The third-floor hallway of the Arts Block felt like an endless, beige tunnel. To Meher, it was more than just a corridor; it was a gauntlet. She stood at the base of the stairs, clutching three heavy rolls of chart paper to her chest as if they were the remains of a broken life. Her arms ached, a dull, throbbing protest that she usually would have quelled with a pout and a tug on a certain sleeve.
But the sleeve was gone. The boy who filled it had vanished into the shadows of his own apartment, leaving her stranded in a world that suddenly felt too heavy to carry.
"Do you... do you need some help with those?"
The voice was unfamiliar. Meher looked up, blinking through a veil of unshed tears. A boy was standing there—Ishaan, a third-year student from the debate club. He was tall, wearing a clean-pressed shirt, and possessed the kind of generic, helpful smile that usually signaled the start of a healthy social interaction.
Meher's instinct kicked in immediately. It was a muscle memory developed over two years of "Arjun-senpai." She let her lower lip tremble slightly. She allowed one roll of paper to slip just enough for him to see how much she was struggling.
"Oh... I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice a delicate, practiced quiver. "I didn't mean to look so pathetic. It's just... these are for the festival backdrop, and I don't think I can make it to the studio alone."
Ishaan's smile widened, fueled by a sudden rush of white-knight adrenaline. "Don't be silly. Here, give them to me. I'm heading that way anyway."
He took the papers. For a fleeting second, Meher felt a surge of relief. See? she thought, a small, triumphant spark lighting up in her chest. It's not just Arjun. Anyone can do it. I just need a new hero.
As they walked toward the studio, Meher began her routine. She talked about how hard she had worked, how the colors were so difficult to mix, and how she felt "totally overwhelmed" by the club president's expectations. She waited for the punchline. She waited for the witty reassurance, the gentle ribbing, or the specific way Arjun would tell her she was being dramatic while simultaneously making her feel like the most important person in the room.
But Ishaan just nodded. "Yeah, everyone's stressed this week. You should probably just use acrylics next time; they dry faster."
Meher blinked. That's it? Logic?
"But acrylics don't have the same... soul," she tried again, tilting her head at an angle she knew made her eyes look larger. "I feel like if I don't use the expensive oils, the audience won't feel the emotion I put into it. Don't you think?"
Ishaan glanced at his watch. "Honestly? Most people won't even notice the backdrop once the play starts. Hey, I actually have a meeting in five minutes. Do you mind if I just leave these by the door? You can handle the rest, right?"
He didn't wait for her "Damsel in Distress" response. He leaned the papers against the studio door, gave her a quick, distracted wave, and disappeared down the stairs.
Meher stood in the hallway, the silence of the empty building closing in around her. The relief she had felt moments ago vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow realization. Ishaan wasn't a hero. He was just a person. And to a person who isn't addicted to you, your helplessness isn't "cute"—it's just an inconvenience.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Arjun hadn't just been helping her; he had been shielding her from the indifference of the world. He had been the filter that turned her inability to function into a charming personality trait.
Without him, she wasn't a princess. She was just a girl who couldn't carry her own papers.
She didn't go into the studio. Instead, she wandered into the library, seeking the sanctuary of the "Quiet Zone." She found a secluded desk in the back, behind the dusty rows of Encyclopedias, and buried her face in her arms. The tears finally came—not the pretty, cinematic tears she used for attention, but ugly, snotty sobs of genuine terror.
"You're vibrating the table."
Meher jumped, looking up to see Sana sitting at the next desk over. Sana didn't look bothered; she looked bored. She was staring at a diagram of a benzene ring as if it held the secrets to the universe.
"Sana-di..." Meher sniffled, reaching for a tissue that wasn't there. "Everything is falling apart. Why is Arjun-senpai doing this? He's hurting everyone. He's hurting me."
Sana finally turned her head. Her gaze was as sharp and cold as a scalpel.
"Arjun isn't doing anything, Meher. That's the problem. He stopped doing, and now you're realizing that your entire 'self' was just a reflection in his eyes. You're not crying because you miss him. You're crying because you've realized you're useless on your own."
"That's mean!" Meher gasped, her face flushing. "I loved him! I really did!"
"No," Sana said, her voice dropping to a flat, terrifying whisper. "You loved the convenience of him. You loved having a giant, human-shaped safety net. But safety nets aren't supposed to be people, Meher. People get tired. People break. And when they do, the people falling are the ones who scream the loudest about betrayal."
Sana went back to her book, her pen scratching against the paper with mechanical precision.
"Go pick up your papers, Meher. Or don't. The world won't stop either way. That's the life lesson Arjun is giving you for free, and you're too busy crying to learn it."
Meher sat there, her breath hitching in her throat. She looked at Sana—so cold, so independent, so utterly unaffected. She hated her. But more than that, she envied her.
She realized that her "harem" fantasies were just a way to avoid growing up. She had wanted to stay the "cute junior" forever, trapped in a loop of being rescued and pampered. But the rescue had ended. The hero had resigned. And the princess was left sitting in the dirt, realizing that her crown was made of plastic.
Moving on was a word people used for broken hearts. But for Meher, it felt like being asked to walk when she had never even learned how to stand.
She looked at her hands—small, soft, and unused to struggle.
"I don't know how to be me without him," she whispered to the empty air.
The library remained silent. There was no witty reply. No comforting pat on the head. Just the sound of a ticking clock and the harsh, fluorescent reality of a life she didn't know how to live.
As the sun began to set, casting long, skeletal shadows over the bookshelves, Meher finally stood up. She didn't look like a princess anymore. She looked like a survivor of a shipwreck, staring at a vast, empty ocean and realizing that no boat was coming.
She didn't move on that day. She simply stayed in the wreckage, wondering if the pain of being alone was better than the lie of being loved for her weakness.