The sun had settled behind Delhi's hazy skyline by the time Ruhi returned to her PG. Her kurti clung to her back, damp with sweat from a full day of introductions, orientation speeches, and map-checking between endless blocks. She closed the door to Room 2A, kicked off her sandals, and collapsed onto the bed.
That's when she noticed the other bed wasn't empty anymore.
A pink bedsheet. A suitcase unzipped and half-unpacked. A soft perfume lingering in the air — floral, friendly. Then came the sound of bathroom slippers approaching, followed by a cheerful voice.
"You must be Ruhi! Finally, I meet my new roommate!"
Ruhi sat up just in time to be greeted by a bright, smiling face. Simran Mehta walked in, towel slung over her shoulder, her braided hair still damp. She had kind, twinkling eyes, a slight Punjabi accent, and a presence that instantly made the room feel warmer.
"I'm Simran. From Patiala. English Honours. You?" she asked, plopping onto her bed and pulling her hair into a bun.
"Ruhi. Darjeeling. English Honours too," Ruhi replied, managing a small smile.
Simran grinned. "Great! We're in the same course. We'll survive together, then."
Within minutes, conversation flowed like they had known each other for years. Simran talked about her village, her love for wedding music, how her elder brother was getting married in a few months, and how she had packed twenty packets of Maggi in fear of hostel food. Ruhi, for the first time since arriving, found herself laughing.
By the time the clock struck 11, both girls were tucked in bed, and Ruhi, like always, wrote in her diary:
"My roommate is sweet. Simran. Talks non-stop but in a good way. Today was strange. That boy — Rudra. He's everywhere. And worse, he's starting to stay in my mind."
She paused, then crossed the sentence out. Too honest. Too soon.
The next morning, Xavier's classrooms buzzed with energy. It was the first real day of college lectures, and excitement (and anxiety) filled the halls. Students hurried into their respective departments, balancing coffee cups, notebooks, and conversations.
Ruhi arrived early. She took a seat in the second row of the English Lit lecture hall — large windows, wooden benches, and a blackboard that still carried faded chalk dust from last semester.
Moments later, a familiar shadow entered. Loud laughter. Confident stride.
Rudra Sharma.
Wearing a grey T-shirt and a silver chain peeking from under his collar, he entered like he owned the room. His backpack slung over one shoulder, basketball keychain dangling from the zip.
Ruhi muttered under her breath, "Of course."
He sat a few rows behind her, but not before noticing her. Their eyes met. For a second. She looked away. He smiled.
Just as the professor began the introduction to Romantic poetry, another student slid into the seat beside Rudra. Tall, fair, dressed in a red checked shirt with messy hair and mischief in his grin.
Aarav Malhotra.
"Bro, why does Lit class have the most gorgeous girls?" Aarav whispered loud enough to be heard. "This is the best elective decision I've ever made."
Rudra chuckled. "Shut up."
But his eyes remained fixed ahead — on Ruhi, who was already scribbling notes with focus. Aarav followed his gaze, then gave a sly smile.
"Ohhh. So, that's the one."
Rudra nudged him. "Shut up, I said."
A few girls sitting near Rudra giggled and tried to start a conversation during the lecture break.
"You're Rudra, right? Captain Sharma?" one of them asked sweetly.
He nodded politely.
"You play basketball and get good grades? Must be illegal to be that perfect," another said, twirling her hair.
Rudra smiled, but his attention flickered — forward — where Ruhi was now quietly reading a passage aloud for the class. Her voice was calm, confident, and untouched by flattery.
She didn't look back even once.
Aarav leaned closer. "She's immune to the Rudra charm, huh?"
Rudra smirked. "That makes her... interesting."
During the lunch break, the college canteen exploded with noise — trays clanging, orders being shouted, the smell of samosas and masala fries in the air.
Ruhi and Simran sat near the corner table, enjoying cold coffee and sandwiches.
"That guy who was staring at you in class — that's Rudra Sharma, right?" Simran asked, sipping from her straw.
"He wasn't staring," Ruhi lied, avoiding eye contact.
Simran giggled. "Ruhi, please. Half the girls in college were staring at him. He only looked at you."
Ruhi rolled her eyes. "He's full of himself. Thinks he's some kind of celebrity."
Simran's brows lifted. "You say that like it bothers you."
Ruhi didn't answer.
Meanwhile, across the canteen, Rudra sat with Aarav and a group of seniors, but his gaze occasionally drifted toward the corner — where Ruhi laughed with Simran.
She looked relaxed. Her smile was real. It struck him more than he expected.
Aarav noticed. "Just go say hi, man."
Rudra shook his head. "She'll probably throw her coffee at me."
Aarav grinned. "Honestly? I'd pay to see that."
That evening, the campus was quieter. Students moved in smaller groups, heading toward the library, sports ground, or their PGs. The warm sunset cast a soft golden glow across Xavier's buildings.
Ruhi and Simran walked back together, shoes in hand, laughing about how they'd both misread the room number for their poetry class.
"You're going to write all of this in that famous diary of yours, aren't you?" Simran teased.
Ruhi smiled. "Maybe."
Back in the room, while Simran called her mother, Ruhi sat by the window with her diary.
"He looked at me again. Like I wasn't just another girl. I hate that I noticed. I hate that it felt... warm.""But no. I came here to study. To make something of myself. Not fall for someone like him."
She closed the book tightly.
In his room, Rudra stared at the ceiling fan spinning above. Aarav had gone home early. Music played from his speaker, but his mind was elsewhere.
He picked up his phone, opened Instagram, and hovered his thumb over the search bar.
Then stopped.
What was he even doing?
You don't chase girls, Rudra. Especially not ones who glare at you like a villain.
And yet… he didn't look away when she walked past.
Not even once.
To be continued...