❤️7❤️

The lipstick was darker than her usual. A deep wine-red that hugged her mouth like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. Meera stared at herself in the mirror for a full minute, adjusting her top — not revealing, just perfectly shaped, fitting against her waist like it was stitched with purpose. Her jeans hugged her in all the right places, and when she turned sideways, she could almost feel the air sharpen around her. Her kohl-lined eyes were darker today, sharper, and when she gave herself the faintest smirk—

She didn’t look like someone trying to impress anyone.

She looked like someone who already had.

Anya leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a sly smile dancing on her face.

Who is this new girl???

Meera ran her fingers through her hair. “She’s on vacation.”

“Oh, she’s on fire,” Anya corrected, pushing off the frame to walk closer. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Meera looked at her through the mirror. “Do you always need to be this nosy?”

“Yes. It’s how I express affection.” Anya winked. “But fine. Keep your secrets. Just don’t act surprised when the college loses its mind today.”

Meera just smiled, grabbed her bag, and walked out. Her steps were steady. Unbothered. She wasn’t doing this for attention — not anyone’s. Not even his.

Okay, maybe just a little.

The classroom was half-filled when she walked in. Conversations murmured around her, chalk dust floated faintly in the sunlight. Aarav was at the board, writing down, back half-turned. Meera took her seat— not the usual backbench spot she claimed with Anya.

She sat two rows ahead.

Right in his line of sight.

Anya raised an eyebrow from behind but said nothing.

Aarav turned — and for a split second, his chalk slipped mid-sentence. Just enough to make his hand pause. He covered it well. But Meera saw it. She saw the slight hitch in his throat. The flicker in his eyes when they met hers.

Her leg crossed over the other slowly, deliberately. Her gaze didn’t waver. She tilted her head — not too much — just enough to whisper something only his body could hear.

He looked away.

But not quickly.

And not like he meant it.

As he continued writing, she could feel it — the way his voice dipped slightly deeper when he spoke. The way his back was straighter, jaw tighter. He didn’t look at her again.

But he didn’t not feel her either.

Halfway through the lecture, her pen slipped and rolled forward — toward his table. She got up slowly, every movement languid, calm. She bent to pick it, the curve of her waist arching in just the way that made his fingers clench the marker tighter.

She turned, caught his eyes — unreadable, dark.

Aarav had taught dozens of students. But never had he lost track mid-sentence like this. Never had a glance from someone made his throat dry and his fingers curl tighter around a marker.

She smiled — barely.

No one noticed. But he did.

When he asked the class a question, Meera raised her hand slowly. She wasn’t showing off. She gave the right answer in a calm, measured tone. But the way she looked at him while speaking — direct, unwavering — felt like a secret promise only he understood.

His knuckles brushed the edge of the desk when he passed her.

She didn’t flinch. But she leaned slightly, just enough that his knuckles and her shoulder almost touched.

Almost.

By the end of the hour, Aarav was sure of one thing: she was doing this on purpose.

And it was working.

She gathered her things slowly, letting everyone leave before her. When he looked up from the desk, she was already gone.

But her perfume lingered.

The next few days passed in a quiet game only the two of them were playing. Meera never said anything direct. Never approached him like before. But her eyes spoke in bold, silent sentences.

She would walk past him in the hallway — a second longer glance.

She would be in the library — seated where he could see her — flipping pages she wasn’t reading.

No one noticed.

But he did.

Aarav tried to be steady. Tried to bury himself in work. But he felt the shift every time she was near. And the worst part?

She wasn’t chasing him anymore.

She was waiting.

And he was slipping.

Later one afternoon, they found an empty corner outside the canteen — just her and Anya, feet up on the bench, sipping juice boxes like kids.

“You’ve changed,” Anya said suddenly.

“How?”

“You’re bolder. Sassier. Hotter, even.”

“Thanks, I think?”

They heard footsteps — fast ones.

Yash.

From the psychology department. Second year. Persistent like a pop-up notification that wouldn’t go away.

“There you are,” he said, panting slightly, jogging up to them with a grin. “I've been circling the campus.”

Meera straightened, her face neutral. “Hey.”

“You weren’t in the seminar yesterday. Everything alright?” he asked, completely ignoring her stiff posture.

“Yeah. Just caught up with other stuff,” she said, glancing to Anya, hoping for a distraction.

“Want me to forward you the notes?” Yash offered eagerly.

Before Meera could respond, Anya stepped in smoothly. “She has mine.”

Yash looked between them. “Oh. Cool.”

There was a pause — an awkward one.

“Well,” Meera said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “See you around.”

Yash lingered for a second before nodding and walking off.

When he was out of earshot, Anya elbowed her gently. “You know he’s into you, right?”

Meera rolled her eyes. “I don’t have the energy.”

Anya chuckled. “But you’ve got the energy to flirt with the entire concept of self-destruction?”

Meera gave her a side glance. “Who says I’m flirting?”

“Me. I say that,” Anya deadpanned.

But neither of them mentioned Aarav. Not out loud.

Because as far as anyone knew, there was nothing between Meera and Professor Aarav.

And Meera intended to keep it that way — for now.

After their chatting, the two girls strolled toward the parking lot. It had become a quiet little routine between them — Anya waiting, Meera dropping her off or picking her up. There was comfort in that rhythm, in the way their friendship had grown effortlessly, like sunlight slipping through curtains.

But today… something snagged in the ease of it.

As they neared the parked cars, Meera’s eyes instinctively scanned the lot — and froze.

Professor Aarav.

Leaning slightly against the railing outside the academic block, a small smile playing on his lips. Standing in front of him was a woman — elegant, well-spoken, laughing lightly at something he said. Her voice carried in the breeze, soft and easy. Her posture? Too familiar.

Meera’s heart skipped. Then raced.

Anya was still chatting about some professor’s lecture blunder, unaware of Meera’s sudden stillness beside her. Aarav’s head tilted as he listened intently, his stance relaxed in a way Meera rarely saw. His gaze didn’t flicker — not even once — in her direction.

“Anya,” Meera said quickly, cutting her off mid-sentence, “I think I left my ID card near the admin desk. You go ahead, I’ll just grab it and come.”

Anya blinked. “Oh—okay. Want me to wait?”

“No, it’s okay. Just five minutes.”

Meera turned before Anya could question more. She didn’t want to be this girl — the one chasing down half-hinted feelings. But something about the sight stirred an ache inside her chest. One she couldn’t ignore.

By the time she reached the academic corridor, Aarav had already said his goodbyes and was heading inside. Meera followed, her footsteps quickening. She saw him push open his cabin door, the familiar sound of it clicking shut echoing down the hall.

She hesitated only a moment.

She stood outside his cabin door, her heart pounding in her ears. She hated herself for coming here. But seeing him laugh with someone else — with that woman — it had hit her like a slap. She hadn’t even realized she cared that much.

But now? She was standing here, anyway.

Then knocked.

A moment later, his voice rang out. Flat. Distant. “Come in.”

She stepped in, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. He was at his desk, papers scattered, eyes not even looking up.

“Professor—” she began.

He didn’t wait. “I’m busy, Meera.”

“I know,” she said quietly, stepping in anyway. “I just wanted to ask about earlier. The woman you were speaking to—”

His pen clattered on the desk.

He looked up, eyes sharp as a blade. “You followed me here to ask that?”

She flinched. “I didn’t follow. I just… saw you. And something about the way—”

“You're overstepping,” he snapped. “Whatever you think this is—between us—stop it right here.”

Meera blinked, taken aback.

He stood up now, fully facing her, voice low but laced with something bitter. “Just because I said a few things that night doesn’t mean you get to keep walking into my space. You're not special, Meera. Don't delude yourself.”

Her breath caught.

“I never said—”

“You never needed to. It's all over your face,” he said cruelly. “You think you matter more than the rest? You don't. You're a student. That's all. This—” he gestured vaguely between them— “was a lapse in judgment. My mistake.”

She felt her throat tighten.

He wasn't yelling. He didn’t need to. Every word was like ice — sharp, deliberate, and designed to cut.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—” she tried.

“No?” He stepped around the desk. “Then what exactly were you trying to do with all that… bold little act of yours in class? Flirting? Playing games? Let me make it simple—don’t.”

Her breath hitched. She hadn't expected softness — but she hadn't expected this either.

“You said something else in the library that day,” she whispered.

“That was a mistake,” he replied. Flat. Final.

The silence between them crackled.

She stood there frozen, his words sinking into her skin like thorns. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Just stared at him — and somewhere inside, something cracked.

“I get it,” she whispered, her voice barely holding. “Loud and clear.”

Without waiting for another word, she turned and walked out, her eyes burning but dry. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not for him.

The hallway outside felt colder than it should. Each step away from his cabin echoed louder than the last, but she didn’t slow down. Her heart was beating too fast. Her throat was tight. She wanted to scream. Or disappear.

By the time she reached the parking lot, the sun had slipped behind clouds, casting shadows on everything — fitting, really.

Anya was still waiting near her car, scrolling through her phone, completely unaware of the storm Meera had just walked through.

“There you are,” she smiled. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Meera forced a small nod, her voice distant. “Let’s go.”

“You okay?”

“Just tired,” she lied, unlocking her scooter. “Long day.”

The ride home was quiet. Unusually so. Meera dropped Anya and headed to her House.

he silence of her home wrapped around her like a blanket that was too heavy, too suffocating.

The maids were done with their chores. Lights were off. Her room, as always, waited — untouched.

She dropped her bag on the chair and stood in front of the mirror. Her reflection stared back — eyes red-rimmed, lips trembling, heart shattered.

She let out a shaky breath and whispered to herself, “I shouldn't have gone.”

But the worst part?

Even now… even after what he said… her heart still wanted him.

That was the real ache.

The real betrayal.

From herself.

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