Her thoughts returned to the present as the teacher concluded her explanation. Soon, they were left to their own devices, with two skulls on the table — to study the foramina for themselves and memorise them.
Tara sighed.
She did not feel like studying. At all.
Her gaze travelled to the clock on the wall.
3:00.
There was an entire hour of DH left. Not exactly something she could just pass by dilly-dallying. She half-heartedly opened her book, movements sluggish and unwilling. With the most unenthusiastic expression, she glanced over at the other students — noting the page number.
Page number 21 in osteology. Stratum basale.
She flipped through the pages, finally coming across the diagram of doom. She did not understand anything. But then again, that's anatomy for you.
On the other side of the table, a certain pair of eyes found her.
Tara's gaze was fixed on her book. To the outside eye — which this person definitely was — she looked focused. Like she understood things.
Which she did not.
But rose-tinted glasses do not care for such things.
Yash Singla sat on the other end of the table, spine straight and elbows carefully tucked in — as if posture alone could make him less conspicuous. His friend was showing two girls something on the skull. Normally, Yash would listen too, but right now he couldn't bring himself to really care.
The people around him were loud — some discussing the skull, others just passing time by talking about unrelated topics in their respective friend groups. But he stayed silent, content in himself, in his little bubble of quiet, eyes drifting toward the middle of the table only when he was sure no one was watching.
He tried to tell himself he was just bored and scanning the table.
But that wouldn't really be true if every time his gaze stopped at one specific person, would it?
He watched as she bent over her book. A pink highlighter was clutched in her hand. It moved with purpose, highlighting the stratum basale figure. Her brows were furrowed in concentration. The light from the window behind reflected on her hair — tied in a bun that was begging to come apart — making the dark brown strands shine golden.
From where he sat, she looked devastatingly serious. Like someone who actually understood anatomy instead of merely surviving it.
He watched as her lips moved silently, mouthing the various words as she traced the foramina with her finger.
Yash felt, not for the first time, a quiet sense of awe.
She… she always looked like that. Composed, sharp, confident… untouchable. Like nothing ever fazed her and she had always gone through life knowing the future would be okay. She looked like she had her life figured out, down to the decimal point.
He wondered, briefly, how someone could appear so in control while being surrounded by this chaos.
But that's Tara for you.
He swallowed weakly. He looked away.
The loss of her in his sight felt like a physical ache.
He looked back at her.
She hadn't noticed him. She hadn't even looked up. Right now, she was hyper-focused on one single foramen, as if dissecting the figure by gaze alone.
He looked down.
On one hand, he felt so… afraid. Afraid that one day, while he was looking at her, she would look up and catch his gaze. He knew he wouldn't be able to tear it away fast enough or act nonchalant.
On the other hand — he also desperately wanted her to look up.
Just once.
Just once, he wanted her to actually notice him.
But she never did.
Maybe… maybe he didn't even exist to her. Or maybe she just didn't care.
Both possibilities felt equally painful.
He told himself, as he always did, that it was fine. Admiring her from afar was fine. Ideal, even. He just needed… to wait it out.
That is what he'd told himself before — that eventually, his feelings would just go away.
They had not.
Tara glanced up briefly.
Yash's heart stuttered — and for a moment, he wondered if she was looking at him.
But she looked past him.
He turned back slowly, following her line of sight.
Oh.
The wall clock.
She was looking at that.
He felt a strange, hollow sort of relief settle in his chest. This was… good. This was safer. This way, he wouldn't expect anything. Which was better for all of them. Better for her. Better for him. Better for whatever fragile illusion he had constructed where admiration from afar didn't hurt as much as it actually did.
Tara returned to her book, jaw set.
Yash thought that was the expression of determined academic resolve.
It was not.
Tara looked up again.
It was only 3:30.
They were excused at around 3:45.
She physically felt it becoming harder to stare at the same page for any longer. Her soul rejected it. Her eyes rejected it. Her brain had unionised and filed a formal complaint.
She refused.
This probably classified as a human rights violation in some international convention.
Her gaze travelled back to… Table One.
To Aryan.
Aryan sat with the posture of someone who had never been self-conscious a single day in his life. Arms crossed loosely, shoulders relaxed, eyes lowered like the object of his vision held the secrets of the universe.
He was staring at the steel table.
Where there was nothing.
His anatomy book lay open to the side. It looked worn, pages slightly curled — which was strange, considering Tara had never actually seen him marking or actively using that book at all. And believe her, she'd watched him a lot.
He blinked slowly.
Tara observed him with fascination — like an explorer watching a rare wildlife species in its natural habitat.
He picked up a pen.
For a moment, Tara felt a flicker of hope.
Oh. He must've just been thinking before. He's going to study now.
He traced a line on the diagram with his pen.
It was… the title of the diagram.
"Stratum basale," he mouthed silently, humming and nodding as if he had just unlocked something profound.
He did not feel anything for the stratum basale.
The stratum basale did not care.
His thoughts drifted to whether he had picked up his handwash from the sink area in the hostel after using the bathroom earlier. He probably didn't. That meant someone else would take it. Which was mildly inconvenient.
Then his thoughts drifted to the mess menu.
Today was… Thursday.
There was some weird chickpea salad today.
He wondered if it would be worth the effort to walk from his room to the mess for that.
It wasn't.
He sighed. His pen tapped against the page lazily.
Some people from his table laughed at something one of them said. He looked up for a moment, expression unchanged, eyes flat and unfocused.
Anyone watching — especially someone wearing thick rose-tinted glasses — would assume he was disturbed in the middle of a profound study session by pesky slackers.
He was not.
Tara looked at him, chin resting on her palm. She might as well have been swooning.
To her, his eyes looked so… heavy.
With thought.
They were so deep. So detached. Like they were used to carrying the weight of a universe no one else could understand. Those eyes held niche, nerdy interests. Interests she would willingly hear him yap about for hours, even if nothing made sense.
In reality, he was mentally calculating whether he should get an iced frappe or a lemon iced tea for his evening beverage.
Aryan flipped a page.
The stratum basale was too much.
A whole block of text that looked like it had been printed during a recession for how many words had been shoved onto a single page stared back at him.
He immediately turned back.
At least this one had pictures.
And less words.
He wasn't trying to be mysterious.
He wasn't trying to be anything.
He was just… there. Existing in the quiet, slow way that felt natural to him — and oddly magnetic to a certain someone watching from across the room and projecting entire mythologies onto his silence.
After a minute, he looked back at the diagram. His eyes focused on one small marking.
Foramen ovale.
He circled it, nodding sagely.
Ovale.
It must be… oval.
Indeed, the pointer indicated an ellipsoid foramen.
He nodded again, as if approving of both the universe and human anatomy.
Tara looked on, internally constructing entire emotional narratives around the focused, knowledgeable eyes that — in her mind — held ancient sadness, quiet resilience, and poetic detachment all at once.
Aryan looked on.
He closed the book.
Foramen ovale.
That was enough productivity for today.
He had not noticed anyone looking at him.
He never did.