Vedant's POV
I've always known how to navigate admiration.
It's a quiet skill. You learn to nod at praise without absorbing it. You learn to be polite when people project brilliance onto you. You learn to stay still while others orbit.
Riya was orbiting again.
She walked beside me, heels clicking, voice pitched for performance. "Vedant, don't forget the E-Cell pitch review. I told the committee you'd make it perfect. No pressure."
I nodded.
She smiled like she'd won something.
I didn't correct her.
I never do.
Because it's easier to let people believe what they want. Easier to be the idea of Vedant Kapoor than the reality.
But then I heard Arohi's voice.
Low. Precise. Unshaken.
"I didn't apply," she said, "because I don't need a title to build something real."
I turned slightly, just enough to see her face.
She wasn't angry.
She was clear.
"You talk like you're the committee," she continued, "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."
Riya blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're excused," Arohi said, "from pretending you matter more than the work."
Silence.
Sharp. Clean.
Riya scoffed. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," Arohi said. "I think I'm quieter than you. And that bothers you more."
She walked past me then.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just deliberate.
And I watched her go.
Not with surprise.
With something else.
Something quieter.
Recognition.
Because she was right.
Not just about Riya.
About me.
I let people orbit. I let them speak for me. I let them define me.
And I never asked why.
I never asked who was watching from the front row, solving problems in silence, writing stories no one read.
I never asked who saw me—not the idea of me, but the actual shape of my silence.
Until now.
I stood there, file still tucked under my arm, and felt something shift.
Not admiration.
Not guilt.
Just... awareness.
Of her.
Of me.
Of the echo I didn't expect.