The college corridors felt different the next day. The banners from last night's Masquerade still clung to the walls, glitter scattered across the floor like little reminders of a secret world that had existed for only a few hours. Students moved in their usual rush assignments, coffee, gossip but for Simran, it was like she was still walking in the echo of last night's music.
Her mask was still in her bag, edges smudged with silver shimmer, as if it carried the weight of every glance, every almost-touch, every stolen second with Junaid. She hadn't slept properly. The memory of his eyes sharp even behind his mask kept circling her mind like they weren't ready to let her go.
Simran's POV:
I thought today would feel normal. It doesn't. The classrooms look the same, but when I see him across the campus steps, leaning against the railing with his usual careless smirk, my stomach knots. Because last night, he wasn't just the sarcastic guy who teased me. Last night, under dim lights and loud music, he was different. His voice had dropped softer, his hand had lingered longer when he offered mine.
I look away quickly. But of course, he notices.
Junaid's POV:
She thinks I don't see her, but I do. I see the way she fiddles with the strap of her bag, the way her lashes dip like she's trying to erase last night from her head. Cute. Too bad she doesn't know that I've been replaying it all morning. The music, the way her laughter sounded behind that mask, the moment I almost said something I shouldn't have.
Almost.
I push off the railing, slow on purpose, just to watch her tense. She hates how easily I read her, but that's the best part.
Back to Narrative:
The day crawled by in half-distracted classes and too-loud conversations. Friends gossiped about who danced with who, about who kissed behind the curtains. Every time Simran's name slipped into the air, Junaid's eyes flicked up without meaning to. Every time his laugh carried across the room, Simran's chest tightened.
By the time the evening sun dipped, painting the campus in an orange haze, they crossed paths again near the canteen. Neither of them spoke. Not right away. Just a glance, brief, then longer than it should've been.
And then Junaid half a grin, almost careless murmured,
"Mask suits you more than pretending nothing happened."
Simran blinked, caught between denial and the way her heart gave her away. She opened her mouth, maybe to deflect, maybe to throw one of her usual sharp comebacks. But nothing came out.
So she just walked past him, leaving the sentence unfinished in the air.
He didn't stop her. He only watched, that stupid grin fading into something softer something he'd never admit to anyone else.
The Masquerade hadn't ended when the music stopped. Not for them. And the worst part? Neither of them knew what to do with it now.