rehearse your own speech in your head, even after the event is over.
The kind that makes you wonder if you'll ever be the one who gets noticed without having to fight for it.
But beneath the ache, there was something else.
Admiration.
Because Vedant hadn't just won.
He had earned it.
His presentation was flawless. His logic was airtight. His delivery was controlled, confident, almost surgical.
And I hated how much I respected that.
I hated how much I saw myself in him.
The discipline. The restraint. The need to be excellent without asking for approval.
And maybe that's why it hurt.
Because I knew what it meant to want something quietly.
To earn it without asking.
To be seen without being celebrated.
And maybe, just maybe, he knew that too.
I glanced at Meher again. She was still smiling at Nihal—bright, open, the kind of smile that doesn't ask permission.
Nihal didn't see it. Or maybe he did and chose not to react.
But Vedant saw everything.
Including me.