Rain had a way of changing the campus.
It softened the sharp edges of concrete paths, muted the noise of footsteps, turned lamplight into something almost forgiving. The evening air smelled clean, damp, and faintly metallicthe kind that settled into your lungs and stayed there.
Anvika noticed it the moment she stepped out of the library.
She paused at the top of the steps, notebook tucked under her arm, eyes tracking the rain's rhythm as it struck the stone below. Not heavy. Not urgent. Just steady enough to make timing inconvenient.
She calculated distances automatically. The angle of the steps. The uneven puddle near the second railing. The speed at which the rain was falling.
Behind her, she felt Aadvaith stop.
He didn't crowd her space. Didn't ask if she needed an umbrella. Didn't comment on the weather.
He simply stood there, quiet as ever.
Anvika appreciated that more than she cared to admit.
"I'll go first," she said finally.
"You don't have to," he replied.
She glanced at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "I'm not waiting for permission."
"I wasn't offering it."
There was no edge in his voicejust clarity.
She stepped forward, testing the slick surface with the sole of her shoe. The rain soaked into her sleeves almost immediately, cool against her skin. She barely registered it.
A second later, Aadvaith moved.
He didn't step ahead of her. Didn't reach for her arm. Instead, he positioned himself slightly to her left, close enough that his shoulder shielded her from the heavier slant of rain blown by the wind.
The movement was instinctive. Unannounced.
Anvika noticed.
She didn't comment.
They descended the steps in silence, their strides naturally aligning. The path ahead was dim, lampposts spaced far enough apart to leave stretches of shadow between pools of light.
Aadvaith adjusted his pace subtly when she slowed, careful not to make it obvious.
"You walk like you're always alert," he said after a moment.
She glanced sideways. "Habit."
"From?"
"Living alone," she replied simply. "You learn to pay attention."
He nodded, accepting the answer without pushing further.
They reached the covered walkway that cut through the center of campus, rain drumming softly against the glass panels above. The sound wrapped around them, cocooning the silence.
Anvika stopped there, shaking a bit of water from her sleeves. "You don't."
He looked at her. "Don't what?"
"Walk like you're waiting for something to go wrong."
"I plan for it," he said. "That's different."
She considered that. "You're calm."
"I've been told."
"Not performative calm," she added. "The real kind."
He didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. "Panic wastes energy."
"So does pretending you're unaffected."
He met her gaze, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "You think I pretend?"
"I think," she said carefully, "you choose what to show."
The rain continued its steady rhythm overhead.
"That's not dishonesty," he said.
"I didn't say it was."
They resumed walking.
The path curved toward the main exit, where students dispersed in different directions, some laughing, some hunched under shared umbrellas. The world felt oddly distant, as though it existed on a separate plane from the one Aadvaith and Anvika occupied.
"You didn't ask," he said suddenly.
She looked at him. "Ask what?"
"Why I disagreed with you in class."
She shrugged lightly. "You had a point."
"That wasn't why."
She slowed, then stopped entirely, turning to face him.
"Then why?"
He didn't answer right away.
When he did, it was measured. "Because people rarely challenge ideas they respect. They either dismiss themor accept them."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in focus. "And you?"
"I wanted to understand yours."
The admission landed quietlybut it landed.
Anvika exhaled, something easing in her shoulders. "Most people challenge to dominate."
"I don't," he said.
"I know."
The certainty in her voice surprised them both.
They reached the edge of the covered path. Beyond it, the rain fell more heavily, the lamplight diffusing into a hazy glow.
Anvika tightened her grip on her notebook. "This is where we split."
"Yes."
Neither moved.
For a moment, the space between them felt deliberateas if stepping away required conscious effort.
"You don't make promises lightly," she said.
"No."
"But when you do," she continued, "you keep them."
He held her gaze. "Yes."
She nodded once, filing the knowledge away.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"I'll be there."
She believed him.
As she stepped into the rain, Aadvaith adjusted his position againnot following her, not touching herjust enough that she remained shielded for the first few steps.
She noticed.
Her stride falterednot stopped, just… softened.
She didn't thank him.
He didn't expect her to.
Halfway down the path, she turned.
He was still standing there, rain streaking down his jacket, eyes fixed not on herbut on the ground ahead, as if giving her privacy even in departure.
Something tightened in her chest.
Anvika raised her hand slightlynot a wave, not a goodbye. Just acknowledgment.
He looked up.
Their eyes met one last time.
Then she turned and walked on.
Aadvaith remained where he was until she disappeared beyond the curve, the rain swallowing her figure completely.
Only then did he move.
As he walked toward his own path, he became aware of something unfamiliaran absence of noise inside his head. The constant calculations, the anticipations, the mental rehearsals had gone quiet.
In their place was something steadier.
A presence that didn't demand explanation.
He didn't name it.
He never rushed to name things.
But somewhere deep, beneath the calm he guarded so carefully, something had shiftedsubtle, irreversible.
And neither of them yet understood the shape of what they were stepping into.
Only that the space between them…
was no longer empty.