It wasn't about the jacket anymore, or the occasional walk to the library. It was the way they leaned a little too close while discussing notes. The way Aanya sometimes smiled to herself after he said something. The way his eyes would follow her for a heartbeat longer than necessary when she got up to leave.
Their friendship had always been there, always solid — but now, something in its rhythm had changed. It felt heavier. Charged.
And people were watching.
Not asking — just observing.
Even the faculty had their own quiet glances during lectures. The pharmacology professor once paused mid-sentence, eyes drifting to the back where Aanya and he sat, slightly apart from the rest, lost in hushed conversation over a textbook.
But not everyone watched them the same way.
Someone else watched differently. It had started a week ago.
He had been sitting alone in the library, scrolling through his notes when he caught a glimpse of her — Aanya — crouched beside a first-year student, her tone gentle, pen scribbling on the edge of the junior's notebook. The topic was embryology — basic heart development.
The guy didn't know why he kept watching.
Maybe it was the way she explained things, patient and clear, or the way her braid kept slipping over her shoulder, which she'd push back absentmindedly every few minutes. She was smiling, not the wide grin she shared with her friends, but a soft smile — like teaching was second nature to her.
He looked away only when he realized his own notes were untouched.
At first, he thought it was just a passing curiosity.
But days passed. And somehow, he kept finding his eyes drifting in her direction — in the corridor, in the cafeteria, across the dissection halls. Always from a distance. Always unnoticed.
Except once.
That day, Aanya had walked out of the pathology lab, her coat tied loosely around her waist, talking to him again — the same guy. She smiled, laughed softly at something he whispered, and the way she bumped her shoulder into his seemed unconscious, familiar.
The ache crept in then — quiet and unwelcome.
She was with him.
Not officially, no. No public declarations or handholding. But it was in the way they stood together — like they belonged to the same sentence even in silence.
He never asked for her name. Never needed to. Everyone knew Aanya.
But the guy — the one always beside her — was more elusive. Not the loudest, not the most popular. Just… consistent.
Then one evening, while walking past the canteen, the senior overheard it.
A voice — low, steady, a little tired — floated to him from behind the divider.
"…Aanya and I? We're good friends."
The senior slowed.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop, not really. But the words hit him like a jolt.
Just friends?
He peeked through the glass.
Aanya was sitting at the edge of the table, sipping her chai, legs curled beneath her. And beside her sat him — leaning back, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, answering a question from one of their batchmates.
There was no sign of panic in his tone. No denial, no embarrassment. Just calm certainty.
"We're good friends," he repeated, more gently this time.
And Aanya… smiled.
Not the mischievous smile. But the kind that softened the sharpest edges of a person's soul.
The senior felt something loosen in his chest.
Maybe there was space. Maybe not.
But the ache faded — if only slightly.
Later that evening, near the anatomy block, as twilight began to drape over the old red bricks, the same guy passed by again — and this time, she was alone.
She was looking up at the skeletal model hung outside the museum, lost in some thought.
He didn't approach.
But she noticed him.
Their eyes met — for a heartbeat.
And then she looked away, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, before walking off into the dusk.
He stood there for a moment longer, uncertain of what the future held — but for the first time, daring to imagine it might hold her.
Back near the boys' hostel, under the old neem tree where bikes were parked messily, Aanya stood beside her "Good friend"
He was flipping through his notes, but when he noticed the faint tightness on her face, he stopped.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just tired."
"You're thinking again."
She exhaled. "People are noticing."
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she replied. "Someone said we're glowing."
He chuckled. "Well. Can't help it, can we?"
Aanya smiled, but before she could reply, another voice called out behind them.
"Hey."
They both turned.
It was the guy, whose eyes had met Aanya's in the Anatomy block.
Not close. Just… near enough to be heard.
Aanya tilted her head slightly, and the guy beside her instinctively stepped forward, shoulder protective.
"Hi," the senior said, offering a polite nod, eyes flicking briefly to Aanya, then resting on him. "I think I've seen you around."
"You probably have," the guy said evenly. "We're both in second year."
A beat passed.
"I'm… in final," the senior offered, the silence pressing on him.
Aanya gave him a small, friendly nod, but said nothing.
The guy extended his hand — firm, but not cold. "I'm Sagnik"
The name landed gently, like a missing puzzle piece finally slipping into place.
The senior nodded slowly. "Nice to meet you."
Sagnik gave him a slight smile — the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes. "We should get going."
And with that, he turned, guiding Aanya away, a quiet tension between his fingers and hers — not holding, but near enough to brush if either of them slipped.
Behind them, the guy watched.
Watched until they disappeared around the corner.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned back — the ache still lingering, but now tethered to a name.
Sagnik.