I came home that evening heavy with questions. The noise of school still clung to me—the arguments, the glances, the little earthquakes of the day—but my room was too quiet. It pressed against me until I couldn't take it. I pulled out my diary, cracked from secrets, and laid it open like a confession booth. The pen felt heavy, as if it already knew what I was about to write.
"Okay," I whispered to myself, "let me write down the things I hate about him."
The first words scratched onto the page almost with relief. I hate that he is egoistic. He's always puffed up with his own importance, throwing his words like knives at anyone who questions him. Then the next came: He has selfish roots. He acts like the world revolves around him, like everyone else is just… background.
And then I laughed to myself—because even the small, stupid things made the list. He fights over Oreo. Who even does that? Who wages war over a biscuit? But with him, everything is dramatic, everything is sharp-edged.
The pen didn't stop. He's an atheist. That stung the most. I pray to the Lord every night, whispering my hopes into folded hands, while he dismisses it all like it's a joke. Like faith is just a costume people wear. I can't understand it. And yet… I want to.
He's a vegan. Even that went onto the page, though it felt ridiculous. He doesn't drink milk, doesn't eat anything connected to cows. He once told me it was because we treat them badly. After all, he refuses to profit from cruelty. And I remember rolling my eyes so hard my head ached. Seriously, what is this guy up to? Always against the current, always finding some way to make the world his enemy.
But when the ink dried, I realized my hand was trembling. Because this list—this angry, messy list—wasn't pulling him out of my head. If anything, it drew him closer. My mind kept circling back, replaying his voice, his stubbornness, his refusal to bend. Fighting and fighting, but always with him at the center.
Do I like him? Do I not? The question stretched out in my chest like a rope pulled tight. I tried to compare it. I thought of Abhi—of how light that had felt, how pure, how easy to name. That was simple, like the first rays of morning. I knew I liked him.
But this? This feels like fire and smoke and confusion. Like I'm standing too close to a flame and daring myself not to pull back. Attraction, I told myself. That's all it is. Just attraction. And sooner or later, I'll come over it. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
It happened in Chemistry class. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and the metallic tang of old lab tables. The teacher threw a trick question at us—one of those Thermodynamics riddles.
"Is heat a path function?"
Curiosity won over caution. "Yes, it is a path function," I said.
And then—like clockwork—he stood against me. Not quietly disagreeing, but positioning himself as if it were a sport.
"No," he said, tone clipped and certain, "it isn't."
It wasn't even about the answer. It was about being opposite. Always opposite.
When the teacher confirmed his answer, my stomach tightened. Before I could swallow the sting, his voice cut through the class again—this time dripping with sarcasm.
"See? Thinks she's the only one who knows things. Always going against me."
The words landed like darts. My cheeks burned. I said nothing. I can't deal with this guy. I really, really can't.
Later, Shree whispered to me in the hallway, the juicy, conspiratorial tone I knew too well.
"You know about him, right?"
"About what?" I asked, still raw from Chemistry.
"He talks to every girl in the school. Knows everybody. Keeps photos of girls in his phone."
My eyes widened. "What?"
"Rumor," she continued, lowering her voice. "But everybody's sure. He deletes the chats after he talks. Very suspicious."
I felt my stomach drop. The boy who fights me in class. The boy who refuses to bend for me. And yet… the one who lingers in my thoughts. What is he up to? Why do I keep circling back to him?
That night, sleep came only as a whisper, and a vision struck me—sharp, vivid, impossible to ignore.
I saw the school burning. Smoke curled into the sky like dark snakes, flames licking the walls, and the halls were chaos. Students were running, screaming, stumbling. And behind me, a monster loomed—grotesque, massive, its shadow swallowing everything in its path. My heart thumped as adrenaline surged.
Then, unexpectedly, he was there. Akaay. Not arguing, not teasing. Just… there. He grabbed my hand, steady and sure, and pulled me toward him. I stumbled into his chest, and he held me close, arm around my waist, pressing me against him until the monster passed.
And the strangest part? His eyes never left me. Not once. Not on the fire, not on the chaos, not on the monster threatening everything around us. Just me.
Something twisted inside me. Logic screamed: he's rude, egoistic, selfish—but here he was, a protector in my dream. And I didn't hate it. My body remembered the warmth of that closeness, the heartbeat pressed to mine. My mind spun, tangled between fear, relief, and a softness I wasn't ready to name.
When I woke, my room was quiet. No flames, no monster. But the feeling lingered—the realization that part of me had always imagined him this way, had always wanted him to be this way. My soft side for him, the one I fought daily, had found a stage even my waking mind couldn't deny.
And I whispered to myself in the dark: Am I falling for him? Even after everything? Even after knowing how impossible he is?
Maybe I was craving a version of him that didn't exist. Maybe the real Akaay is a mirror I don't want to see, and the one I imagined—the one behind the sharp edges, the ego, the sarcasm—was softer, vulnerable, in need of someone to understand him. My mind kept circling it, a loop I couldn't break.
I tell myself he's impossible, selfish, egoistic—but there's a flicker, a whisper inside me: maybe he's not exactly what he says he is. Maybe all those walls, the harsh words, the relentless defiance… It's a story he doesn't tell, a reason he doesn't show. And something in me—some instinct buried deep—wants to know it.
I know he deserves better. I know he deserves someone who sees through the armor, someone who won't flinch at the sharp edges. And maybe, subconsciously, my mind decided that someone could be me. Not because I want to fix him—that sounds like a hero story from a cheesy movie—but because a part of me believes I could belong in his story, quietly, where he doesn't have to perform, doesn't have to be always on guard.
And that's terrifying. Because I also know I deserve better. I know I shouldn't be drawn to the impossible. I know he's chaos, and I'm craving peace. But even knowing that, my mind keeps circling, keeps imagining—a soft hand reaching the rough corners, a quiet smile behind the scowl, and somehow, in my head, I'm the one standing there.
Maybe it's the version of him that doesn't exist… but maybe it's the version I want to see, and somehow, my heart is already living in that story.