Morning arrived without ceremony.
The campus woke slowlydew clinging to grass, the sky pale and undecided, footsteps scattered and unhurried. Anvika crossed the courtyard with her bag tucked close, mind already moving ahead of the day. She liked mornings because they asked nothing of her. No explanations. No performance. Just momentum.
She reached the notice board outside the administrative wing and stopped.
A crowd had gatheredtight, murmuring, the way people gathered when something mattered enough to interrupt routine. She stepped closer, scanning the pinned sheets until she found the one she was looking for.
Revised research presentation slots.
Her name sat at the top of a column.
Beside itAadvaith.
A pairing.
Again.
She exhaled slowly, not in frustration, not in relief. Acceptance, maybe. Fate had a way of being persistent where resistance felt pointless.
A voice cut through the low chatter. "That's unfortunate."
She turned.
A classmateone who smiled too easily, spoke too freelytilted his head toward the board. "Being paired with him. He doesn't bend."
"Neither do I," Anvika replied.
The smile faltered. "He's… intense."
She met the speaker's gaze evenly. "So am I."
The conversation ended there.
She stepped back, making space as others leaned in. As she turned to leave, she felt it againthat quiet shift in air.
Aadvaith stood a few steps away, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze fixed not on the board but on her.
"You saw," he said.
"I did."
"Any objections?"
"No."
"Good."
That was it. No discussion. No negotiation.
They fell into step beside each other, heading toward the academic block. The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting fractured light across the path. Birds moved above them, careless and loud.
"You don't seem surprised," he observed.
"I stopped being surprised by patterns," she said. "They repeat."
"And people?"
"People," she replied, "are harder."
He glanced at her. "You include yourself?"
"Yes."
They walked in silence for a while, the kind that didn't ask to be filled. Students passed them in clusters, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling like static.
Anvika broke the quiet. "Why do you think they keep pairing us?"
"Because we get results."
"That's not the only reason."
He considered. "Because we challenge each other."
"Most people avoid that."
"I don't."
She nodded. "Neither do I."
They reached the building entrance. As they stepped inside, the noise softened, replaced by echoing footsteps and distant voices. Aadvaith slowed slightly, letting a group pass.
"You don't like being underestimated," he said.
"I don't like being misread."
"Difference?"
"Underestimation is ignorance," she said. "Misreading is laziness."
He absorbed that, filing it away.
Inside the classroom, they took their usual seatsseparate, not by design, just habit. The lecture began, dense and technical, but Anvika found her attention drifting.
Not to him.
To the space around him.
The way he satstill, composed, as if anchored. The way he listenednot just to respond, but to understand. She noticed how rarely he spoke, and how carefully he chose when to.
It wasn't indifference.
It was restraint.
When the professor posed a question, Aadvaith didn't answer immediately. He waited. Let others speak. Let the room exhaust itself.
Then he spokequietly, decisively.
The room listened.
Anvika felt it againthat subtle pull. Not attraction. Not yet.
Recognition.
After class, they found themselves walking together once more, the path narrowing as students dispersed. The air felt heavier than the day before, clouds gathering with intent.
"You don't fill silences," she said.
"I don't fear them."
"Most people do."
"Most people are afraid of what surfaces when it's quiet."
She studied him. "And you?"
"I've already met it."
The answer was calm.
Too calm.
She didn't ask what he meant.
They reached the library steps, but instead of turning in, Aadvaith paused.
"Walk?" he asked.
It wasn't an invitation layered with expectation. Just a question.
She considered the sky. The hour. Her own habits.
"Alright," she said.
They took the longer path around the lake, the one less traveled. Water rippled under the faint wind, reflecting the darkening clouds. The air smelled like rain waiting to happen.
Anvika broke the silence. "You don't ask personal questions."
"I don't pry."
"Why?"
"Because people tell you what matters when they're ready."
She smiled faintly. "You're patient."
"I had to learn to be."
That answer lingered.
A group of students approached from the opposite direction, loud and careless. One of them brushed past Anvika too closely, shoulder clipping hers.
Before she could react, Aadvaith stepped half a pace closernot touching her, not confronting anyone. Just there.
A presence.
The group moved on.
"You didn't need to do that," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Then why"
"I noticed."
She looked at him, something warm and unsettling settling in her chest.
"You're protective," she said.
"I'm observant."
"Same thing," she replied.
The first drops of rain fell thenslow, spaced, deliberate. They continued walking, neither quickening their pace.
As the rain intensified, Anvika reached for her jacket, tugging it tighter. Aadvaith adjusted his position instinctively, placing himself slightly upwind.
She noticed.
Again.
"You do that a lot," she said.
"Do what?"
"Make space without claiming it."
He met her gaze. "You don't like being crowded."
"No," she agreed. "I don't."
They stopped beneath a tree as the rain thickened, leaves above them trembling under the weight of water. The world narrowed to the sound of rain, the lake, their breathing.
Anvika hugged her notebook closer, eyes fixed on the rippling water.
"You survived alone," Aadvaith said suddenly.
It wasn't a question.
She didn't deny it. "I had to."
"You're good at it."
"Yes."
"But," he added softly, "you shouldn't have had to."
The words struck deeper than she expected.
She looked at him thenreally looked. At the steadiness in his eyes. The quiet assurance. The absence of demand.
"You don't say things you don't mean," she said.
"No."
"And you don't offer what you can't give."
"No."
Her throat tightenednot painfully, just enough to remind her she was still human.
The rain eased, thinning into a mist.
They stepped out from under the tree, resuming their walk. The path ahead glistened, reflecting the soft glow of the lamps flickering on.
At the junction where they would part ways, they slowed.
"This," Anvika said carefully, "whatever this is"
He waited.
"it doesn't need a name," she finished.
"I agree."
They stood there for a moment, the space between them filled with something neither reached for, yet neither ignored.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"Yes."
She turned to leave.
"Anvika," he called softly.
She paused.
"You don't beg for love," he said. "That's rare."
She looked back, eyes steady. "I don't need to."
"I know."
And for the first time, as she walked away, Anvika realized something had shiftednot dramatically, not loudly.
But enough.
Something unnamed had taken root.
And it was already growing.