The outside air felt refreshing after two hours of dissection, formalin clinging to their clothes and hair like an unwanted personality trait. And then, of course, there had been the post-DH ritual — the fight to get into the locker room and wrestle your own bag out from among a mob of equally feral students who all believed their bag was the most important bag in the world.

Survival of the fastest.

Tara walked beside Tanya, her bag slung loosely over one shoulder. One strap was held absently in her hand while the other hung carelessly down her arm. She was already tugging her hair out of the scrunchie bun it had been subjected to during DH. The silken band gave way with a soft pull, and dark brown strands fell around her shoulders in loose waves.

She ran a hand through them, fingers combing through slowly, the tension leaving her posture little by little as they made their way down the hallway.

Behind them, a small cluster of students trailed along.

She didn’t notice.

Yash was among them.

He walked beside his friend, quiet as always, gaze lowered just enough to look casual — unbothered — even as his eyes tracked every strand of her newly freed hair. His friend beside him was talking animatedly about something — something about internal assessment marks or maybe someone’s disastrous viva — but Yash couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He nodded periodically, giving the illusion of listening.

In reality, all of his focus gravitated toward a single person ahead of him — like a compass needle stubbornly refusing to point anywhere else.

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

He just… happened to be close enough.

And his brain, traitor that it was, happened to be tuned so precisely to her voice that even in a crowded hallway, layered with dozens of overlapping conversations, her words cut through with terrifying clarity.

“So I haven’t told you, right,” Tara said thoughtfully, fiddling with the strap of her bag. “I think I have a crush on someone.”

She said it almost too casually. Like she was mentioning she’d bought a new pen. Or discovered a new highlighter shade.

Tanya stopped mid-step.

Her mouth widened into a stunned expression. She had never pegged Tara as the sort of girl who even first liked guys — much less have a crush and admit it shyly in broad daylight.

“You… what?”

Tara rolled her eyes immediately, as if that small, dismissive gesture would lessen the gravity of what she had just confessed.

“It’s not that deep,” she said offhandedly. Or at least, she tried to make it sound offhanded. “It’s just… a stupid crush. Everyone has those.”

Behind them, Yash’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly.

He didn’t mean to focus on their conversation more than he already had. He didn’t mean to hear it in the first place. He knew he shouldn’t — it wasn’t meant for him.

But every word landed too clearly.

And his mind refused to tune a single one out.

“Of course, yaar. It’s natural only. No need to be shy,” Tanya assured her, though a glint had entered her eyes — the unmistakable gleam of gossip awakening. “Who is it?” she finally asked, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

Tara hesitated.

She shook her head lightly. “I don’t know his name yet.”

Tanya blinked. “It should literally say his name right there on his apron.”

“…Haven’t got a chance to read it yet.”

Tanya let out a breathless laugh. “So you’re in love with a vibe.”

“It’s a *crush*,” Tara hissed, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks.

“Same difference. You’re blushing. Sounds pretty serious to me.”

“I am not.”

“You most definitely are,” Tanya grinned.

They rounded a corner, completely unaware of another set of ears hyper-focused on their conversation.

“Fine. You don’t know his name. At least tell me what he looks like. Whatever you can remember.”

A thoughtful expression crossed Tara’s face.

Describing him felt less like describing a person and more like attempting to summarise a very specific emotional experience.

“He has… uh… nice straight dark hair.”

Tanya made an unimpressed face. “Everyone has dark hair here, Sherlock.”

Tara waved her off impatiently. “Let me complete, will you? Okay. Black hair. It’s not short, but not long either. He has bangs… I guess? Yes, definitely bangs. It’s like — a bowl cut, except longer. And it’s really, really working for me.”

Tanya stared.

“His skin colour — it’s brownish. Dusky. Maybe a shade fairer than me. It’s more… olive. Yes. Oh, and glasses. He wears glasses.”

“…You do realise you just described half the male population in our batch, right?” Tanya asked flatly.

“I know,” Tara sighed in frustration. “I don’t know what else to say. He was… very gentle. He looks… smart. You know? He looks like he knows things. I like people who look like they actually know things.”

Behind them, Yash’s heartbeat stuttered.

He had been listening to every word with rapt, unwilling attention.

Black hair. Long-ish.

Brownish skin.

Glasses.

Smart-looking.

His mind began assembling possibilities without his permission.

Possibilities his logical brain knew were statistically absurd.

But his stupid, hopeful heart? It felt giddy anyway.

“…He was at our table today,” Tara added as an afterthought, tucking her hair behind her ear.

For Yash, that statement held astronomical weight.

Because it narrowed things down.

Our table.

Table number 6.

Which meant—

His brain immediately started filtering through faces.

Table 6 had four boys.

Out of twenty-five students.

One — too pale. Definitely not olive or brown. Out.

One — quiet, but no glasses. Out.

One — his friend walking beside him right now. His eyes flickered sideways at him. His friend was still talking, blissfully unaware, thinking Yash was listening. Glasses. Brownish. Smart-looking. Possible.

And lastly…

Him.

To Yash, Aryan didn’t even register as a choice. In his mental mapping, Tara’s statement had narrowed the pool to Table 6. And within Table 6, it felt… dangerously plausible.

He felt his face heat up instinctively.

He did not allow himself to fully form the thought.

He absolutely did not allow himself to imagine that it could be him.

He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He didn’t want to be delusional. He didn’t want to build castles in the air only to watch them collapse.

But his mind didn’t care for caution.

It had drawn up the possibility. Plain and simple.

And that possibility — it felt both dangerous and exhilarating.

A fragile, trembling hope bloomed in his chest, so tender it almost hurt.

She likes someone.

Maybe… maybe it’s not impossible.

Maybe he wasn’t invisible.

Maybe when she looked at Table 6, she had seen him.

He swallowed.

He told himself not to assume.

He told himself not to dream.

But his heart — traitorous, soft, foolish — whispered, *What if?*

His eyes flickered sideways to his friend again, lingering longer this time. A silent accusation written all over his face.

The friend blinked back, utterly lost.

“What?” he mouthed, confused. 

Yash quickly shook his head. “Nothing,” he muttered quietly. “It’s nothing.”

Ahead of them, Tara and Tanya kept walking, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake unfolding two steps behind them.

Aryan, somewhere farther down the corridor, walked with his bag slung loosely over one shoulder, gaze distant, mind occupied with thoughts known only to him.

He did not notice Tara.

He did not notice Yash.

He did not notice anything except the vague bloom of hope that appeared when he checked what day it was.

Friday.

At least the snacks were good on Fridays.

He liked vada pav.

It was definitely better than yesterday’s chickpea salad.

In that moment, that was the extent of his emotional turmoil.