Arohi's POV
I didn't plan to say anything.
I never do.
But some moments don't wait for permission. They arrive uninvited, like a truth that's tired of being quiet.
The corridor outside Lecture Hall 3 was sunlit and half-empty. The kind of stillness that feels like a held breath. Students filtered out in clusters—some laughing, some already buried in their phones, some trailing behind like thoughts left unfinished.
I lingered near the window, notebook pressed against my chest like armor. The sunlight caught the edge of my sleeve, warm and indifferent.
Vedant walked ahead, his file tucked under his arm, posture straight, expression unreadable. He moved like someone who didn't need to prove anything. And maybe he didn't.
Riya Malhotra followed, heels clicking like punctuation. She was radiant in the way fluorescent lights flatter glass—not warmth, just reflection. Her voice was pitched for attention, her laugh engineered for echo.
"Vedant," she called, catching up, "Don't forget the E-Cell pitch review. I told the committee you'd make it perfect. No pressure."
He nodded, barely glancing at her.
She didn't notice.
She turned, saw me, and smiled like I was background noise.
"You're in this corridor too?" she said, voice syrupy. "Didn't see you in the E-Cell list."
I closed my notebook slowly. "I didn't apply."
She raised an eyebrow, faux surprise curling her lips. "Oh. Right. It's not for everyone."
I stepped forward, just enough to make her shift her weight.
"I didn't apply," I repeated, "because I don't need a title to build something real."
Her smile faltered, just slightly.
I kept going, voice calm. "You talk like you're the committee. Like Vedant's success is yours by proximity. But you didn't build that model. You didn't write that pitch. You just orbit brilliance and call it gravity."
Vedant paused.
Riya blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're excused," I said, turning away. "From pretending you matter more than the work."
She scoffed, but it sounded hollow. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," I said, looking her in the eye. "I think I'm quieter than you. And that bothers you more."
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Because I hadn't raised my voice.
I'd raised the standard.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full—of tension, of truth, of something shifting.
Vedant watched me as I walked past. Not with surprise. With something quieter.
Recognition.
And maybe—just maybe—regret.
I didn't need applause.
I didn't need a spotlight.
I just needed to be heard.
And in that moment, I was.
But the ache didn't vanish. It settled deeper, like ink soaking into paper. Because being heard isn't the same as being seen. And I wasn't sure Vedant had ever really seen me.
Not the girl who solved logic problems in silence.
Not the girl who wrote stories no one read.
Not the girl who watched him from the front row, wondering if brilliance ever noticed restraint.
I walked away slowly, each step deliberate. Behind me, Riya stood frozen, her performance interrupted. Vedant remained silent, but his gaze followed me—not with judgment, not with admiration.
With something else.
Something I couldn't name.
Yet.