Nihal's POV
The library was half-lit, the kind of light that made everything feel softer. I liked it that way—quiet, unassuming. Like the world had paused just long enough for thought to catch up.
I wasn't looking for Meher.
But I found her anyway.
She was seated near the window, sketchbook open, fingers smudged with charcoal. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling across her cheek. She didn't notice me at first.
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want to speak.
But because I didn't want to interrupt whatever she was drawing.
Then she looked up.
And smiled.
Not wide.
Just enough.
"You're early," she said.
"I didn't know we were meeting," I replied.
She shrugged. "Neither did I."
I sat across from her, careful not to crowd the space.
She didn't close the sketchbook.
But she didn't turn it toward me either.
"You're drawing something," I said.
"Someone," she corrected.
I nodded.
Waited.
She didn't offer the name.
But I had a feeling I already knew.
"I've been thinking about that ethics paper," I said, trying to sound casual. "The one on moral ambiguity in leadership."
She tilted her head. "You always think about things longer than necessary."
"Necessary is subjective."
She smiled again.
This time, it lingered.
There was a pause.
Not awkward.
Just full.
"I'll be back," Meher said softly, gathering her things. "Just the washroom."
I nodded, watching her disappear down the aisle, her steps quiet, deliberate. The sketchbook remained on the table, half-open, as if it had been left behind on purpose—or maybe by accident.
I didn't mean to look.
But I did.
The page was still the same.
My face, unfinished.
My eyes, half-shaped.
But it wasn't the technique that stopped me.
It was the tenderness.
She'd drawn me like someone worth noticing.
Not just accurately—intimately.
The curve of my jaw softened.
The tension in my brow captured.
Even the way my shoulders sloped when I was thinking—she'd seen that.
I stared at it longer than I should have.
Not because I was vain.
Because I was overwhelmed.
No one had ever looked at me like that.
Not with calculation.
Not with admiration.
But with care.
It wasn't just a sketch.
It was a confession.
And I didn't know what to do with it.
I could've asked her.
Could've said something.
But I didn't.
Because Meher was careful with her feelings.
And I didn't want to be careless with mine.
So I closed the sketchbook gently.
Placed it exactly where she'd left it.
And sat back.
When she returned, she smiled—soft, unaware.
"Did I miss anything?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Just a quiet moment."
She nodded, settling back into her seat.
And I watched her.
Not with surprise.
With something else.
Something quieter.
Something like gratitude.
Because sometimes, being seen is enough.
Even if you never say it aloud.
And before I knew it,
I had fallen for her.