"Strangers don't break your heart,
People you trust do."
The night smelt of perfume and sweat.
The annual cultural fest at North Hills College was a collision of light, music, and chaos. Fairy light blinked across the courtyard like shy stars. Food stalls buzzed with gossip and clinking plates. Students draped in kurtas, sarees, and hoodies weaved through the crowed, balancing samosas and secrets.
Aarav, leaning against the rusted railing near the auditorium gate, watching it all with the detachment of someone who did not belong. A notebook clutched to his chest. Spectacles slightly cracked. Grey hoodie zipped up despite the warmth. He wasn't here to celebrate. He was here because his friend, Ritwik, forced him out of the hostel.
"Bro, you can't live in your room forever," Ritwik had said. "Come. Just for one night. See the madness. Maybe you'll smile".
Aarav hadn't smiled.
Not since his mother died last year. Not since his father stopped talking. Not since everything stopped making sense.
Now he stood, observing, calculating how long he had to stay before he could vanish.
That's when the noise started – not music – something sharper. Angry. Heated.
A voice – shrill and loud – sliced through the chatter.
"Why are you even here if you don't care about the team, Rhea?"
Rhea. That name echoed like thunder. The crowd parted.
There she was.
Long black hair falling over a blood-red kurta, bangles clinking as she gestured furiously. Her khol-rimmed eyes blazed with emotion. Rhea Sen, the cultural secretary of North Hills College Student Union, was arguing with half of the union.
"You all said you'd print the banners by yesterday," she barked. "Now look! Spelling Mistakes! 'Anal Fest'? Are kidding me?!"
Some laughed nervously. Others backed away. But one boy muttered. "It's not the end of the world."
Rhea spun like a tornado. "Oh? Not the end of the world? Maybe for the people who don't give a damn about effort, it isn't."
The boy stepped back, face red.
Aarav stared at her. He didn't know her. But in that moment, she felt… familiar. Like fire you could never touch but couldn't stop looking at.
She turned, scanning the crowd. Her eyes landed on Aarav.
And for a second – just one – everything froze.
"You!" She pointed. "You're Aarav, right? You're the one who rejected my script?"
Aarav blinked. "What?"
"For the street play. You submitted a scientific theme instead of a cultural one. You didn't even attend the meeting. Who the hell does that?"
Aarav straightened. "I never submitted anything. I withdraw my name."
"Because you thought this fest was beneath you?" she snapped.
"No. because I had exams. And I don't shout at people in public for spelling errors."
The air thickened.
Rhea took a step toward him. "Wow. You're one of those. Pretend to be deep. Judge from the sidelines. Too good for the rest of us."
Aarav's jaw clenched. "And you're the kind who screams for attention because no one listens otherwise."
The slap come out of nowhere.
Hard. Sharp. Loud.
The courtyard fell silent. Everyone froze. Even the music from the speaker died, like it knew something sacred had broken.
Aarav touched his cheek slowly, stunned. His glasses lay cracked at his feet.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that," Rhea hissed.
Something inside him cracked.
He slapped her back.
The gasp that followed was not from the slap.
It was from something far worse.
Rhea's eyes widened – not in shock – but in pain.
She staggered back, grabbing her wrist. Her bangles shattered as blood sprayed out like a torn fountain pen.
Aarav dropped to her knees.
Then crumpled to the ground.
Someone screamed.
"Blood!"
Students started running. Some froze. Other filmed.
Aarav stood there, hands shaking. Unable to move. His eyes fixated on the red pool growing beneath her hand. Her wrist had been sliced open – a deep, clean cut. Not an accident. A stab.
He looked around.
Someone had passed by. Someone brushed between them.
He had felt it – a cold flash. A bump. A shadow moving away in the crowd.
But no one else seemed to have seen anything.
All they saw was Aarav and Rhea. Arguing. Slapping. Then she fell.
A few students who had been near the juice stall whispered among themselves – but the larger crowd had already made up their minds.
Aarav knelt beside her, his hand shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding.
"Rhea! Stay with me – please – look at me!"
She didn't.
And then – something cold and metallic clicked in his hoodie pocket.
Aarav reached in.
His fingers wrapped around a small metal object.
He pulled it out slowly, with horror growing in his chest.
A pocket knife. Sharpe. Freshly bloodied.
He looked at it like it was a ghost.
A whisper behind him: "He killed her… it was him."
Then louder. "The knife's in his hand!"
The crowd stepped back.
Phones were raised.
Faces turned from shock to disgust.
By the time the police reached, Aarav was surrounded.
He dropped the knife and held up his hands – trembling, bloody, breathless.
"I… I didn't…"
But they were already dragging him away.
They didn't even check Rhea's pulse.
They didn't ask what happened.
They didn't care.
They had their murderer.
As the police jeep disappeared into the foggy campus lane, a long figure stood at the edge of the field – leather jacket zipped up, hands in his pockets.
He watched the scene with clam eyes.
Then smiled.
And whispered to himself,
"Thanks for taking the fall, Aarav."