Vedant's POV
I don't sit at the front. I sit where I can see everything—professor, board, students, exits. It's not paranoia. It's pattern recognition. You learn more from watching than speaking.
She walked in three minutes late.
Not flustered. Not apologetic. Just late.
Arohi took the seat two rows ahead, slightly to the left. Not directly in my line of sight, but close enough that I noticed when she opened her notebook. Her outfit was deliberate, like everything else about her. A charcoal grey kurta with fine threadwork near the collar—barely visible unless you were looking paired with black leggings. No jewelry. No embellishment. Just restraint. Just clarity.
Her braid was tight today, no stray strands. Her nails were short, clean, unpainted. She didn't perform femininity. She curated it.
She opened her notebook. Her handwriting was small, precise. No doodles. No margin quotes. Just clean lines and bullet points. Her pen moved with a kind of quiet certainty—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Like she already knew what mattered.
She didn't glance around the room. Didn't check who was watching. She listened. Wrote. Tilted her head slightly when the professor made a flawed assumption about market elasticity. I saw her lips press together—not in disagreement, but in restraint.
She knew the answer. She didn't offer it.
Interesting.
Most students either speak to be seen or stay silent to disappear. She did neither. She existed in a third category—present, but untouchable.
I watched her for the rest of the lecture. Not constantly. Just enough to notice patterns.
She never slouched.
She never checked her phone.
She never looked bored.
But she also never looked impressed.
When the professor made a joke, the class laughed. She didn't. Not out of arrogance—out of precision. She didn't waste reactions.
I found myself anticipating her responses.
Would she nod?
Would she write that down?
Would she challenge the flawed logic?
She didn't.
She just listened. Absorbed. Filtered.
And I hated that I noticed.
I hated that I was watching her like a case study.
I hated that I couldn't categorize her.
I glanced down at my own clothes. Navy blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Black jeans, clean but worn at the seams. My watch was matte steel, no shine. I dressed to disappear, not to impress. But I noticed her noticing once—briefly, in the corridor last week. She didn't linger. Just registered and moved on.
After class, she packed her things slowly. No rush. No chatter. A girl from the next row tried to start a conversation. Arohi responded politely but didn't invite more. Her voice was low, even, with no upward inflection—no need to perform friendliness.
She walked out alone.
I stayed behind, pretending to review my notes. But I wasn't reviewing. I was replaying.
Her silence. Her posture. Her restraint.
It wasn't mystery. It was discipline.
And it reminded me of something I didn't want to remember—how control can be a shield. How silence can be louder than speech.
I told myself it didn't matter.
She was just another student.
Just another mind.
Just another variable.
But I knew better.
And I hated that I knew.