The second lecture of the day felt heavier.
New subject, new professor, same anxiety.
Anaya sat in her usual spot with Rhea, third row from the back near the window, notebook open, pen in hand. The professor was explaining some concept, writing fast on the board, his voice a constant low drone as he moved between examples and definitions.
Rhea was actually taking notes this time, highlighter already out. Anaya tried to follow along, but her mind kept drifting—to assignments, to home, to baking, to the weird boy-who-bumped-into-her-and-then-turned-out-to-be-famous sitting somewhere behind them.
She shifted slightly in her seat, adjusting the way she held her pen.
It slipped.
The pen rolled off her notebook, bounced once on the bench, then dropped to the floor with a tiny clink that sounded a lot louder in her head than it was.
She froze for a second, then leaned down to grab it.
Except it wasn’t there.
A hand reached it first.
Long fingers picked up the pen easily. When she lifted her head, her gaze collided with the same calm, unreadable eyes she’d been sneakily observing all morning.
Arush.
He’d been sitting diagonally behind her on the next bench, close enough to notice the pen fall, far enough that she hadn’t realized exactly where he was.
He held the pen out to her, expression neutral. No smile, no irritation. Just…there.
“Your pen,” he said quietly.
His voice was low but clear, cutting through the background murmur of the lecture without drawing attention.
Anaya swallowed, suddenly aware of how warm her face felt. She reached out and took it from him, fingers brushing his for half a second.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He gave a small nod, already looking away, attention returning to the board like nothing had happened.
And that was it.
Their first real interaction.
Simple. Ordinary. Blink-and-you-miss-it.
Except the professor didn’t miss it.
“Excuse me, you two at the back,” the professor’s voice cut through the room, sharper than before. “Is something more interesting happening there than my lecture?”
Anaya’s stomach dropped.
For a moment, she didn’t even process that he was talking to her. Then she felt Rhea go still beside her. Slowly, she looked up.
The professor’s eyes were fixed in their direction.
“I—I’m sorry, sir,” Anaya said automatically, heart already racing.
“If you are free enough to talk and pass things in the middle of my explanation, you must have understood everything very well,” he said, tone clipped. “So you can answer a question.”
Her throat went dry.
He turned slightly toward the board and pointed to what he’d just written. “Explain this concept in your own words,” he said. “Stand up and answer.”
Rhea’s elbow brushed hers under the desk.
Anaya’s body felt suddenly disconnected from her mind. She knew this. She had been listening. Her notebook had the exact same thing written just a few lines above.
But as she stood up, every pair of eyes in the room suddenly felt like a spotlight.
The walls felt closer.
Her pulse hammered in her ears.
“Go ahead,” the professor said. “We’re waiting.”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The words she knew in her head tangled up the moment they tried to leave. Her eyes darted briefly around the room and caught the vague shapes of faces, some bored, some amused, some curious.
Her brain screamed: You know this. Just say it.
Her body screamed back: Too many people. Too many eyes. Too fast.
One second passed.
Then another.
Then another.
The silence stretched. The air around her felt heavy, too dense to breathe properly.
“She knows it,” Rhea thought immediately, glancing at her. She could see it in the way Anaya’s fingers gripped the edge of the bench, in the way her eyes flicked to her notebook and back again. This wasn’t 'I don’t know.' This was 'I’m stuck.'
She nudged Anaya’s hand gently under the desk.
The small, familiar touch snapped something.
Anaya inhaled sharply, her vision refocusing just enough to see the words she’d written.
She forced her lips to move.
“S-sir,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again, eyes dropping to a point on her desk instead of the room. “This…this concept means that…”
The first sentence came out shaky, broken in the middle. The second was a little stronger. By the time she reached the third, her voice had steadied enough that the explanation actually sounded like an answer.
She explained it correctly—definition, meaning, and a tiny example. Exactly what he wanted, just not with the confidence anyone expected.
The professor watched her for a moment, then nodded.
“Sit down,” he said, his tone not as sharp now. “That was correct. Next time, pay attention without side conversations.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied softly, sinking back into her seat, heart still pounding.
Rhea leaned in, whispering, “You did good. Breathe.”
Anaya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hands still trembled slightly. She gripped the pen he’d picked up for her like it was an anchor.
Behind her, Arush watched the back of her head for half a second. He had seen the way she froze. The way her shoulders tensed. The way the answer slowly untangled itself from fear.
She wasn’t clueless.
Just scared.
Then he looked away and went back to his notes.
He didn’t think too much about it. He had seen fear before—louder, messier, more desperate. This was just classroom anxiety. Everyday stuff.
Still, a tiny detail filed itself somewhere in the back of his mind.
Girl by the window.
Too much attention = problem.
The lecture moved on. The professor resumed explaining as if nothing had happened. People went back to pretending to listen, whispering, doodling, planning their breaks.
Anaya circled the heading of the concept she’d just been questioned on, as if marking it would make the tremor in her chest settle.
Rhea scribbled a tiny note at the edge of the page: “Proud of you, idiot.”
Anaya’s lips curved into the smallest smile.
Their first interaction had passed with one pen, one thank you, and one terrifying question.
Nothing dramatic.
****************************************************************************
Later,
The city outside Anaya's apartment window buzzed faintly, but inside, it was soft and dim.
Rhea lay sprawled on her bed, face half-buried in a pillow, laptop open in front of her with some random series paused on the title screen. Anaya sat cross‑legged on her own bed, a mixing bowl in front of her, quietly folding chocolate chips into cookie dough.
Stress baking. Again.
“Smells good,” Rhea mumbled, voice muffled. “Are you baking because you’re stressed or because you love me?”
“Both,” Anaya said, a small smile on her lips. “Mostly because of you. Slightly because of the trauma called ‘answer the question in front of the whole class’.”
Rhea rolled onto her back and looked at her. “You did well, though.”
“I froze for two minutes,” Anaya sighed. “Everyone was staring. I wanted the floor to just…open up.”
Rhea sat up, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Yeah, you froze. Because you were scared. But you still answered. That’s growth, madam.”
Anaya scraped the sides of the bowl. “My hands were shaking,” she admitted quietly. “I knew the answer, but my mind just…blanked for a second.”
“That’s your brain going, ‘Danger: humans watching,’” Rhea said, speaking more like a robot now. “It’s fine. Next time, it’ll be one minute of silence instead of two. Then thirty seconds. Then someday, you’ll answer without freezing at all.”
Anaya looked up at her, eyes soft. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Rhea replied. “Also, you’re in the wrong course if you think you can avoid being called on. Professors are like predators. They smell fear.”
Anaya laughed, sarcastically. “Thanks. That helped a lot.”
“Also,” Rhea added, eyes narrowing playfully, “you conveniently skipped the part where Mr. Mysterious Pen Picker was involved.”
Anaya blinked. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me,” Rhea said. “You dropped your pen, he picked it up like some silent hero, you said thanks, and two seconds later sir was like, ‘YOU! STAND UP.’ Drama.”
Anaya rolled her eyes, cheeks warming. “He just…picked up my pen. That’s it.”
“Mm‑hmm,” Rhea hummed. “And? Review time. Honest feedback. How was the interaction? Does he live up to his campus legend?”
Anaya thought back to his expression—calm, steady, no irritation, no smirk. Just quiet.
“It was…normal,” she said finally. “He was just being…decent.”
“Boring answer,” Rhea said. “But I’ll allow it.”
Anaya finished scooping the dough into small balls on the tray. “Anyway, I have bigger problems than boys who pick pens up.”
“True,” Rhea agreed. “Like our schedule. And your baking. And my eternal war with sleep.”
Anaya slid the tray into their tiny oven and set the timer. “We’ll manage.”
Rhea watched her for a moment. “You know,” she said softly, “you were really brave today.”
Anaya blinked. “For almost fainting in class?”
“For not running out,” Rhea corrected. “For standing there and still speaking. You didn’t let the fear win. That counts.”
Anaya’s throat tightened a little, but in a good way. “You nudged me,” she said. “If you weren’t there…”
“I’ll always be there,” Rhea cut in, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re stuck with me. Lifetime warranty.”
Anaya smiled and crawled onto her bed, flopping down next to her. Rhea immediately pulled the blanket over both of them.
The oven hummed. The room dimmed further. On the wall opposite them, the moonlight from the window drew a pale line across the paint.
Anaya stared at it.
She always liked this time of night. When the world stopped demanding. When no one could tell her to be louder, braver, more confident. When she could just exist—quietly, softly—with someone who felt like home.
Her phone buzzed.
Mom: “Call when free. Need to talk.”
Her chest tightened.
She locked the screen without opening the message and turned onto her side, facing Rhea instead.
“Not today?” Rhea asked gently.
“Not today,” Anaya whispered.
Rhea nodded. “Okay. Today, it’s cookies and bad web series only.”
The timer beeped eventually. They got up, pulled out the tray, burned their fingers a little, laughed about it, and ate too‑hot cookies while complaining about professors and imagining future exam stress.
At some point, the conversation faded. The room quieted. The moon watched over them as they drifted off—Rhea half-snoring softly, Anaya staring at the ceiling until her eyes grew heavy.
Somewhere else in the city, a boy slept with his twins sprawled on his chest.
They’d been in the same building that morning, the same classroom, the same canteen.
Now, under the same sky, they rested in separate worlds.
Tomorrow, those worlds would move a little closer again.
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