The following week passed like the slow unraveling of a tightly wound thread. Classes had begun in full swing, the syllabus was already chasing deadlines, and the campus had settled into its daily rhythm — lectures in the morning, gossip by noon, coffee in the evening.
Ruhi had begun to find comfort in small routines. Her mornings started with tea at the corner chai stall outside the girls' PG, where the uncle had started recognizing her order without asking. She and Simran had quickly formed a rhythm — brushing teeth side by side, racing down the stairs half-dressed to catch 8:45 classes, stealing food off each other's plates.
And yet, one thing hadn't settled. Rudra.
Because no matter how much she tried, Ruhi couldn't ignore the fact that every hallway, every class, and every lunch break somehow brought him into her periphery.
And every time he looked at her — not flirtatiously, not dramatically, just... looked — it sent a flutter to her stomach she didn't want to admit existed.
That Friday, the English Literature professor announced a group assignment.
"You'll work in teams of four," she said, scribbling themes on the blackboard. "Each group will prepare a ten-minute presentation on any one classic romantic novel. Discussion starts Monday. Grouping is by your roll numbers."
Ruhi quickly scanned the list. Her heart sank.
Group 7: Ruhi Sharma, Rudra Sharma, Simran Mehta, Aarav Malhotra.
"Universe, why?" she mumbled under her breath.
Simran leaned over, already grinning. "You and Mr. Basketball? This will be fun."
Ruhi shot her a look. "This will be torture."
Later that afternoon, the group met at the open-air college café — white wrought-iron chairs and tables under fairy lights strung across a massive banyan tree.
Rudra was already there, legs stretched out, sipping cold coffee. Aarav sat beside him, tossing sugar packets into a bowl like basketballs.
Ruhi and Simran walked in, books in hand.
"Here come the brains," Aarav said, smirking. "We were beginning to think you ditched us."
"Tempting," Ruhi replied dryly, pulling out a chair.
Rudra smiled slightly but said nothing.
Simran clapped her hands. "Alright! Let's get this done. Who's read Pride and Prejudice?"
Aarav raised a hand. "I've seen the movie."
Ruhi rolled her eyes. "You're hopeless."
"You wound me," he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.
Rudra chuckled, and for a moment, the tension at the table eased.
They began dividing the work — Ruhi would do the narration, Simran would handle the structure, Aarav the summary, and Rudra the analysis of characters.
It was going well... until Aarav started asking questions he clearly hadn't researched.
"So... is Mr. Darcy the villain?" he asked innocently.
Simran gasped. "What?! He's the love interest!"
Ruhi dropped her pen. "Please tell me you're joking."
Rudra leaned forward. "Let's assign the summary to someone who can tell the difference between Darcy and Voldemort."
Simran burst into laughter. Aarav pouted.
But Ruhi caught something else — a flicker of admiration in Rudra's eyes as he watched her correct Aarav's notes with precision.
That evening, back at the PG, Ruhi sat at her desk writing in her diary while Simran video-called her cousin.
"…and then Aarav said Darcy was a villain! Can you believe it? I nearly threw my water bottle at him!"
Ruhi smiled but stayed quiet.
Once Simran hung up, she flopped onto her bed. "You know, Aarav's not as dumb as he pretends to be."
Ruhi looked up. "Hmm?"
"He's kinda sweet. I mean, annoying, but sweet. He offered to carry my books when it started raining."
Ruhi raised an eyebrow. "Do we sense a crush?"
Simran buried her face in her pillow. "Shut up."
Ruhi laughed and turned back to her diary.
"We worked together today. Rudra. Me. Simran. Aarav.I thought I'd hate it, but… there's something oddly balanced about us four.He listens more than he speaks. He watches, quietly. It's annoying. And yet..."
She paused, then stopped writing.
She didn't know how to describe it. The way Rudra had gently defended her when Aarav made a joke. The way he had stayed back an extra ten minutes helping her organize the slides — not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
She closed the diary and slipped it under her mattress.
But she didn't know... Simran had seen her write. And though she didn't peek, the soft smile on Ruhi's face had said enough.
The next morning was chaos.
Simran, running late for dance practice, accidentally knocked over Ruhi's books from the desk.
"Sorry!" she said, gathering them up. But as she picked up a small notebook, a few pages fell out — pages that weren't blank.
Pages with Ruhi's handwriting.
And Rudra's name.
Simran froze for half a second.
Before she could look any further, Ruhi snatched it from her hands, cheeks flushed.
"That's private," she said quietly.
Simran raised her hands. "I wasn't going to read it. I swear."
A pause.
Then Ruhi nodded. "I know. Sorry. I just… it's nothing."
But Simran smiled softly. "It's not nothing. But I won't ask. Not until you're ready to tell."
Ruhi blinked, a little stunned by the maturity in that response.
In that moment, they weren't just roommates anymore. They were friends. Real ones.
Meanwhile, Rudra stood alone in the college gym, shooting hoops, sweat glistening down his arms. He usually came here to clear his head — and it worked.
Except this time, it didn't.
He kept thinking about the way Ruhi tucked her hair behind her ear when she read. The way she corrected grammar with quiet confidence. The way she never smiled at him the way other girls did.
There was something about her that felt... different. Real.
He threw the ball harder than usual. It hit the board, bounced off, and rolled away.
Get it together, Rudra, he told himself.
To be continued...