Meher's POV
It was past midnight.
The common room had thinned out, leaving behind the hum of the ceiling fan and the soft shuffle of pages.
Most people had retreated to their rooms, chasing sleep or panic.
But Nihal stayed.
He sat beside me, his notebook open, pen tapping lightly against the margin.
His posture was slouched, not careless—just tired.
The kind of tired that doesn't ask for rest, only silence.
His hoodie was faded at the cuffs.
There was a smudge of graphite on his thumb.
And his jaw—usually sharp with focus—had softened, like he'd stopped holding himself together quite so tightly.
I watched him from the corner of my eye.
Not to study him.
Just to remember him like this.
There was something about Nihal at night.
Something quieter.
Something more honest.
He didn't speak much.
Didn't fill the space with commentary or jokes.
Just existed beside me, like my presence was enough.
And then he looked up.
His green eyes—usually muted, like moss in shadow—
Caught the light.
And for a moment, they shone.
Not brightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make me feel seen.
He looked at me like I was the pause in his exhaustion.
Like I was the reason he hadn't left yet.
I didn't know what to do with that.
So I smiled.
Barely.
And turned back to my notes.
But my heart didn't.
It stayed with him.
With the way his fingers moved slowly across the page,
With the way he leaned back and rubbed his eyes,
With the way he glanced at me again—soft, unguarded, like he didn't mean to.
Later, I closed my notebook.
He didn't say anything.
Just passed me my pen, our fingers brushing for a second too long.
I didn't pull away.
He looked at me again.
And I saw it—
That flicker.
That quiet, unspoken thing.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was something.
Something that made me stay a little longer.
Something that made the night feel less heavy.
I'd come back.
Not for the syllabus.
Not for the grades.
But for the way he looks at me when he's tired
And still chooses to stay.