Days passed like pages fluttering in a warm breeze.
And Hiya… she began melting into college life like sugar in tea—sweet, quiet, unnoticed by many… but deeply stirring to the few who tasted her kindness.
She was never the loudest voice in the room.
Never the first to answer.
But always the first to ask:
"Do you need help?"
She shared her lunch with those who forgot theirs.
Stitched the torn sleeve of a girl she barely knew.
Helped an old professor fix the projector—not by tinkering, but by reading the manual aloud, her voice steady and soft.
Her innocence wasn't fragile.
It was rooted. Strong in a quiet way.
Born not from naivety, but from a life that had given little—so she learned to give more.
And every day, from a quiet corridor, a distant window, or a passing shadow, Dev watched.
He pretended not to care.
When boys whispered about "the girl in pink with temple eyes,"
—he scoffed.
When someone called her "sweet but slow,"
—he didn't correct them.
But his fists curled in his pockets.
And when he saw her helping Mira carry books one afternoon,
—his jaw clenched.
Mira had been unusually warm toward Hiya lately. Too warm. Like honey with something bitter underneath.
Later that day, beside the staircase, Mira murmured beside him:
"She's not your type."
Her tone—sweetened jealousy dressed in silk.
Dev didn't respond. Not with words.
But he turned away. Sharply.
Like he always did.
That evening, Dev found Hiya alone in the quiet garden behind campus—beneath the gulmohar tree, where sunlight filtered through crimson leaves like stained glass.
She sat on the low marble wall, a book in her lap, unopened.
Eyes turned toward the sky, humming softly—something gentle and wordless.
He meant to pass by.
Truly.
But then she looked up.
And smiled.
"You again?" he muttered, feigning irritation, though his steps had already stopped.
"I was here first," she replied easily.
"You don't have a hostel room for things like this?"
"I do. But the sun doesn't set in there," she said, pointing with the simplicity of a child.
"And I read better when there's a breeze."
Dev looked away.
"You're weird."
She smiled.
"I've been told that. But I think I'm just… different."
A silence settled—soft and breathable. Like dew collecting on leaves.
Then she asked,
"Can I ask you something?"
He glanced sideways. Wary.
"Why are you always so… cold?"
Dev exhaled. Long. Low.
"Because I don't want to be misunderstood."
"Then why not speak clearly?"
"Because I don't trust words."
His eyes met hers.
"People say one thing. Feel another."
Hiya tilted her head, thoughtful.
"I think… you feel more than you say."
He blinked.
No defense.
No sarcasm.
Just silence.
And then—
grrrrlll.
Her stomach rumbled loudly. Hiya froze, crimson rushing to her cheeks.
Dev raised a brow.
"You didn't eat again?"
Before she could stammer out an excuse, he pulled a wrapped sandwich from his bag and tossed it toward her.
She caught it carefully, as if it were made of gold.
"Is this for me?"
"No, it's for the wind," he said, deadpan.
But the corner of his lips… twitched. Almost.
She laughed.
And in that moment, something passed between them.
Something unspoken.
Something soft and sacred.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the hush before it.
The breeze before the monsoon.
A thread, spun by fate, pulled gently at both ends.