They reached the class, slid into their seats just as the lecturer began. The usual rustle of books and murmurs fell into rhythm. He opened his notes but barely looked at them. His mind was still half in the corridor.
Aanya sat beside him, quiet now. Not her usual scribbling self, not doodling flowers or writing sarcastic one-liners in the corner of the page. Just... still.
He glanced sideways.
Her eyes were on the board, but not really. That far-off gaze people have when they're trying not to think too hard.
He didn't say anything at first. Didn't want to break it.
But halfway through the lecture, while the professor rambled about bone tumours, she whispered—
"Do you ever feel like… you're scared to be good at something because then people expect you to always be that good?"
He blinked. That wasn't sarcasm. That wasn't a joke. That was her, unfiltered.
He turned slightly toward her. "All the time."
She didn't look at him. Just nodded like she already knew the answer, but needed to hear it out loud anyway.
"I didn't sleep last night," she added, voice low, almost lost in the noise of the room. "I kept thinking about this... idea. Not even a big one. Just something I wanted to write. But I didn't. I didn't even start. Because what if it turned out... dumb?"
He frowned. "You write?"
She looked at him now, surprised. "Sometimes. I mean—mostly to myself. It's not a big deal."
But it was. To him, it was.
Because Aanya—the chaotic, witty, confident girl who rolled her eyes at everything—had just admitted she was afraid. That she held things close. That beneath all that fire, there was softness she didn't always let out.
And somehow, that quiet vulnerability made her feel ten times more real to him.
"You should write it," he said after a moment.
"Why?"
"Because even if it turns out dumb—" he shrugged, "—at least it won't be stuck inside you driving you insane."
She laughed under her breath. "That's a good line."
"You can steal it. Just credit me in your Nobel speech."
She shook her head, smile returning now—but slower, deeper.
He watched her turn back to her notebook, but instead of class notes, she scribbled something in the corner. Something he didn't try to read.
For the first time, he didn't want to guess her thoughts. He wanted her to choose to share them.
The class carried on.
But inside him, something shifted. Like he'd just seen her without one of the many masks she wore in public. And somehow, that small peek meant more than anything she'd ever joked about.
She wasn't just intriguing.
She was whole.
And that scared him a little—because now, he wanted to understand every piece of her. Not out of curiosity.
But care.