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The second hour was Literature.

And that meant silence. Not out of discipline — but anticipation.

Aarav walked in with the ease of someone who didn't just teach poetry — he lived it. Rolled-up sleeves, a worn-out Penguin Classics edition in hand, and that sharp gaze that scanned the room like he was reading between people.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, sir," the class chorused.

Everyone sat — except her.

Meera.

Last bench. Alone. Arms crossed. Unapologetic.

She didn't stand to greet. Didn't smile. Didn't flinch.

She was there to observe, not participate.

Her classmates had stopped trying to include her. Some called her intimidating, some called her arrogant.

The truth? She just refused to shrink herself to make others feel comfortable.

Attachments came with expectations.
Expectations led to disappointment.
And Meera? She'd had enough of that.

Aarav turned to the board, wrote in elegant, looping script:
"The danger of a single story — Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie"

He started the lecture, his voice calm but layered — like each sentence was dipped in metaphor.

Fifteen minutes in, he turned.

"Miss Meera."

Heads turned. Pens froze mid-scribble.

She looked up, slow and steady, meeting his gaze like she was expecting him.

"You don't take notes?" he asked, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"I remember better when I listen," she said.

There was no sarcasm in her tone. Just calm conviction.

Aarav raised a brow. "Auditory memory. Bold choice — in a classroom filled with quotation-heavy texts."

Meera tilted her head, eyes sharp. "I don't forget things that matter."

He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that made students sit straighter.

"Let's see how long that works," he said, then turned back to the board.

A guy in the middle row muttered:
"Man, she really talks like she's in a novel."
His friend replied:
"Yeah. And sir's not backing down either. I'm living for this."

Aarav continued, discussing the politics of narrative and how perspective can become power.

Then he paused again. Almost casually. Almost.

"Do you believe in a single story, Meera?"

She didn't hesitate.

"I think people love simple stories because they're afraid of complexity."

A few students blinked. One actually looked up from his phone.

Aarav stared at her for a second longer than necessary. Then nodded.

"Well said," he murmured. "Though sometimes, it's the complex ones that destroy us."

Meera's lips quirked up just a little.
"I prefer to be the exception."

A student near the window nudged his friend.
"Did you see that? She smiled."
The other whispered, "And he noticed."

Aarav closed the book in his hand. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

"Good," he said. "Exceptions make things interesting."

The bell rang, slicing through the moment.

Chairs shuffled. Bags zipped.

As Meera stood to leave, Aarav passed her desk.

His voice low, meant only for her,
"Try not to get into too much trouble outside this classroom, Meera."

She looked up, straight into his eyes.
"I don't cause trouble," she said. "Trouble causes me."

He paused, steps halting just slightly.

Then — that smile again.
Faint. Dangerous. Amused.

"We'll see about that."

The words lingered in Meera's ears like an aftertaste. Sharp. Unsettling. Delicious.

She walked out of the classroom, head high, pretending she hadn't felt the weight of his gaze still on her back.

The canteen was its usual chaos — students buzzing, trays clattering, half-eaten meals abandoned in a hurry to gossip or flirt.

Meera sat alone, like always. A corner table, untouched coffee, eyes wandering across nothing in particular. Her presence didn't beg attention — it commanded it.

At another table nearby, a couple sat watching her.

"She's always alone," the girl murmured, stirring her juice with a straw. "Shall I... go talk to her?"

Her boyfriend looked at Meera, then at his girl, raising an eyebrow.
"You? Talk to her? You didn't see how she snapped back at Aarav sir today?"

The girl bit her lip, hesitating. "But she looked... not rude. Just... guarded."

He scoffed. "Or full of attitude. Either way, why invite trouble?"

The girl looked down at her tray. The idea faded. She stayed seated.

From a few feet away, Aarav passed through the canteen, holding a bottle of water. His eyes drifted naturally across the room — scanning without intention.

But they paused. Just for a second.

On her.

Meera didn't look at him. She didn't need to. But her fingers paused against her cup. The air shifted. Only for her.

Aarav moved on without a word.

Later, evening — parking lot

The campus had quieted. Students had begun leaving, voices softer, steps slower under the fading sky.

Aarav was walking toward his car, flipping through a few papers, when he heard heels click on the pavement behind him.

"Professor."

He turned.

Meera was walking toward him — deliberate, unhurried. She wore a fitted black top and a high-waisted skirt that danced just above her knees, paired with ankle boots. Her hair was left loose, the ends curling slightly from the day's heat.

"Miss Meera," he said calmly, pausing.

She stopped a few steps away. Close, but not too close.

"You didn't stop by the canteen," she said, voice cool but edged with something... silkier.

Aarav blinked. "Didn't know I was invited."

"You noticed me."

A pause.

"You notice a lot of things when someone sits like they own the room," he said.

Meera tilted her head, lips playing with a smirk. "Maybe I do."

He looked at her carefully. "You like playing with fire?"

She smiled — not wide, not sweet. Just sharp.
"I like knowing who holds the matchstick."

Before he could answer, a black car pulled up behind her.

She stepped away, opening the door, but turned back once looking at him seductively. 

And then, with a half-smile and a lingering look that said more than any word could, she slid into the car and disappeared into the city lights.

Aarav stood still for a second, then quietly got into his own car.

No smile. But his fingers tapped twice on the steering wheel before he drove off.

Later that night — Meera's mansion

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

She sank onto the plush couch, the silence wrapping around her like a heavy blanket.

The earlier boldness, the sharp words, the playful challenge — all faded into the shadows of the empty rooms.

Meera's fingers traced patterns on the armrest. No calls. No messages. Just the ticking clock and the distant hum of the city outside.

Alone.

With a sigh, she moved to her bedroom. Despite the thick summer heat pressing outside, she pulled the blanket tightly around her. It was a habit — sleeping wrapped up, as if it offered some kind of protection from the loneliness that sometimes crept in.

Her eyes closed slowly, the room dark and still, but the warmth of the blanket the only comfort in the silence.

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