The migraine hit at 2:30 a.m. sharp.
Meera groaned, burying her head under the pillow. She hadn't meant to stay up so late, but the project deadline was close, and she couldn't afford to slack.
Still, the pounding in her temples felt like cruel irony. Especially after his message.
"Don't stay up past 2. You'll get a migraine."
She had deleted it instantly, muttering curses at her phone. Yet here she was, clutching her head, wondering how the hell he knew.
By morning, the anger had settled into a tight knot in her chest. Aarav wasn't just annoying anymore. He was crossing lines. Lines that weren't supposed to be crossed.
"Maybe he's just guessing," Priya offered over breakfast, though even she sounded uncertain. "Like, he's observant. You're always cranky if you don't sleep."
Meera shook her head, stabbing her toast. "No, Priya. He knows. He knew about my breakfast. He knew about my laptop. And now this. I don't even tell you half this stuff, and somehow he…"
Her voice trailed off. Priya's brow furrowed. "Okay, yeah. That's creepy."
Meera leaned back, exhausted. "I need space. Just… one day without him. Is that too much to ask?"
She avoided him all morning. Different café. Different staircase to class. She even ducked into the chemistry building just to throw him off.
For a while, it worked. Her lungs finally felt like they could expand again.
Until she opened her locker.
Her books were neatly stacked, her pens lined up, her half-broken keychain replaced with a new one. A silver one. Shaped like a camera.
Her stomach dropped.
Pinned to the inside of the locker door was a note, written in his clean, deliberate handwriting:
"Be careful. You dropped your old keychain last night. I fixed it."
Her pulse hammered. She hadn't even realized it was missing.
By afternoon, her focus was shot. She sat in the photography lab, staring blankly at her screen. Her folders looked normal—until she noticed a new one tucked into the corner
Titled: "You."
Her hands shook as she clicked.
Inside were photos. Of her.
Not selfies. Not project work. Not even the ones she had shared with friends. These were candid shots: her walking to class, laughing with Priya, eating lunch, reading in the library.
Moments she never knew he'd been watching.
Her throat closed. She slammed the laptop shut, pressing her palms to her face.
"Breathe," she whispered. "Just… breathe."
That evening, she didn't go to the café. She didn't go to the library. She went straight to her dorm, locked the door, and sat curled up on the bed, phone clutched in her hand.
For once, there were no messages. No footsteps outside her window. Nothing.
And that silence was worse.
Because it meant he was somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
When the knock finally came, it was soft. Two taps.
Her breath caught. She didn't move.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"Meera."
His voice. Calm. Unyielding.
She scrambled off the bed, pressing her back against the wall. "Go away, Aarav."
A pause. Then: "Open the door."
"No."
"Open it," he repeated, quieter this time. "Or I will."
Her pulse spiked. The threat wasn't loud. It wasn't even harsh. But it was absolute.
She clutched the knob, torn between fear and something else—something she hated herself for feeling.
Slowly, she unlocked it.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Perfectly composed. Blazer crisp. Eyes sharp.
But when they landed on her—hair messy, hands trembling—his expression softened.
"You're tired," he murmured, stepping inside.
She stumbled back. "You can't just walk in here—"
"I can." He closed the door behind him. "And I will."
Meera's back hit the wall. Her chest heaved. "Aarav, this is insane. You're—"
"Obsessed?" he finished, his voice steady. "Yes."
Her heart pounded. He wasn't joking. Not smirking. Not teasing.
Just telling her the truth.
And that terrified her more than anything else.