Meher's POV
They won.
And I didn't even try to hide my smile.
Nihal looked stunned for a second—like he hadn't expected it, like he was still processing the applause. Then he grinned, wide and boyish, the kind of grin that makes you forget how serious he usually is. It softened something in his face, made him look younger, lighter. Like the weight he always carried had been lifted, if only for a moment.
I felt something flutter in my chest.
Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just soft.
Like a page turning.
He was wearing a maroon shirt today. Crisp, slightly wrinkled near the elbows, like he'd rolled them up and then changed his mind. The color suited him—deep, quiet, confident. It made his skin look warmer, his eyes darker. The matching pant was simple, but tailored just enough to suggest he'd thought about it. Not to impress. Just to feel like himself.
And somehow, it worked.
He looked... beautiful.
Not in the way people usually mean. Not polished or styled or deliberate.
But in the way someone looks when they've stopped trying to be invisible.
The maroon suited him because it didn't ask for attention—it just held it.
I clapped louder than I usually do. Not for the win. For the moment.
Because Nihal deserved to be seen.
Not just as Vedant's teammate. Not just as the quiet one who sketches in the margins and solves equations like puzzles.
But as someone who mattered.
And when his eyes flicked toward me—just briefly—I smiled.
Brightly.
The kind of smile that doesn't ask permission.
He didn't hold my gaze. Just looked away, adjusting his collar like he hadn't noticed.
But I knew he had.
And that was enough.
Vedant stood beside him, composed as ever. Certificate in hand, expression unreadable. He didn't smile, not really. Just nodded at the judges, at Professor Mehra, at the crowd. His posture was perfect, his presence sharp. But Nihal—he looked alive.
Behind me, Arohi was clapping too. Controlled. Composed. But her fingers moved slower than mine. Her eyes lingered on Vedant a little too long. I didn't say anything. Because I knew that look. The ache of wanting to be the one who surprised them. The ache of watching someone else win the moment you imagined for yourself.
But today wasn't about rivalry.
It was about recognition.
And I was happy.
Truly.
Because sometimes, watching someone you care about be seen—really seen—is its own kind of victory.
Later, when the crowd thinned and the noise faded, I saw him again—standing near the window, talking to Vedant, laughing at something I couldn't hear. The light hit his face just right, and I wished I had my sketchbook.
Not to draw the moment.
To remember it.
Because this was the version of Nihal I wanted to keep.
The one who smiled without hesitation.
The one who didn't apologize for being brilliant.
The one in maroon, who finally looked like he belonged.