Aryan's POV
The café door clicked shut behind us, Mudit still dissecting some professor's logic like it was a chessboard. I let him talk. My mind was elsewhere—half on the debate, half on the way the late afternoon light fractured across the pavement like a half-finished thought.
Then she collided into me.
Not dramatically. Just enough for her balance to falter.
I caught her instinctively—one hand at her waist, the other steadying her wrist.
She looked up.
And the world narrowed.
Her eyes were a soft, mossy hazel—like they'd been quiet for years and didn't mind it.
Not the kind of eyes that demanded attention. The kind that held it without trying.
Her skin had that unspoken softness—not fragile, but self-contained.
She wore a muted blue kurta, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal ink-stained fingers. A canvas tote hung from her shoulder, frayed at the edges, like it had stories of its own. Her hair was tied loosely, strands escaping like they had better places to be.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice low, composed.
I didn't let go immediately.
Because something in me had already shifted.
"It's fine," I said. "You're fine."
She stepped back, adjusting her bag with a practiced ease.
No fluster. No apology twice.
Just a glance—brief, unreadable—and then she turned.
But I was still standing there, watching her walk away.
Because I'd just met someone who didn't try to be seen.
And I couldn't stop seeing her.
There was something about her softness—it wasn't performative.
It was the kind that made you want to speak more carefully.
Like she'd hear the things you didn't say aloud.
Mudit finally noticed my silence. "You good?"
I nodded, distracted. "Yeah."
He followed my gaze. "Oh, her? I think she's in our psych elective. Usually sits with Meher and Arohi. Quiet type. Doesn't talk much."
I didn't respond.
But the name—Isha—slipped into my mind like it had always belonged there.
Meher and Arohi.
Of course.
I'd seen them together.
But I hadn't seen her until now.
Mudit kept talking.
The world kept moving.
But I wasn't.
Because in that one moment, I'd felt something I hadn't expected:
Not attraction.
Recognition.
And I knew—without knowing her story—that I'd remember her.
Not because she was beautiful.
But because she didn't ask to be remembered.
And that made me want to be the exception.