The shift was small.
So small neither of them named it.
But once it happened, everything before it felt like rehearsal.
It was exam week. The library overflowed with panic and caffeine. Mira had been uncharacteristically quiet all day, her usual energy drained into the pages of her notebook.
Arjun noticed.
He always did.
"You're thinking too loud," he said.
She didn't look up. "I'm going to fail."
"You say that before every exam."
"And one day I'll be right."
He pushed her book closed.
She stared at him in horror.
"Hey!"
"Breathe," he said gently. "You're not a machine."
Her shoulders sagged.
For a moment, the confident girl who outran the world disappeared, and someone smaller sat in her place.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
The honesty surprised them both.
Arjun didn't joke.
Didn't fix.
He just reached across the table and held her hand.
A simple gesture.
Friendly.
Supportive.
Normal.
Except it wasn't.
The air changed.
Time slowed in that quiet, invisible way it sometimes does when something important decides to happen.
Mira's fingers tightened around his.
Neither moved.
The library noise faded into distance.
All that existed was warmth.
Pulse.
Recognition.
They looked at each other.
And understood.
This was no longer just friendship.
They pulled their hands back at the same time.
Too fast.
Like touching fire.
No one spoke for a full minute.
Mira cleared her throat.
"I should… study," she said weakly.
"You should," he agreed.
Neither opened their books.
The world had tilted slightly.
Enough to feel.
Not enough to explain.
That night Arjun lay awake replaying the moment.
Not the touch.
The look.
He had seen something in her eyes that mirrored his own fear.
And hope.
The dangerous combination.
Across the city, Mira stared at her ceiling doing the same.
She pressed her fingers together, remembering the shape of his hand.
Her heart beat louder than logic.
This is risky, she thought.
This is inevitable, her chest answered.
The next morning they met at the window seat.
Smiled carefully.
Spoke normally.
But awareness sat between them like a third person.
Alive.
Watching.
Waiting.
Friendship had crossed a line neither of them could uncross.
And the terrifying part wasn't the change.
It was how right it felt.
Some moments don't shout.
They whisper.
And still manage to rewrite everything.