Isha's POV
The corridor was quiet.
Not empty—just hushed, like the building itself had exhaled after a long day.
I was heading back from the library, notes tucked under my arm, when I saw him.
Aryan.
Leaning against the wall, brows furrowed, phone in one hand, notebook in the other.
His thumb hovered over a half-scribbled equation, lips pressed into a line.
He looked…
Not defeated.
Just tired in a way that made me pause.
I slowed down.
Watched him for a second longer than I should have.
He didn't notice me at first.
Just kept staring at the page like it had betrayed him.
Then he looked up.
And blinked.
I didn't smile.
Not yet.
"You're stuck," I said softly.
He straightened, trying to mask it with a shrug.
"Just… revising."
I stepped closer, the distance between us narrowing to something almost intimate.
"What's the concept?"
He hesitated.
Then turned the notebook toward me.
It was the behavioral loop model from psych—one of the trickier ones.
I glanced at the diagram, then at him.
And that's when I noticed it.
His outfit.
A deep navy button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Faint creases at the collar, like he'd worn it all day.
Dark jeans, fitted but not showy.
It wasn't loud.
Wasn't trying to impress.
But it suited him.
Too well.
And then his eyes met mine.
Gray.
Not cold—just quiet.
Like a sky that hadn't decided whether to storm or soften.
They held something restrained.
Something searching.
And for a moment, they flickered.
Not brightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make me feel seen.
"You're overcomplicating it," I said gently.
"It's not about control. It's about recognition."
He looked at me like I'd just translated a language he didn't know he was speaking.
I took the notebook from his hand, fingers brushing his.
Explained the feedback cycle, the emotional triggers, the way the loop resets not when we act, but when we're seen.
He listened.
Really listened.
Eyes steady, expression softening.
And then he said, "You explain things like you've lived them."
I didn't answer.
Just handed the notebook back.
We stood there for a moment—me with my notes, him with his quiet gratitude.
The corridor felt warmer somehow.
Less like a hallway, more like a pause.
"I got your message," I said finally.
He nodded.
Didn't ask what I thought.
Didn't push.
Just waited.
And I liked that about him.
The restraint.
The way he let silence speak.
"I'll help you prep for the mock," I said.
"Only if you promise not to pretend you've got it all figured out."
He smiled.
Not the usual smirk.
Something smaller.
Something real.
"Deal."
And just like that,
The corridor became a beginning.