The next day unfolded like any other. Classrooms buzzed. Corridors echoed with laughter and gossip. Assignments were due. Cafeteria trays clattered.
But for Nandini, nothing felt the same.
Every time she heard a guitar string plucked in passing, her body tensed. Every time boots echoed behind her, she had to stop herself from turning around too quickly.
And Manik?
He was nowhere.
Not in the quad. Not in music hall. Not leaning against walls with that maddening half-smile.
He had disappeared.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than his presence.
Fab 5 Lounge – Later That Afternoon
Cabir tossed a packet of chips onto the table and looked at Manik, who was seated with his headphones in, staring at nothing.
"You're sulking."
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing, in your case," Cabir muttered. "So… you gonna tell her you like her or just keep walking around like you swallowed a cactus?"
Manik pulled out his earbuds slowly.
"I don't like her."
"Of course you don't. You just recorded her music, listened to it on loop, and stared at her hands for three days. Totally normal."
Manik didn't smile. He rarely did when it came to things that mattered.
"She's not like the others," he said after a long pause.
"I know."
"She's… not scared of me."
Cabir leaned back in his chair, thoughtful for once.
"No. And maybe that's exactly why you can't stop watching her."
Music Hall – Evening
Nandini stayed late to rehearse.
She had a competition coming up. She should be focused on the notes. On rhythm. On tempo.
But her fingers slipped more than once. Her breathing stuttered. The bow trembled.
She was angry—at him, at herself—for letting one touch unsettle her so deeply.
She tried again.
This time, the music came out sharp. Raw. Like she was arguing with the strings.
And then…
The door opened.
Her heart knew it was him before her eyes did.
Manik stepped in slowly, guitar slung low, eyes unreadable.
"I didn't expect you," she said.
"Maybe I wanted you to."
Silence.
"I'm not here to play games anymore," he added.
"Then why are you here?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked up to her, slow, deliberate. He reached out and gently turned her fingers over, inspecting the red marks on her skin from hours of practice.
"You're pressing too hard."
She tried to pull away.
He didn't let her.
He met her eyes, voice low.
"You don't always have to fight."
Her breath caught.
But she didn't move.
"Neither do you," she whispered back.
Another pause. Another almost.
Then he stepped back.
"Tomorrow. Same time. We play together."
And just like that, he left her standing there—hands still burning from his touch.