The sun was a lie.
Simran sat on the old stone bench behind the girls' hostel, where no one ever came this early in the afternoon. The wind was warm. Her throat felt tight. Her phone was still buzzing with unread messages, calls, and confession reposts.
She'd turned it off.
The weight of everything—Zain's stare, Alzan's words, Junaid's voice—was still stuck to her skin like smoke. And yet, none of that prepared her for the moment she heard his voice.
> "Still hiding when things get hard, huh?"
Her blood turned to ice.
She didn't have to look up. She knew that voice.
But she did. Slowly. Like peeling off a scab.
And there he was. Abeer.
His frame was taller, leaner than she remembered. The same lopsided smile. Same stupid leather band around his wrist—the one she'd once bought him. His eyes scanned her like she was something he'd already claimed.
> "Hi, Simran."
Her throat closed up. Her fingers curled into fists.
> "What are you doing here?" she asked, voice flat.
He chuckled, stepping closer. Too close.
> "Transferred. This place needed some entertainment."
Pause.
"Looks like you beat me to it."
Her jaw clenched.
He looked down at her like he still had permission. Like she was still the girl who flinched when his hand raised. Like time hadn't happened. Like she hadn't survived him.
> "You're quiet," he said. "Not like that night you screamed at me. What was it again? 'Get out of my life'? Guess you didn't mean it."
> "I meant every word," she said, sharper now. "You shouldn't be here."
He tilted his head. "But I am."
She stood up. Back straight. Heart screaming.
She hated how her hands shook. Hated that he could still do this to her.
> "Leave me alone, Abeer."
He didn't move.
> "I saw that post, you know," he said, voice casual. "Three boys still have the same habits. Cute."
> "Shut up."
> "Just saying—you always liked the attention. Maybe you just don't like when people notice."
She slapped him.
She didn't plan to,didn't think so. Her hand just moved.
Abeer blinked. His cheek was red. But he smiled.
"Still got a fight in you. Good. You'll need it."
He walked away. Like nothing happened.
Simran stood there, chest heaving, the slap still stinging in her palm. Her vision blurred—but she didn't cry.
Not this time.
She sat down again. Back straight. Breath slow.
For a moment, the silence returned.
Then—a soft shuffle.
She turned. And froze.
Junaid.
He stood a few feet away, eyes wide, fists clenched. Face pale.
He'd seen everything.
Junaid's POV
He hadn't meant to follow her.
Okay—maybe he had. Just not this far. Not to this quiet corner behind the hostel, where the world felt too still and she looked so alone, hunched on that old bench like she was carrying all the noise of campus on her back.
He wasn't expecting company either.
Definitely not him.
Junaid had recognized the guy the moment he walked in during orientation last week. The sharp jaw, the too-cocky way he spoke, the way he looked through people like they were disposable. Something about him had always screamed wrong.
But he hadn't known.
Not until now.
Not until he heard her voice—low, cracked—and the boy's tone—taunting, cruel, intimate.
> "You shouldn't be here."
"But I am."
That sentence made Junaid's stomach twist.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He was frozen—half in shadow, eyes locked on Simran, watching every flicker of emotion flash across her face.
She wasn't scared. She was angry. But buried under that anger… was a hurt he hadn't seen before.
And then she slapped him.
Hard.
Junaid blinked.
The guy barely flinched. Just smiled and walked away like it was a joke.
And Simran? She stood there, trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. But she didn't cry. She didn't fall. She just sat back down, like she refused to let the earth shift under her.
That's when she saw him.
Their eyes met.
Her breath hitched.
He should've said something. Anything. But the words tangled in his throat like they weren't enough. Like he wasn't enough.
So he just took a step forward, slowly.
> "Simran… who was that?"
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes darted to the side.
> "No one."
"No, don't—" he stopped himself. "Don't lie to me."
She didn't answer.
> "You were shaking," he whispered.
That made her blink, slow and tired.
> "So?" she said. "It's over."
"But it's not. You still flinch when someone touches your wrist. You keep your phone on silent during the night. You freeze when guys raise their voices."
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
He moved closer.
> "Did he hurt you?"
Silence.
> "Simran."
> "Yes." Her voice cracked. "He used to hit me."
And there it was.
The truth. The kind of truth that changes people.
Junaid's heart shattered.
> "Why didn't you tell me?"
> "Because you'd look at me like you are right now," she said quietly. "Like I'm broken."
His eyes burned.
> "You're not broken."
> "Aren't I?" she laughed bitterly. "Three boys fighting over me, a confession page dragging my name, and now this—Aman back like the universe is playing some sick joke."
He didn't think so. He just sat beside her.
And without touching her, he leaned closer, elbows on his knees.
> "I don't care what that post says. I don't care if you danced, kissed, or burned the whole library down."
She looked at him, shocked.
> "You think I'm angry because you flirted with someone else? No, Simran. I'm angry because someone hurt you and made you believe you deserved silence."
She blinked. The first tear slipped.
Junaid didn't reach out. Just stayed still, giving her space. Safety.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. Tentatively. Like asking permission.
He didn't move.
> "I'm tired," she whispered.
> "Then rest. I'll stay here."
And they sat there, in the warm afternoon silence, where everything was too loud—and yet somehow, finally quiet.
Simran leaned her head on Junaid's shoulder, the silence between them thick with everything she hadn't said before.
The tears came slowly. Not loud, not messy—just quiet drops sliding down her cheeks like they'd been waiting for a moment where no one was watching.
Junaid didn't speak.
He didn't shift or sigh or try to fix her.
He just stayed.
The sky above them faded into soft peach, the evening settling in like a blanket. The far-off noise of the campus—laughter, footsteps, announcements—felt distant, like another world entirely.
> "You're the first person I've told," she whispered after a long while.
Junaid turned just slightly, enough so she could hear him better.
> "I'll never tell anyone," he said gently. "Unless you want me to."
Her lips parted like she was about to say thank you—but the words never made it out.
Instead, she asked:
> "Did I lead them on? Alzan… Zain… you?"
Junaid's brows pulled together. "No."
> "But I danced with all of you. I let things happen. I didn't stop them."
> "Because you were trying to feel something other than scared."
She blinked.
> "That night, in the dark, with the music and the dares… maybe for once, you didn't feel small. Or broken. Maybe you felt wanted. Safe. Free."
Simran didn't realize she was crying harder until he moved just enough to hand her his handkerchief—soft, slightly wrinkled from his pocket, but clean. Warm.
> "No one gets to make you feel guilty for surviving," he said, eyes focused on the horizon, voice steady like a promise. "Not Zain. Not Alzan. Not me. And definitely not Abeer."
Her fingers tightened around the cloth.
> "I hate that he's here," she said softly. "I hate that he can still shake me up."
> "He won't get to win this time."
She looked up at him. Junaid's jaw was tight, his gaze sharp now—but still gentle when it turned to her.
> "What if I can't fix myself?" she asked.
> "Then you don't fix yourself," he said. "You just… learn to hold the broken pieces better. Until they stop hurting."
A small breath of laughter escaped her lips—painful, but real.
> "You're not supposed to be this soft," she murmured. "Everyone thinks you're trouble."
Junaid smirked, just a little.
> "Maybe I am. But not to you."
Silence again. But this time, it was the safe kind.
Simran leaned into him a little more, eyes fluttering shut.
> "Stay for a while?"
> "I'll stay as long as you need."
And he did.
No more questions. No more tension.
Just the two of them.
A girl slowly picking up the pieces.
And a boy quietly holding them for her.