Meher's POV
The charcoal was soft today. It smudged easily, like it wanted to blur the truth before I could name it.
I was sketching Nihal again. Not from a photo. Not from memory. From the way he looked when he was listening—head tilted slightly, brows drawn in concentration, fingers tapping the edge of his notebook like he was keeping time with thoughts no one else could hear.
Arohi sat across the room, curled up on her bed, her notebook open but untouched. She was watching me. Not directly. Just enough to make me feel it.
"You're drawing him again," she said.
I didn't answer.
Because it wasn't a question.
She closed her notebook. "You sketch people when they start mattering."
I looked down at the page.
Nihal's eyes weren't finished.
I wasn't sure I could finish them.
"He's quiet," I said. "But not absent."
Arohi nodded. "He listens like he's trying to understand the part of you you don't say aloud."
I paused.
Because that was exactly it.
"He doesn't interrupt," I said. "Even when he disagrees."
"That's rare," she said. "Especially here."
I set the sketch aside.
My fingers were stained with charcoal.
My thoughts, with something softer.
"I think I've fallen for him," I said.
Arohi didn't react.
Not with surprise.
Not with judgment.
Just silence.
The kind that holds space.
"I didn't mean to," I added. "It just… happened. Slowly."
She leaned back against the wall, her gaze steady. "That's how it always happens. The ones who matter don't arrive with fireworks. They arrive with quiet."
I smiled, but it felt fragile. "I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to do anything," she said. "Just don't lie to yourself about it."
I nodded.
Then hesitated.
Because I knew she understood more than she said.
"You've felt it too," I said. "With Vedant."
She didn't look away.
But her voice sharpened.
"I don't have time for relationships," she said. "Not now. Not when I'm still building something that's mine."
I frowned. "That's not the same as not feeling."
She sighed. "I feel it. That's the problem."
I waited.
Because when Arohi spoke like that, it meant something was unraveling.
"I saw what love did to Riya," she said. "She was brilliant. Focused. And then she fell for someone who liked her ambition until it threatened his own."
I didn't interrupt.
She needed to say it.
"She started shrinking," Arohi continued. "Apologizing for being smart. For wanting more. I promised myself I'd never do that."
I reached for her hand.
She let me.
"I don't think Vedant would do that to you," I said.
She looked at me.
And for a moment, I saw the ache she never named.
"I don't think he would either," she said. "But I don't trust what I become when I care too much."
Isha walked in then, mid-conversation with someone on the phone, but paused when she saw our faces.
"Did I miss something?" she asked.
Arohi smiled—tight, practiced. "Just Meher falling in love."
Isha blinked. "With Nihal?"
I nodded, cheeks warm.
Isha grinned. "About time."
Then she turned to Arohi. "And you? Still pretending you don't care?"
Arohi's voice was calm. "I care. I just don't indulge."
Isha raised an eyebrow. "That sounds exhausting."
"It's necessary," Arohi said. "I'm not rich. I don't have legacy. I have work. And I won't trade that for softness."
Meher squeezed her hand. "You don't have to trade. You just have to choose."
Arohi didn't respond.
But her silence was louder than anything she could've said.
And in that quiet, I realized something else.
We were all afraid.
Of being seen.
Of being loved.
Of losing the parts of ourselves we'd fought to protect.
But maybe, just maybe, love wasn't the threat.
Maybe it was the mirror.