Meher's POV
I sketched him again.
Nihal, in that maroon shirt, half-turned toward the window, his expression soft and unguarded. The light had caught him just right earlier, and the image wouldn't leave me. I didn't exaggerate anything—just traced the lines as they were. Honest. Unassuming. Beautiful.
He didn't know, of course. He was sitting across the room, half-asleep over his notes, one hand tangled in his hair like he'd forgotten it was there.
I was halfway through shading the collar when Arohi walked in.
She stopped, narrowed her eyes, and said, "Seriously? You're sketching him now?"
I didn't look up. "It's just a study."
"Of his face?"
"Of the light," I said, but my smile betrayed me.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You're unbelievable. He's going to think you're obsessed."
"He won't notice," I said, flipping the page closed. "He never does."
Arohi rolled her eyes, but her voice had that edge—mocking, but tight. "You know, if you're going to sketch someone, at least pick someone with actual presence. Like Vedant."
I raised an eyebrow. "Vedant? You mean the one you stared at for a full thirty seconds after the results?"
Her jaw tensed. "I did not."
"You did."
"I was analyzing his reaction."
"Sure," I said, drawing out the word. "And the way your fingers slowed while clapping? Very analytical."
She walked over, snatched the sketchbook from my lap, and flipped it open. "This is ridiculous. You even got the crease near his elbow."
"It was there."
"You're impossible."
"And you're jealous."
She froze.
Just for a second.
Then she scoffed, tossing the sketchbook back onto the bed. "Of Nihal? Please."
I didn't push. I just looked at her—really looked. The way her shoulders were too straight, her fingers too still. The way her voice had that brittle edge it only got when Vedant was involved.
"You're not jealous of Nihal," I said quietly. "You're jealous of the way Vedant looked at me."
She didn't respond.
Just turned away, pretending to fix her hair.
But I'd seen it.
Not just the glance Vedant gave me after the results—brief, unreadable, but real. Not admiration. Not affection. Just curiosity. The kind that lingers.
I'd seen something else too.
The way Arohi's jaw clenched when Vedant's name was announced. The way her applause came half a beat late. The way she didn't look at him when he walked past, certificate in hand, posture sharp and composed.
She wasn't just jealous of the glance.
She was jealous of the win.
Because Vedant had taken something she wanted—not the prize, but the moment. The recognition. The quiet power of being seen as the best.
And he hadn't even looked at her.
He looked at me.
And Arohi hated that.
And he hadn't even looked at her.
He looked at me.
And Arohi hated that.
I didn't say anything more. Just picked up my pencil again, flipped to a fresh page, and let the silence settle between us.
But as I sketched—lines softer now, less precise—I felt it.
She wasn't just jealous of the glance.
She was jealous of the win.
Because Vedant had taken something she wanted—not the prize, but the moment. The recognition. The quiet power of being seen as the best.
And he hadn't even looked at her.
He looked at me.
But I didn't care.
Not really.
Because the glance didn't matter.
Not the way Nihal's presence did.
He didn't look at me like Vedant did. He didn't look at me at all, most days. But when he did—when his eyes flicked toward me mid-thought, or when he asked if I'd eaten without realizing how gently he said it—it stayed.
Longer than it should.
I liked him.
I didn't plan to.
Didn't want to.
But I did.
Not because he was brilliant. Not because he won. But because he never tried to be anything other than what he was. Quiet. Thoughtful. A little lost in his own mind. And somehow, that made me feel less alone in mine.
Maybe that's why I sketched him.
Not to capture the light.
But to hold the feeling.
The one I couldn't name.
Until now.