Vedant's POV
Nihal was in the library.
Aryan and Mudit had gone to the café, probably debating pitch decks over overpriced coffee.
I stayed back.
The new model needed refining—load distribution, stress points, the usual.
But I couldn't focus.
I lay on my bed, laptop open beside me, graphs blinking like they were trying to pull me back. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they were equations. They weren't.
Because all I could think about was her.
Arohi.
Her voice.
Her restraint.
Her refusal to orbit anyone.
She didn't flatter.
She didn't perform.
She challenged.
"You let people orbit brilliance and call it gravity."
She hadn't said it to me.
But it felt like she had.
Because she saw through the curated silence.
Through the version of Vedant Kapoor people admired but never understood.
And I hated how much that mattered.
I closed the laptop.
Turned off the light.
But her words stayed.
I wasn't supposed to feel this.
Not again.
Because I'd learned.
The hard way.
There was someone once.
Back in school.
She liked the way I explained things. Said I made her feel smart. Said she felt safe.
And I believed her.
I let her in.
Let her see the late nights, the pressure, the fear of not being enough.
I paid for her coaching classes.
Her textbooks.
Her application fees.
She said she'd pay me back.
She never did.
She said she loved me.
She never did.
She liked being seen with me.
Liked the idea of me.
But not the reality.
She didn't want the boy who stayed up fixing models until his hands shook.
She wanted the boy people clapped for.
And when I stopped performing, she left.
No fight.
No closure.
Just silence.
Since then, I've kept my distance.
Smiled when expected.
Spoke when necessary.
But never let anyone close enough to see the cracks.
Until Arohi.
She doesn't ask for attention.
She doesn't flatter.
She builds.
She protects.
And that terrifies me.
Because she's not like the others.
Because the truth is—
I don't trust love.
Not the kind that asks you to be vulnerable.
Not the kind that sees you when you're not perfect.
I've spent years being the boy people admire.
Not the boy they stay for.
And I don't know how to be anything else.
I turned on my side, staring at the wall.
Her sketch was still there—one she'd left behind during a group project.
Not of me.
Of a structure.
Sharp. Clean. Balanced.
But I saw myself in it.
And I hated that.
Because she sees me.
And I don't know how to be seen without falling apart.