The lecture hall smelled like a mix of marker ink, old wood, and too-strong perfume.
First day of third year. New semester. Same campus, same building, same chaos—just a slightly sharper edge of expectation in the air as everyone tried to act like they were suddenly more “grown up” now.
Anaya and Rhea—stood outside the door of their first lecture, clutching their notebooks and pretending they were not low-key panicking.
“Do I look sleepy?” Rhea asked, rubbing her eyes for the fifth time.
“You always look sleepy,” Anaya replied without missing a beat. “It’s your brand. Sleep-deprived menace. Now stop fidgeting, we’re already late.”
They slipped into the room as quietly as they could. Conversations dipped for a second, a few heads turned, someone at the back muttered, “Late on day one, wow.”
Rhea shot them a sharp look that shut them up instantly.
They headed toward their usual side—third row from the back, near the window—when Anaya felt that little shift in the air, like the room had briefly rearranged itself. She glanced around casually, eyes scanning the faces.
Then she saw him.
The same boy from the canteen.
He had just entered from the side door, backpack slung over one shoulder, walking down the aisle with an easy, unhurried stride. Up close in proper light, she could see more details: the defined line of his jaw, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the calm way he moved like noise didn’t touch him.
He didn’t look at her.
His eyes were on the benches, the board, the professor’s desk, the free seats. He walked straight to an empty one in the middle row and sat down, posture straight, expression unreadable.
Whispers started around the room.
“Is that…Arush?”
“He’s back?”
“I thought he dropped out.”
“Two years he was gone, na?”
Anaya nudged Rhea lightly. “People seem…excited about him.”
Rhea followed her gaze. “Oh, him. Arush Mehra,” she said, like it was just a fact from her mental database. “Topped everything, super popular, college golden boy before we even joined. Then vooof! vanished for two years. Now he’s back.”
Anaya hummed under her breath, eyes lingering on him for a second more. There was something about the way he sat—completely in control, but not trying to show off. Just…contained.
Interesting, she thought. Just curious-interesting. Nothing more.
She forced herself to look away and slid into her seat. Rhea opened her notebook like a soldier opening a strategic battle plan.
The professor walked in, dumping a stack of files on the table. “Good morning, class. Settle down.”
The chatter slowly died.
“New semester, third year. This year is crucial for your overall grades, so I expect focus.” They flipped open the register. “We also have a rejoining student. Arush Mehra?”
A few more heads turned this time.
Arush raised his hand once. “here” he said, voice steady.
“Welcome back,” the professor said simply, then continued with a roll call.
The word “back” made Anaya’s pen pause over her page. She didn’t know anything about him beyond Rhea’s two-line summary and canteen collision, but now that she knew he’d left and returned, he felt less like just another random quiet boy and more like…a story. A story people weren’t telling out loud.
Her eyes drifted toward him again when the professor began explaining the syllabus.
He was…focused. No doodling, no zoning out, no checking his phone under the desk. He wrote quickly, neatly, only pausing when the professor said something important. There was no trace of the flirty, fun “college boy” vibe she’d seen in other guys who looked like him.
He looked like someone who didn’t have time to waste.
Rhea noticed the direction of her gaze and scribbled in the corner of Anaya’s notebook:
“Anaya Stop observing mysterious side characters and focus on the main trauma (lecture).”
Anaya bit down a smile and wrote back under it:
“I’m just curious. Calm down.”
She underlined the heading on the board and forced herself to listen. Internals. Projects. Attendance. The usual academic threats.
From his seat, Arush listened, wrote, and kept his gaze forward. He didn’t scan the room for familiar faces. He didn’t try to catch anyone’s eye. Whatever attention he had once loved—or at least accepted—was something he carefully ignored now.
He didn’t notice the girl by the window who kept stealing quick, curious glances at him.
When the professor finally closed the register and said, “That’s all for today,” the spell broke. Chairs screeched, bags zipped, voices rose.
“Come, come, before there’s traffic at the door,” Rhea said, standing up.
“Wait,” Anaya said, taking a second to slip her pen back into her pouch.
As they stayed seated for a moment, the flow of students to the exit began. Arush stood, picked up his bag in one smooth motion, and joined the line heading toward the door.
He passed the row where Anaya and Rhea sat without turning his head.
Anaya’s gaze followed him until he stepped out of the room and disappeared into the corridor crowd.
Just curious, she reminded herself.
Rhea slung her bag over her shoulder. “Next lecture. New professor. New trauma. Let’s go, my cinnamon roll.”
Anaya smiled, standing up. “cinnamon roll? You need sleep. And I need chocolate.” She loves chocolates.
“We both need therapy,” Rhea corrected. “But we’ll start with your chocolate.”
They walked out together, their shoulders brushing, their conversation already shifting to assignments and how Rhea was going to force Anaya to sign up for at least one thing this semester—“something small, like class presentation, no stage, baby steps.”
Out in the corridor, a few steps ahead of them, Arush checked his phone and saw two unread messages waiting.
Adwait: “First class?”
Ritik: “Alive?”
He typed back with one hand as he walked.
“Yeah. Alive. Lecture done. Call after next.”
He put the phone away, not once turning back to see the two girls who were, unknowingly, already orbiting closer to his life.
Their first real conversation hadn’t even started yet.
But the universe had quietly placed them in the same room, same row, same day.
Step one was done.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When the last lecture finally ended, Arush felt the familiar itch to leave campus as fast as possible.
Not because he hated the place. Just because there was somewhere else he needed to be more.
He stepped out of University’s gate, the late afternoon sun still bright but starting to soften. Students lingered in groups, chatting, planning, complaining about notes already. He ignored the scattered looks and half-hearted, 'Bro, long time!' greetings, answering only with polite nods.
The cab ride home was a blur of traffic, honking, and half-read messages from Adwait and Ritik.
Adwait: “Dinner at your place?”
Ritik: “Tell my niece and nephew their favorite chachu is coming.”
He typed back:
“Come. 8 pm.”
By the time he reached his building and climbed the stairs, the weight he carried in college—the whispers, the questions, the expectations—felt like it was slowly sliding off his shoulders.
Home was different.
The door opened before he could knock properly.
His mother stood there, wiping her hands on the edge of her dupatta, a smile already forming the second she saw him. “Aagaya mera beta,” she said, voice soft with that particular kind of relief only parents had. She moved aside to let him in, hand briefly squeezing his arm as he passed.
“How was college?” she asked, closing the door.
“Fine,” he replied, dropping his bag on the side table. “First day. Usual introductions and threats about grades.”
She smiled. “You ate?”
“Yeah, in the canteen.”
She nodded, satisfied enough—for now. “Good. Go to your room quickly.”
He didn’t need more explanation.
He was already moving before she finished the sentence.
The door to his room was slightly open, the faint sound of something cartoonish playing on a low volume from inside. He pushed it gently.
Two tiny heads turned.
Two pairs of big, dark eyes lit up.
“Dadaaaaaaa!” Ruhi squealed, her voice high and delighted, half the word stretching like it was the most important sound in her vocabulary.
Rian’s reaction was quieter but just as intense. His whole face broke into a crooked little grin, and he scrambled to stand up from where he’d been sitting on the bed, his chubby legs wobbling as he half-ran, half-stumbled toward the door.
Arush barely had time to open his arms before they crashed into him—one on each side.
He laughed, the sound unguarded, real, something no one in college had heard from him in a long time.
He dropped to his knees, gathering both of them into a hug, burying his face in their hair for a second as he breathed in the familiar baby-shampoo-and-biscuits smell.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice softer than it had been all day. “Missed me, haan?”
Ruhi pulled back just enough to grab his cheeks with her tiny hands. “Dada col-lege,” she announced proudly, like she’d been practicing the word.
“Yes, dada went to college,” he nodded, eyes crinkling. “And what did my baby do?”
“Ruhi see cat!” she said immediately, words tumbling out in excitement. “Big cat. Miao-miao. Out!” She pointed vaguely toward the window.
“Really?” he said, playing along. “Big cat, haan? Did you scare it away?”
She puffed her chest a little. “Haan!”
Rian, not to be left behind, tugged at Arush’s shirt. “Dada…Rian…boom,” he said, frowning slightly as he searched for the rest of his sentence.
“Rian boom?” Arush repeated, eyes widening in fake horror. “Where?”
Rian whacked his own forehead with his little hand and then pointed to the floor, demonstrating how he’d fallen earlier.
Arush checked him over automatically, even though he didn’t see any harm. “My strong boy,” he said, kissing the top of his head. “Floor ko dard hua hoga.”
Rian giggled at that, the sound bright and unbothered.
For the next few minutes, nothing else existed. He listened to their broken sentences, their exaggerated stories, their half-words and made-up expressions. They pointed out their toys, showed him a badly drawn “cat” on a piece of paper, and argued over who got to sit more on his lap.
He let them both.
His mother leaned against the doorframe, watching them with a fond, tired smile. “They didn’t sleep until late afternoon,” she said. “Kept asking, ‘Dada? Dada?’”
A small, inevitable guilt flickered through him, even though he knew staying home forever wasn’t an option. “I’ll put them to bed tonight,” he said quietly.
“Of course you will,” she replied, like it wasn’t even a question. “Freshen up. I’ll make tea. And your father will come early today. Adwait and Ritik also called—they’ll be here for dinner.”
He nodded, but his eyes were still on the twins.
There were moments, like now, when the whole “incident” felt like someone else’s story. Some other guy in some other world. The party. The spiked drink. The letter. The doorstep. The crying—his and theirs.
And then Ruhi tugged his nose, or Rian leaned his entire body weight against his chest and hummed something that was almost a song, and reality snapped back into focus.
They were here.
They were his.
He didn’t know how to be anything other than theirs anymore.
Evening melted into night. The sky outside the window turned from orange to blue to almost-black. The twins ate dinner early—tiny bites, messy hands, Ruhi dropping rice on the floor, Rian insisting his dal was too 'hot' until Arush blew on every spoon.
“Chalo, say sorry to Dadi for making mess,” Arush said after Ruhi dropped a piece of roti for the third time.
Ruhi wrapped her arms around his mom’s leg instead. “Sowwy,” she mumbled into the fabric.
His mother melted instantly. “Bas bas,” she laughed. “No sorry. Just eat properly, okay?.”
Rian, not wanting to be left out, hugged the other leg. “Sowwy,” he echoed, voice louder.
They were bathed, changed into soft nightclothes, and were clearly making a mess at the dinning table, when the doorbell rang.
Rian’s head snapped up. “Bell!” he announced.
Ruhi gasped dramatically. “Chachu!” she squealed, pronouncing it more like 'chatuuu.'
“Of course, you know it’s them,” Arush muttered, amused.
He opened the door.
Ritik entered first, arms already open wide. “Where are my babies?” he yelled, kicking off his shoes in a hurry. “Your favorite chachuu is here!”
Ruhi zoomed toward him like a tiny missile. “Chaaatuuu!” she yelled, crashing into his legs.
Ritik scooped her up, spinning her once. “Arre wah, you grew taller in one day,” he said. “Did you eat the whole fridge?”
Ruhi giggled, clinging to his neck.
Adwait followed, calmer but with the same warmth in his eyes. Rian stood a little behind Ruhi, peeking around the corner of the sofa, shy for exactly three seconds before breaking into a grin.
“Adduuu,” he shouted, unable to say “Ad-ait chachuuu” properly yet.
“Close enough,” Adwait laughed, bending down to pick him up. “Come here, hero.”
The room filled quickly—with voices, with laughter, with half-broken words.
“Chachuu, see!” Ruhi showed Ritik a stuffed toy.
“Wow, this is better than Arush,” Ritik declared dramatically. “I have a new best friend now.”
Rian patted Adwait’s cheeks and tugged at his hair. “Story,” he demanded.
“After dinner,” Adwait bargained. “First, we eat. Then, I’ll tell you the longest story.”
“Looong,” Rian repeated, stretching his arms wide to show how long.
Dinner was a riot.
The twins sat between their three favorite men like it was a royal court. Ruhi insisted on feeding Ritik with her tiny hands, often missing his mouth and smearing food on his face.
“Perfect,” Ritik said. “I needed a face mask anyway.”
Rian tried to copy her and ended up dropping more food on the table than in anyone’s mouth.
Arush alternated between scolding gently and laughing too much to be serious.
His father, having returned from the office, watched the chaos with a content smile, occasionally slipping into conversations, making sure Arush ate enough and not just fed the kids.
At one point, when the twins were briefly distracted arguing over who got which spoon, Ritik leaned back and looked at Arush.
“College?” he asked in one word.
“Fine,” Arush said, keeping it simple. “Same old professors. Same drama.”
“Any idiots?” Ritik grinned.
“Plenty,” Arush replied, then added after a beat, “And a couple of people who actually listen.”
Adwait watched him quietly. “You okay?” he asked softly.
Arush glanced at the twins, at his parents, at his two oldest friends sitting at his family’s table like they’d done a hundred times.
“Yeah,” he said. For once, it wasn’t a lie. “I’m…managing.”
Ritik clapped his hands once. “Good. Manage. Pass. Earn. Buy them lots of toys. The important things in life.”
Ruhi immediately latched onto one word. “Toy!” she shouted.
“Toys?” Rian repeated, eyes widening.
Adwait sighed. “Shabash, Ritik. You just created new demands.”
Ritik grinned, unbothered. “Chachuu will bring toys. Don’t worry.”
“Chaaatuu toy!” Ruhi chanted.
“Addu toy!” Rian added.
Arush shook his head, but there was no trace of the cold distance he wore in college. Here, his smile was easy. His shoulders were relaxed. The guilt and the heaviness were still there, buried under the surface, but they didn’t drown him in this room.
Later that night, after stories were told and protests were made and sleep finally won, he lay on the bed with Ruhi curled against his left arm and Rian sprawled half-on his chest.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the small night lamp in the corner.
Their soft breaths filled the silence.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand absentmindedly patting Rian’s back.
Two years ago, his life had split into 'before' and 'after'. Before: dancing, flirting, laughing, singing, playing guitar, being the sunshine of the university. After: diapers, fever nights, two tiny humans, responsibilities, withdrawal and questions he never answered.
He still didn’t believe in love.
But as Ruhi shifted closer in her sleep and Rian’s fingers curled into his t-shirt, holding on even while dreaming, he knew there was one thing he couldn’t doubt anymore.
He might have stopped believing in love in the way the world sold it.
But this?
This small, warm, heavy weight on his chest and in his arms?
Whatever this was, it owned him completely.
He closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally settle.
Tomorrow, there would be college again. More lectures. More whispers. Maybe another accidental moment with the quiet girl by the window who dropped her pen and knew the answer but was too scared to speak.
He didn’t know yet how much their lives would tangle.
For now, he just held his children a little closer and let himself breathe.
Write a comment ...