One month later.
The days now felt different. Quieter, warmer—like a rhythm had finally settled.
But memory doesn't move forward. It lingers.
For Saikiran, that morning began like most others, except something had nudged the past awake. A smell, a word, or perhaps just the way Ishani had casually brushed lint off his shoulder before entering the office—it sent him spiraling.
Four Years Ago
His first semester. Her third.
The college campus buzzed with its usual late-August chaos—freshers stumbling through corridors, seniors acting like they ran the world. Saikiran had quickly figured out the unspoken rules: speak less, observe more, and don't get dragged into drama.
He liked solitude. Or maybe he'd just learned to make peace with it.
That afternoon, he was leaving the physics lab when the familiar, mocking voice of a third-year student caught his attention near the water cooler.
"Hey junior, where'd you get that accent from? Imported IIT reject?"
Saikiran stopped.
There were three of them. Her batchmates. Loud, entitled, riding on fake confidence and inherited swagger.
He adjusted his glasses, gave a tight-lipped smile, and turned to walk away.
"Oh look, he doesn't talk. Must be mute. Poor kid."
The second boy snickered. "Maybe he needs a translator. Or just someone to deflate that ego."
Saikiran paused. He could've said something. In fact, his fingers had already curled into fists. But he breathed in deeply, jaw set. He'd been through worse in school. This wasn't worth it.
That's when a new voice cut through the air.
Sharp. Confident. Female.
"I hope you guys are done embarrassing yourselves."
They turned.
Ishani stood there, ponytail swaying as she walked up, arms folded across her chest.
"Seriously, Rajeev? Still pulling this alpha crap on juniors?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "It's getting old."
The boys scoffed, uneasy. One of them muttered, "It was just a joke, yaar."
"Sure," she replied. "And maybe one day, you'll be funny."
They quieted.
Saikiran didn't know what stunned him more—her directness, or the way she hadn't even looked at him while defending him. Like she did it on instinct, not for attention.
She finally glanced his way. "You okay?"
"I was," he said quietly, lips twitching into a half-smile.
She held his gaze for a second, then nodded. "Smart choice, by the way. Not reacting. They feed off drama."
"I figured," he replied. "But thanks anyway."
"No problem. I hate wasted testosterone."
She walked off after that. Effortlessly.
And Saikiran… stood there a few seconds longer than necessary.
That moment became a bookmark in his mind. The day he first truly noticed Ishani—not the campus topper or the girl with a senior boyfriend—but the woman who walked into conflict like it was a hallway and left with grace.
From that day on, their conversations started—brief, polite, mostly about class notes or electives. But something had shifted. A seed had quietly planted itself in him.
A seed he was too smart to name. And too naïve to ignore.
Weeks Later
She found him again—this time in the library, surrounded by code printouts, scribbled notes, and an untouched can of cold coffee.
"You always sit here?" Ishani asked, settling down across from him without waiting for permission.
He looked up, surprised. "You always talk to juniors?"
"Only the promising ones."
That was how it began.
A quiet friendship, anchored in convenience. She borrowed his coding notes. He borrowed her dry wit. He didn't speak much, but Ishani never seemed to mind the silences. In fact, sometimes, she filled them for him—casually, like water filling cracks in stone.
He listened.
And sometimes, he watched—her storming across campus arguing on the phone, or laughing with her girlfriends in the canteen, or dozing off during post-lab chai sessions. And behind it all… he knew she wasn't happy.
That boyfriend.
Senior. Mechanical department. The type with a bike, an attitude, and the emotional range of an Excel sheet.
Saikiran never said anything. He just stayed.
One evening, after a late lab class—
"He didn't show up again," Ishani muttered, checking her phone.
"He doesn't deserve to," Saikiran said before he could stop himself.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He looked up from his laptop. "Nothing. Just saying. You waited an hour. He didn't even text."
She stared at him, eyes unreadable.
Two Years Later
Final year for Ishani. Pre-final year for Saikiran.
Their friendship had grown comfortable. Natural. She'd broken up with her boyfriend a semester ago, but never spoke about it. He never asked. But something had changed—she leaned on him more often now. He listened more carefully.
One day, in the hostel mess, she threw a samosa at him. "Don't you ever plan your future?"
"I do," he replied, dodging. "Hyderabad. I want to be near home, maybe work in R&D or backend solutions."
"Not Bangalore? Everyone wants to go to Bangalore."
"Yeah. I'm not 'everyone'."
She looked thoughtful. "You think I should consider Hyderabad too?"
Saikiran's heart skipped but he tried to play it cool.
"Depends. You want familiar food, no roommates who mistake shampoo for face wash, and chai that doesn't taste like sadness? And....I'll be around too- just saying"
She snorted. "Noted."
That night, she applied to two companies with Hyderabad postings.
She never told him why.
But he knew.
As Ishani got the job in Hyderabad, she stayed in an apartment near Madhapur with Koyel. Saikiran used to visit his family during that one year as he was also preparing for his placement.
And he got into the same dream company as Ishani. He was at ease now.
After a month- on a weekend
The city buzzed in its usual neon haze as Ishani leaned back on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling fan spinning above. A long week. Endless meetings. Koyel was out with her own group tonight.
A ping lit up her phone.
Saikiran:
"Madam, I just submitted the timesheet you forgot. What do I get in return?"
She smirked.
Ishani:
"Respect. Gratitude. Everlasting blessings."
Saikiran:
"That's it? Not even fries?"
She laughed out loud and, on impulse, typed:
Ishani:
"Fine. Come pick me. Clubbing. Your reward awaits."
Ten minutes later, he replied with a selfie outside her building, looking all too pleased with himself.
The club wasn't far—some rooftop bar near Jubilee Hills that played retro EDM and served overpriced snacks.
Ishani walked out in high-waisted jeans and a turquoise-blue crop top with a shrug. Saikiran looked at her, eyes wide.
"Damn. When did you start dressing like a Netflix protagonist?"
She raised an eyebrow. "And you look like a Spotify ad for sad boy playlists."
He looked down at his black tee and checked shirt. "Stylishly understated, thank you."
They walked in bickering like usual.
Inside, the music thumped softly at first, then louder as the evening built up. They found a corner booth, dimly lit and quiet enough to talk.
She ordered a mocktail. He copied her.
"Scared of getting tipsy?" she teased.
"I need all brain cells alert when I'm around you."
She sipped, amused. "Flirting's gotten better."
"Practice," he said smoothly.
Later, on the dance floor, she swayed lightly, more out of rhythm than in. He joined her—playful, dramatic, doing a goofy robot dance until she broke into laughter.
"You're such an idiot," she said.
"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," he grinned as he gathered some courage to be playful.
She didn't argue. Only smiled.
As they left the club and waited by the curb for a cab, she stretched her arms up with a yawn.
"I needed that," she murmured.
"I know," he said.
In the cab, her head tilted slightly toward him. Not touching, but close.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just let the silence stretch, warm and full.
That night wasn't about confessions or declarations.
But something shifted.
And neither of them forgot it.