The sky was painted in hues of silver and blue, heavy with the scent of rain and new beginnings. Delhi had just been kissed by an early morning drizzle, and the air still clung to its coolness. At the gate of St. Xavier's University, a girl stepped out of a rickshaw with a soft thud — her suitcase wheels catching on a loose stone as she adjusted the scarf around her neck.
Her name was Ruhi Sharma — a nineteen-year-old girl from Darjeeling, small-town raised but big-dream hearted. The warmth of home still clung to her clothes, but her eyes were firm and forward-facing. They scanned the towering gate of the university that gleamed in gold against red brick — St. Xavier's, one of Delhi's most prestigious colleges. Its grandeur stretched like a dream come true.
For her, this wasn't just a college. This was escape. Freedom. Opportunity.
She drew in a long, slow breath. "You're here now," she whispered to herself. "No turning back."
The campus buzzed like a living thing — freshers dragging their luggage, seniors shouting directions, bikes zooming past, and street dogs barking as if they too belonged to the scene. Everywhere was color, conversation, and chaos.
Ruhi struggled with her suitcase as she made her way to the PG block where she'd live. The building was simple — three floors painted in a fading yellow, with balconies adorned in drying clothes and potted tulsi plants. It smelled of incense, wet cement, and city life.
She was shown into Room 2A, where one bed had already been neatly made. Her roommate hadn't arrived yet.
She placed her most precious possession — a worn-out leather diary — on the desk, beside a stack of books. Her fingers lingered on the diary's cover, as if drawing strength from it. It had been her silent listener since class eight — holding poems, letters she never sent, pain she never voiced.
She sat by the window, opened a blank page, and began to write:
"Day 1. Delhi feels louder than I imagined. The people are bigger, the air thicker, and yet... it excites me. I'm not here to blend in. I'm here to become something. Or someone."
She closed it and exhaled, the chaos of the city humming faintly through the glass.
By 11:00 AM, the grand auditorium was filled to the brim. Wooden panels, deep red curtains, and golden chandeliers gave the room a royal presence. Ruhi entered quietly and took a seat in the third row, clutching her college folder.
That's when it happened — the slam of a heavy door swinging open.
In walked someone who seemed to own the air around him.
Rudra Sharma.
Heads turned. Voices hushed. Some girls nudged each other and giggled.
Tall, striking, and effortlessly confident, Rudra strolled in wearing a black varsity jacket with a basketball tucked under his arm. His dark eyes scanned the hall lazily, and he moved with the ease of someone who knew every inch of this college. His entry wasn't rude. It was expected — like a scene in a show where the hero arrives exactly on cue.
Ruhi frowned instantly.
Late. Showy. Typical. She turned her gaze away, unimpressed.
But Rudra noticed her. Among the sea of freshers, she sat upright, her eyes sharp — not adoring, not flustered. Just... annoyed.
Interesting, he thought. Very interesting.
After orientation, the crowd spilled into the corridors like a river flowing without direction. Ruhi followed the map to her department — English Literature — the place where she'd study words, stories, and meanings.
She passed through a glass corridor when — thud — something hit her foot. A basketball.
Startled, she stepped back.
"Sorry!" a voice called out, light and amused.
She turned sharply. "Watch it—"
And there he was again. Rudra. Sweat on his forehead. Black jersey. That annoying smile.
"Oh. You again."
He jogged up casually. "You're the girl from the auditorium, right?"
Ruhi narrowed her eyes. "The one you almost knocked over with your ego?"
He laughed. "It was the ball, not my ego. Though... thanks for the compliment."
She picked up the basketball and threw it back — a little too hard. He caught it with one hand, still smiling.
"Feisty," he said.
"Full of yourself," she replied.
"I like that," he grinned.
"I don't," she shot back, turning on her heel.
As she walked away, Rudra stood watching her, more intrigued than offended.
Back in her room that evening, Ruhi's roommate had arrived — a cheerful, modest girl named Simran Mehta from Punjab. Simran brought with her a stack of snacks, a framed picture of her family, and a warmth that immediately calmed Ruhi's nerves.
Within minutes, they were chatting like old friends. Simran shared her love for dancing, her big brother's upcoming village wedding, and how scared she was about college.
Ruhi listened, laughed, and felt — for the first time that day — like she belonged.
Later, while Simran was busy arranging her bookshelf, Ruhi returned to her diary.
"I met the most frustrating boy today. Tall, smug, and... irritating. Rudra Sharma. Girls seem to lose their minds around him. Not me. Not a chance. But why do I remember his smile when I close my eyes?"
She closed the diary quickly, cheeks warm, heart slightly confused.
Meanwhile, Rudra lay sprawled on the couch of his lavish Delhi home. His mother's soft voice echoed from the kitchen as the scent of sandalwood drifted through the air.
On his phone screen was a blurry photo from orientation. A friend had tagged him in it. He zoomed in... and found her.
Sky blue kurti. Hair tucked behind her ear. Eyes — serious.
He didn't know her name. But he'd remember her face.
Definitely not like the others, he thought again, a soft smirk curling on his lips.
And so it began —A story born from opposites. From pride, poetry, and rivalry.Two strangers from two different worlds, walking unknowingly into each other's storms.
Neither of them knew it yet…But destiny had already taken its seat in the front row.
To be continued...