Vihaan had decided—again—that he wouldn't look for her today. That he wouldn't check the canteen out of habit. That he wouldn't glance toward the library or the hallway outside her department. He would study, like he always did. He would keep his head down. That's what he had promised himself.

But then he saw her.

Across the corridor and every promise shattered.

She was sitting alone on the campus steps, staring into the distance like she wasn't really there. Her dupatta was wrapped tightly around her, more like armor than fashion. Her hair was open, but it had none of its usual bounce. And for the first time since he met her, Ruhani Thakral wasn't smiling.

Something inside Vihaan twisted. He stopped walking. Froze. She looked so... small. Not in size. But in spirit.

And he knew. He didn't know what had happened. But something had... Something big. Something cruel. Because Ruhani—his Ruhani—never sat this still. She laughed too loud. She teased too freely. She wore her heart outside her chest like it was made of armor, not glass.

But today? Her light was gone.

He wanted to go to her. Ask what happened. Sit beside her like he used to. Offer her a half-eaten samosa and say nothing until she is ready. But he couldn't move. Because the moment he did, he knew—he wouldn't be able to walk away again.

He clenched his fists. Looked away. Walked on.... But his heart stayed behind.

And that night, as he lay in bed, Vihaan replayed her face a hundred times... The silence in her eyes. The absence of her fire, and for the first time, he hated the distance he had created.
Because it meant he wasn't there... when she needed him most.

Two days later, Ruhani walked into college with eyeliner sharp enough to kill. Her kurta was sunshine yellow, her hair freshly blow-dried, and she even threw in an extra dab of perfume. She greeted people, waved at acquaintances, and cracked a half-hearted joke in the canteen line.

No one would know what had happened just days ago... No one except him.

Vihaan watched her from across the room, arms folded, books untouched in his lap. He saw it all—the way her laugh was a little too loud, the way her hands trembled when she poured water, and the way her eyes darted quickly when someone said Raj's name.

She was pretending. And it was killing him. By the time she sat at their usual table, trying to pick at her sandwich like everything was fine, he had already made up his mind.

"Ruhani."

She looked up, blinking. "Hmm?"

"Stop."

She blinked again, her smile faltering. "Stop what?"

"Pretending," he said, quietly but firmly. "With everyone else, fine. But not with me."

There was silence.

Then, she laughed lightly. "You're being dramatic—"

"No, you're being fake."

Her jaw tightened.

"You think I haven't noticed?" Vihaan continued, voice low. "You haven't smiled properly in days. You've been quiet. You flinch when people mention Raj. You barely even look at me anymore."

Her fingers curled around her glass, knuckles white.

"Vihaan, I said I'm fine—"

"And I said, 'Don't lie to me.'"

Their eyes locked.

And for a second, all the masks crumbled. Her lip quivered. Her shoulders tensed. And that fierce, untouchable girl he admired so much looked like she might shatter if he so much as breathed wrong.

"Why do you care?" she whispered.

He hesitated. Then looked away.

"Because... I just do."

And it wasn't enough. She knew it. He knew it. But it was the closest he had ever come to telling her the truth.

Ruhani stood up abruptly, chair screeching behind her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He stood too.

"Then don't talk. Just... let me be there. Like you were for me."

She stared at him, that unreadable expression back on her face.

"I don't need saving, Vihaan."

"Good," he said softly. "Because I'm not here to save you. I'm here so you don't have to pretend you don't need saving."

She didn't respond. Just turned and walked away.

But her steps were slower, and for the first time since that horrible night, her shoulders weren't as heavy.

And Vihaan? He sat back down... heart racing.

Because he knew...he had already fallen.

Later in the evening,

The sun was setting, casting an amber glow across the quiet lane just outside campus. The world felt quieter here, tucked behind the trees and the old boundary wall. Few came this way—except her. And today, Vihaan had followed.

She stood by the edge, arms folded, back straight—but he could tell it was all surface. Her eyes were glossier than usual. Her breathing was unsteady.

"Ruhani..." he said softly, "I know you don't want to talk, but—"

"Why don't girls like me get what we wish for?" she interrupted, voice shaking.

Vihaan froze.

"I wasn't asking for the world," she whispered. "Just... to be seen. To be wanted. To feel like I was enough. But no matter how much kajal I wear or how brightly I smile—someone always reminds me what I really am."

She was trembling now.

"Chubby girls like me—we're the joke. The 'sister type.' The one guys flirt with as a dare. We're never the fantasy, Vihaan. We're the footnote."

She turned to him slowly, her face streaked with tears, and his heart twisted at the sight.

"Do you know what he said to me?" she whispered. "That no one would ever want me. That I should've known better."

Silence...Heavy. Suffocating.

"And the worst part?" she continued, brokenly. "For a second... I believed him. Because maybe—maybe I should've known better."

Before Vihaan could speak, she stepped forward, and then, without a word, she buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist—tight, desperate, trembling. Vihaan stiffened.

His heart stuttered in his chest, hands hovering, unsure where to land. Her scent—jasmine and vanilla—wrapped around him. Her sobs hit his shirt like tiny heartbreaks, and something cracked open in him.

Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her. She didn't pull away. Neither of them spoke. She just held on—like he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. And Vihaan? He had never held anyone like that. Never wanted to.

And still, in that moment, he would have given up the world itself—if it meant she never had to cry again.

She was soft, warm, and heartbreakingly human. And so painfully unaware of what she meant.

She wasn't the footnote.,... She was his entire story.

And Vihaan knew, with aching clarity, that he could never go back to pretending again.