The boy stepped into college life with quiet anticipation, leaving behind a year that had nearly broken him. That preparatory phase felt like a blur now—an endless loop of study materials, sleepless nights, mock tests, and pressure so dense it could swallow joy whole. It drained him. Yet, he endured. He fought the fatigue, the doubts, the loneliness—and in the end, his efforts bore fruit.
He had made it. A reputable college, first allotment.
A sigh escaped him the day the results were out. Not one of triumph, but of fragile relief—like a man who had just crossed a storm, soaked but still standing. He had doubted himself endlessly, second-guessed every answer, but somehow, it had worked out. Maybe he was too hard on himself. Maybe he always had been. But such thoughts didn't matter now. The gates of college were opening, and so was a new chapter of his life.
With dreams tucked quietly into his heart, and ambition cradled like a sleeping ember, he took his first steps into the unknown.
College, he soon realized, wasn't just a new place. It was another world entirely.
The classrooms were vast—almost intimidating—designed to hold 250 students or more. In contrast, his school classrooms had barely housed forty. The first allotment alone had filled nearly 140 seats, a crowd nearly four times what he was used to.
He was overwhelmed.
Faces everywhere. Laughter echoing. Conversations flowing like rivers he couldn't yet step into. No one familiar. No anchor to steady him.
He'd always thought of himself as bold—someone who could spark a conversation with anyone, someone who carried no reservations. That belief, however, was beginning to crumble under the sheer weight of this unfamiliar sea of people. Doubt crept in.
Can I really do this again?
And then, there was the ache of invisibility. In school, he had shined—bright, confident, the top of the class. His presence was noticed, even admired. But here, everyone had been the best somewhere. Everyone had been "that student" in their schools. His light, once radiant, now felt buried in the brilliance of a hundred others.
But still—he breathed deep, summoned what courage he had, and turned to the boy seated beside him.
"Hey," he said.
The boy looked up, surprised—but then smiled.
As luck would have it, they had both attended the same coaching institute. A thread of familiarity was all it took for the tension to ease. They talked—awkwardly at first, then with growing ease. The boy introduced himself as Ployt.
Ployt was an extrovert in every sense of the word. Words flowed effortlessly from him, and he carried a charisma that made people want to listen. He didn't just talk—he commanded conversations, as if he were born for it. To the boy, who often tripped over his own thoughts when trying to speak, Ployt felt like a godsend.
Through him, the boy found his footing. Confidence returned, shaky but real. In just a couple of days, the two of them had become familiar names in class.
Whether it was Ployt's energy or the boy's natural tendency to care, he began standing out. He voiced common concerns, asked questions others were too shy to raise, and even served as a bridge between the seniors and the freshers. Some admired him for it, calling him a connector. Others found him loud. A few whispered that he was arrogant.
The boy never noticed. He wasn't trying to be anything more than himself.
He was just reaching out—wanting to connect, to find people, to belong.
And fate, in its quiet, unassuming way, answered.
He noticed her one day, among the sea of new faces. Not because she stood out. She wasn't flashy or model-like. She didn't wear the kind of beauty that demanded attention. She was just... there. Ordinary, yet somehow unforgettable.
Something about her calmed him. Her presence felt like still water after a storm. There was no reason, no logic. Just a deep, unshakable feeling—as if the space between them wasn't entirely empty. As if something invisible had already formed a thread.
He didn't know what that feeling meant, and he had no illusions about it. He didn't want to act on just a feeling—not when he knew nothing about her. That wasn't him. He wasn't the type to chase shadows or spin stories off sparks. But the pull within him was undeniable.
He wasn't looking to impress or confess. He only wanted to know her—to see if the quiet current he felt was real, or merely imagined.
So, he walked up to her.
"Hi," he said, trying to sound casual, though his heart thudded hard against his ribs.
To his surprise, she responded warmly. Their conversation began like any other—tentative, surface-level—but then, something shifted. Their words fell into rhythm. His tongue, usually twisted with nerves, moved with ease. With her, he didn't feel the need to perform. He just was.
There was silence at one point. A gentle kind. Not the awkward sort, but the type that says this is okay.
Finally, he asked her name.
She looked at him, eyes soft, and with the faintest smile, replied:
"Tia."