Isha's POV
The room was quiet, except for the hum of Meher's diffuser and Arohi's pen tapping against her notebook. I was curled up on the side of the bed, pretending to read, but the words kept slipping past me.
"He bumped into you?" Arohi asked, half amused, half curious.
I nodded. "Outside the café. He caught me before I fell."
Meher looked up from her sketchpad. "Aryan?"
I hesitated.
Then nodded again.
Arohi grinned. "And? Did he say something annoyingly clever?"
"He said I was fine," I murmured.
Meher tilted her head. "And were you?"
I looked at her.
And for once, I didn't deflect.
"No," I said. "I wasn't."
They both went still.
Not dramatically. Just enough to let me speak.
"I saw him on the first day," I said quietly. "In class. He was sitting two rows ahead. Arguing with the professor about some theory. Everyone was watching him. But I was watching how he didn't care."
Meher's gaze softened.
Arohi stopped tapping her pen.
"I didn't even know his name then," I continued. "But something about the way he spoke—like he was trying to prove something to himself, not to us—it stayed."
I paused.
Because saying it aloud made it real.
"I think I fell for him then," I said. "Not because he was charming. But because he looked like he didn't need to be."
Meher reached over, gently brushing my arm.
Arohi didn't tease.
She just whispered, "You've been quiet about this."
"I didn't want it to be a thing," I said. "I didn't want it to be… obvious."
Meher smiled. "It's not obvious. It's honest."
And somehow, that made it feel less foolish.
Because falling at first sight isn't about drama.
It's about recognition.
And I had recognized something in Aryan before I even knew what it was.
It's past midnight.
Meher's sketchpad is closed. Arohi's breathing has settled into sleep. The diffuser's glow casts soft shadows on the wall, and I'm still awake—eyes open, heart louder than usual.
I don't say it aloud.
Not yet.
But the words are forming, quiet and certain.
I love Aryan Sharma.
Not in the way people say it in movies.
Not with fireworks or dramatic music.
I love him in the way you love a moment you didn't expect to remember.
It started on the first day.
He was sitting two rows ahead, arguing with the professor—not to impress, but to understand. His voice was calm, deliberate. His posture—confident, but not arrogant. And his eyes…
God, his eyes.
They weren't the kind that sparkle.
They were the kind that hold.
Sharp, still, and strangely kind.
Like they'd seen too much and learned to stay quiet about it.
I remember watching him that day, pretending to take notes while my gaze kept drifting.
He didn't look around.
Didn't check if people were watching.
He was just… there.
Unapologetically present.
And today, when he held me—just for a second—I felt something I hadn't prepared for.
His hand on my waist.
His fingers around my wrist.
Not possessive. Not performative.
Just steady.
Like he knew how to hold someone without making them feel small.
My heart betrayed me.
It didn't flutter.
It raced.
A sudden, sharp rhythm.
Like it had been waiting for that exact touch, that exact steadiness, and didn't know how to stay calm once it arrived.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't blush.
I just… paused.
Because in that moment, I felt seen.
Not admired.
Not desired.
Seen.
And now, lying here in the quiet, I let myself admit it.
I love the way he listens when he speaks.
I love the way his eyes don't wander—they land.
I love the way he doesn't try to charm, because he doesn't need to.
I love Aryan Sharma.
And I don't know what to do with that truth.
It's not a crush.
It's not infatuation.
It's the kind of love that doesn't ask for attention.
It just exists.
Quietly.
Like a truth I've always known but never said aloud.