It had been weeks since Suhani and Vidyut had exchanged more than a few begrudging words. Any encounters between them were either coldly civil or marked by sharp silence. They weren't strangers—no, not quite. Their families had known each other for years. They'd attended the same school. Their mothers exchanged forwarded recipes and polite festival wishes.
But none of that had ever translated into closeness.
Not even remotely.
Ever since Vidyut's prank—the one that had blindsided her, humiliated her—Suhani had drawn her boundaries in steel. She didn't talk to him, didn't look at him unless absolutely necessary, and certainly didn't let him see just how much it had gotten under her skin. Because it had. More than she liked to admit. The confusion and sting of that day had festered quietly inside her, fermenting into something more potent. Rage, perhaps. Or worse, vulnerability disguised as rage.
Now, with exams looming just a month away, every student in their batch had descended into survival mode. Days bled into nights filled with flashcards, case studies, and caffeine. Suhani spent most of her waking hours holed up in the library or hovering around the labs, trying to wedge every obscure fact from every corner of her textbooks into her memory. Her mind, like her notes, was organized, color-coded, and relentless.
Vidyut, of course, was the complete opposite.
He followed a different rhythm—sleeping when others were cramming, vanishing after classes, only to reappear with a head full of notes and eyes that looked more amused than stressed. It annoyed Suhani more than it should, the way he carried that nonchalance like armor. How could someone so careless still manage to stay ahead?
The professors, sensing the pressure building, had begun slipping in open-ended discussions after lectures—under the guise of 'lightening the mood.' No one really believed that was the purpose. Especially not when it came from someone like Prof. Dixit.
"Let's pause here for today," he said, snapping his thick pharmacology book shut with a satisfying thump. "Instead, let's turn our attention to the world outside these four walls. You've all heard about the junior doctors' strikes happening across several states. What's your take? Should medical trainees be allowed to protest, even if it means walking out on patients?"
As always, murmurs filled the room like low static. Suhani could hear the familiar shuffle of hesitation. No one wanted to be the first voice. Until someone was.
A girl from the front row raised her hand. "I think it goes against professional ethics. It puts undue pressure on the doctors who stay behind and could endanger patient safety."
Another chimed in, "But we're expected to work twice as much as most people our age. Where's the limit?"
A third voice added, "This job takes our personal life, our sleep, and sometimes even our dignity. And we're barely paid enough to survive. Aren't we still human?"
Suhani's hand went up.
She spoke calmly but with precision. "We call ourselves professionals for a reason. We hold lives in our hands. If we start walking out like any other union protest, we're not just risking patient trust—we're dismantling the foundation this profession is built on."
She wasn't looking at anyone in particular.
Until she heard him.
A voice, low and dry, slicing through the room like a blade.
"So we're supposed to bleed ourselves dry for a system that doesn't even acknowledge us?"
She didn't have to turn to know it was Vidyut. But she did. Their eyes met. His were unreadable, hers ice-cold.
"There are better ways to demand reform than abandoning a ward full of vulnerable patients," she replied sharply. "That might not be dramatic enough for headlines, but it's responsible."
"Oh sure," Vidyut said, sarcasm curling around each word, "let's write polite letters and hope someone at the top reads them in between signing contracts with pharma companies. Very efficient."
Suhani bristled. "And when a patient dies during a strike? When someone's father doesn't get care in time? It's not the system that gets blamed—it's us. We don't get to disappear behind a slogan when someone dies."
"Maybe," Vidyut replied, locking eyes with her again, "if we stopped pretending to be gods, we'd remember that we're human first. Maybe it's time someone did disappear behind a slogan—for once."
Before Suhani could fire back, Prof. Dixit cleared his throat pointedly. His tone was calm, but his expression gave nothing away.
"Passionate opinions, as always. I'm assigning a 500-word essay on this—due next week. Worth an extra 50 marks in the finals."
The class groaned in reluctant unison.
"Think of it as practice," he added dryly. "For the real world."
---
Later, the canteen buzzed with noise, trays clattering and students hunched over revision notes while simultaneously attempting to eat.
In a corner booth, Vidyut sat with Raghav, pushing a half-eaten sandwich around his plate.
"You know," Raghav said, pausing between sips of cold coffee, "you could've stayed quiet today."
Vidyut didn't look up. "So?"
"So... do you enjoy poking the bear, or is this some kind of long-term sabotage plan?"
"You make it sound like I've drafted a war strategy," Vidyut muttered.
"Haven't you?" Raghav teased, grinning. "It's been, what, a month since the prank? You two have been avoiding each other like you've signed a peace treaty. Then boom—today, you're back to verbal sparring."
Vidyut sighed and finally looked at him. "You think I don't have better things to do?"
"I think you act like you don't care," Raghav replied, finishing his coffee. "Which usually means you do."
Vidyut said nothing. Just stared into his cup, brow furrowed like he was solving a puzzle only he could see.
After a moment, he stood up. "You think too much, Raghav."
"And you think too little," Raghav called after him.
---
Vidyut walked back toward the lockers, the hall quiet now that most students had moved to the library or dorms. He reached his and twisted the lock open, rummaging around for his pharmacology notes.
That's when he saw it.
A slip of paper, folded and tucked under the corner of his timetable. At first, he thought it was just another handout or reminder—but something about the way it was placed felt deliberate.
He pulled it out, unfolding it slowly.
A single line stared back at him in a scrawl that was unmistakably Suhani's.
"Mind your business, would you?"
Vidyut stared at the note, lips curling slightly into a smirk.
So, she had noticed.
He held the note for another second, then slid it into his pocket like it was worth something.
Challenge accepted.