PROLOGUE

Arush had always loved mornings. The campus looked softer at that hour, before the noise, before the laughter, before people remembered they had roles to play. Today, the sun rose over Moonveil Collegium University like it always did, spilling gold over the old brick buildings and glass windows, but Arush walked through it as if the light couldn’t touch him.

He moved across the courtyard with his hands in his pockets, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, earphones in but no music playing. He didn’t need a soundtrack. The whispers were loud enough. Heads turned when he passed—some out of habit, some out of memory. A few girls nudged each other, eyes following the sharp jawline, the familiar broad shoulders, the easy grace he carried without trying. Professors knew him by his name, and not by his roll number. He was the student who always had the right answer, the one who submitted assignments early, the one who made complicated problems look effortless.

Perfection, they called it. Arush just called it “doing what he was supposed to do.”

He walked past a group of juniors who fell silent when they recognized him. Two years back, he would’ve flashed them a bright smile, thrown in a joke, maybe asked their names. Now, his eyes brushed over them, unreadable, lips pressed in a thin line that was not quite a frown, not quite anything. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t offer more than a brief nod to the guard at the gate, who still looked at him with the kind of fondness you reserve for your own kids.

Once, Arush had been the sun of Moonveil Collegium University—warm, loud, impossible to ignore. He used to know everyone, and everyone used to know him: the guy always at the center of group photos, the one called on stage to host events, the boy whose laughter echoed from one end of the canteen to the other. He used to flirt with the idea of love like it was inevitable—something beautiful, something worth chasing, something that made movies and songs make sense.

Now, he didn’t chase anything except silence.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

Adwait: “Reached? Or oversleeping again?”

Ritik: “Don’t tease him this early, bro. He’ll disown us.”

A faint curve tugged at the corner of Arush’s lips—barely there, but real. Only his best friends still saw the guy he used to be. With them, his walls came down just a little. With them, the world felt less like a battlefield and more like home. They were the only ones who could pull a laugh out of him now, the only ones who knew why his sunshine had gone out.

He typed back, fingers moving fast, the softness in his eyes completely different from the cold distance he showed everyone else.

“Canteen. 10 mins. Don’t start without me.”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking, shoulders straight, expression smooth. On the outside, he was everything people admired—smart, composed, painfully good at everything he touched. On the inside, there was a quiet ache, a memory of a boy who believed in love and a man who had decided that love was nothing but a cruel joke.

Somewhere else on the same campus, a girl who still believed in love—but didn’t quite believe in people—was getting ready for another day she would pretend to be okay in.

Anaya just didn’t know yet that the boy who no longer believed in love was about to walk straight into her life.

Nights were kinder to Anaya than mornings ever could be. The world finally stopped demanding things from her, the noise faded, and for a few precious hours it was just her, the quiet, and the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the shared apartment window she called home now. Sleep never came easily; her mind ran wild even when her body begged for rest.

By the time her alarm rang in the morning, it felt less like a new day and more like an attack. She hit snooze. Once. Twice. Thrice. Getting up early was a war she lost almost every day. And of course, as always, her phone started buzzing before she was even fully out of bed.

“Rise and shine, late queen.”

“If you make us late again, I’m locking you out tonight.”

“Also, I’m starving. Move. Your. Ass.”

Anaya groaned, finally dragging herself up. “I’m up, I’m up,” she muttered to no one, scrambling to get ready. She and her best friend, Rhea (her personal alarm clock) shared a small apartment near MCU (Moonveil Collegium University) messy in some corners, cozy in others, filled with sticky notes, shared clothes, and shared trauma they never fully talked about. Her family’s nagging traveled through calls now: missed call from Mom, ten unread messages, a voice note that would definitely be a mix of guilt-tripping and criticism. She glanced at the screen, then locked it again.

Not now.

She pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, slipped into her jeans, half-zipped her bag, and rushed out the door, nearly forgetting her keys. By the time she reached the university gate, she was slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

Her phone buzzed again.

Rhea started a countdown, “Three.”

“Two.”

“One—breakup.”

Anaya laughed despite herself and broke into a run.

The campus was fully awake now, alive with students and chatter. Just as she crossed the courtyard, she spotted her best friend: arms folded, fake anger on her face, foot tapping like she was counting down Anaya’s remaining lifespan.

Anaya rushed the last few steps and crashed into her arms with a tight hug.

“You are impossible,” Rhea said, pulling back just enough to flick her forehead. “Do you hate clocks? Are you allergic to being on time?”

Anaya smiled, eyes crinkling. “You still waited for me. And you love me”

“Yeah, unfortunately I do,” Rhea sighed dramatically, looping their arms together. “Now come on. I skipped breakfast for you. There’s still time before class. If I faint, you’re responsible for my funeral outfit.”

As they walked toward the canteen, the tension in Anaya’s shoulders slowly melted. With Rhea, she didn’t have to be the composed eldest daughter who always held everything together. She could complain, she could laugh too loudly, she could be a little dramatic. They slipped easily into conversation, her best friend animatedly narrating her brother’s latest antics—how he managed to burn Maggi, how he argued with their mom, how he danced like a malfunctioning robot at home the previous night.

Anaya doubled over laughing, eyes shining, one hand on her stomach. “Stop, stop, I can literally imagine it,” she wheezed, wiping the corner of her eyes.

So wrapped up in their bubble, neither of them noticed the figure walking toward them from the opposite direction, equally distracted, eyes on his phone, mind somewhere else entirely.

It happened in a second.

Anaya turned the corner, still mid-laugh, and crashed into something solid. Her breath hitched as her shoulder slammed lightly into a chest, her phone wobbling in her hand. A faint scent of cologne and something clean—like fresh laundry—hit her senses.

Arush steadied himself, instinctively catching her elbow for half a heartbeat before letting go. His eyes flicked to her face—one quick glance, dark and unreadable, taking in the startled wideness of her eyes, the parted lips, the way she froze for a moment.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low, almost careless.

And then he was gone. Just like that. No lingering look, no extra words. He moved past them, his expression already back to that smooth, distant calm as he continued toward the canteen.

Anaya blinked, processing what just happened.

Her best friend, on the other hand, was having none of it.

Rhea whipped around, fuming. “Excuse me? Can people not look where they’re going? Does he not have eyes or what?”

Anaya tugged her back, laughing, the anger dissolving at her softness. “Relax, na. I’m fine. And he did say sorry.”

“That’s not enough. Next time he bumps into you, I’m tripping him.”

Anaya shook her head, still smiling, and they slipped into the canteen. They chose their usual table by the big glass window, sunlight spilling in. Her best friend rushed to order food while Anaya dropped onto the chair, fingers brushing the cool glass, gaze drifting outside.

Across the canteen, on the opposite side, Arush slid into a chair in front of Adwait and Ritik.

“Look who finally decided to bless us with his presence,” Ritik said, leaning back in his chair, a smirk already in place.

Arush dropped his bag on the empty seat beside him and sat down, rolling his shoulders once like he was brushing off the morning.“I’m exactly on time.”

“On time, my foot,” Ritik scoffed. “We’ve been here for fifteen minutes. I’m hungry. Emotional damage needs fuel.”

Adwait chuckled, stirring his coffee. “Ignore him. He ordered food five minutes ago and is acting like he’s been fasting for three days.”

Arush’s lips twitched. “Drama queen.”

“Rude,” Ritik said, placing a hand over his heart. “This is how I get treated after years of friendship? I hope your coffee spills.”

Adwait shook his head. “Don’t curse his coffee, yaar. It’s the only thing keeping him civil these days.”

The banter bounced easily between them, familiar and warm. Around them, the canteen buzzed with other students’ conversations, but at their table, it was just the three of them, like it had always been.

Ritik leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied Arush’s face. “You look tired,” he said. “Did you even sleep last night, or were you busy being Batman again?”

Adwait snorted. “Batman? More like a Sleep-Deprived Single Dad Man.”

A small, genuine smile finally broke through on Arush’s face. “Shut up,” he said, but there was no real irritation in his tone.

“Why should we?” Ritik grinned. “You love it.”

Adwait waited for the teasing to settle before taking a slow sip of his coffee. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“So,” he asked, eyes meeting Arush’s. “How are the twins?”

The noise of the canteen seemed to blur for a moment.

For everyone else in that room, Arush was just the quiet, brilliant final-year student with a mysterious personality shift. For the few sitting at his table, he was something entirely different: a twenty-three-year-old who carried more weight than most adults twice his age.

A flash of memory crossed his mind—two tiny faces, scrunched up and crying, swaddled in blankets, lying on his doorstep that night. The letter. The shock. The way his knees had almost given out.

He blinked once, pulling himself back to the present.

“They’re good,” he said quietly, the edges of his voice softening in a way that only Adwait and Ritik ever got to hear. “Didn’t sleep until late. Ruhi had a fever yesterday, so she was fussy. Rian refused to sleep without holding my hand like some tiny dictator.”

Ritik laughed. “My guy got promoted to human teddy bear.”

Adwait’s gaze warmed. “Fever theek hai now?”

“Yeah,” Arush nodded. “Maa took her to the doctor in the morning. Just a mild cold. She was running around before I left.” The corner of his lips lifted on its own. “Rian stole my specs and refused to give them back. I had to bribe him with chocolate.”

“Good,” Adwait said, shoulders relaxing. “As long as they’re torturing you, all is well.”

“With love,” Ritik added. “Tiny, chaotic love.”

Arush shook his head, but the quiet ache in his chest eased like it always did when he thought of them. The guilt was still there—heavy, constant, a shadow that never left—but so was something else. Something that had snapped into place the first time he’d held those impossibly small bodies in his arms.

Responsibility. Possessiveness. A fierce, irrational need to protect.

At twenty, he had walked into a party as the sunshine boy everyone wanted to talk to. Someone had slipped something into his drink, and everything after that turned into a blurred nightmare he never asked for and never wanted. Months later, a letter and two newborns on his doorstep had rewritten his entire life.

He hadn’t been ready. He hadn’t known how to be a father, how to change diapers, how to hold a baby without feeling like he’d break them. But he’d learned. His parents, with their open minds and quiet strength, had stood behind him when the world could have easily turned their backs.

Ritik said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Remember when you used to enter every college fest, every competition, every random dance challenge in weddings?”

Arush’s expression shuttered slightly. “People change.”

Adwait’s eyes flickered, noticing the shift but not pushing. “Some parts of you are still there,” he said calmly. “They’re just…buried under diapers and responsibilities.”

“Wow,” Ritik clapped once. “Such poetry. Say that again, but slower.”

“Shut up,” Adwait said, but he was smiling.

From the other side of the canteen, a burst of laughter floated across the room. Arush’s eyes moved without thinking, briefly catching the sight of a girl by the glass window, head thrown back as she laughed at something her friend said, sunlight catching in her hair.

It was the same girl he’d bumped into earlier.

For a second, his gaze lingered—curious, then blank again. He turned back to his friends, picking up his coffee.

“So,” Ritik said, leaning in conspiratorially. “After college, can we go see the twins? Or are they too busy for their useless chachas?”

Arush’s answer came easier this time. “They’re always ready to bully their useless chachas.”

Ritik grinned. “Perfect. I’m bringing toys they can annoy you with.”

Adwait smiled too, a quiet contentment in his eyes. “Good. Let them be loud. Someone has to bring your sunshine back.”

Arush didn’t reply to that. He just took another sip of coffee, letting their voices wrap around him like a shield, pretending he didn’t feel the tiniest crack in the walls he’d built.

Through the glass window, the girl who believed in love cradled a warm cup in her hands, trying to ignore the nagging voice messages from home waiting on her phone.

At another table, the boy who didn’t believe in love anymore thought about the two children who had become his entire world.

They were in the same room now.

They just didn’t know what they were walking toward yet.