General POV
The exam season arrived without ceremony.
No dramatic announcements.
Just a shift in posture, tone, and the way people stopped laughing in the corridors.
Notes were suddenly sacred.
Sleep became a rumor.
And the classroom—once full of rivalry and noise—settled into a kind of focused silence.
The seating chart was posted at 7:03 a.m.
Typed. Laminated. Unchangeable.
Mudit stared at his name.
Then at the one beside it.
Riya.
He blinked.
Then laughed under his breath. "Of course."
She was already seated when he walked in, her pencil pouch lined up like a soldier's kit.
He dropped into the chair beside her, not bothering to hide his grin.
"Try not to write a sonnet mid-paper," he whispered.
She didn't look at him.
But her lips twitched. "Try not to hum while solving calculus."
Across the room, Arohi found herself next to Nihal.
It wasn't a pairing she'd expected—he was quiet, methodical, and rarely spoke unless spoken to.
But as she opened her pen, he passed her a spare.
No words.
Just a gesture.
She nodded.
He nodded back.
Isha was seated beside Vedant, and the energy between them was unmistakable.
She was already teasing him before the invigilator entered.
"You brought five pens? What are you writing, the Constitution?"
Vedant smirked. "I like being prepared."
"Prepared for rejection," she muttered, flipping her ID card dramatically.
Meher, meanwhile, was placed next to Aryan.
They hadn't spoken much before—not beyond polite nods and shared glances during group assignments.
But now, with only a desk between them, something shifted.
He offered her a mint.
She accepted.
And that was enough.
The bell rang.
The papers were distributed.
And for the next three hours, the only sound was the scratch of pens and the occasional sigh.
The exam had ended hours ago, but the hostel hadn't quieted.
Not really.
Fans hummed.
Slippers shuffled against the floor.
Someone laughed too loudly down the hall.
Someone else cursed a syllabus topic that hadn't shown up.
It was the kind of noise that didn't bother anyone.
The familiar kind.
The kind that meant people were still trying.
Mudit was walking back from the mess when he saw Riya sitting on the steps outside the common room, her notebook open, pen tapping against her knee.
He hesitated.
Then walked over.
"You know the exam's over, right?" he said, dropping his bag beside her.
Riya looked up, smirking. "Some of us like closure."
"Some of us like drama," he replied. "You still write like you're auditioning for a historical romance."
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Your handwriting," he said, pointing at the page. "It's all loops and flourishes. I'm pretty sure your 'g' just winked at me."
She laughed.
Not politely.
Not guarded.
Just laughed.
"It's called personality," she said.
"It's called illegible," he countered.
She nudged him with her foot. "You still write like you're afraid of taking up space."
He shrugged. "I like efficient lines. Minimalist. Like my love life."
Riya snorted. "That's not minimalist. That's nonexistent."
He grinned. "Exactly."
They sat there for a while, the banter softening into something quieter.
The corridor behind them buzzed with hostel life—someone yelling for notes, someone else asking if the water cooler was refilled, a door creaking open and shut.
But for a moment, it all faded.
Just two people, sitting on the steps,
Talking like they hadn't forgotten how