College turned out to be nothing like Padmavathi had imagined. The Literature Department, though rich with history and dusty bookshelves, felt oddly cold. Her professors spoke with authority, quoting dead poets and postcolonial theorists with ease, while she sat in the back row, her notebook closed, feeling like a ghost drifting through the lecture halls.
Her classmates were bright and confident, throwing around references she didn't recognize, laughing in groups that seemed long-formed and impenetrable. Padmavathi, with her soft voice and hesitation-laced sentences, felt out of place. Most days, she walked through the campus like a shadow, unnoticed, untethered. The girl once nicknamed "Prema Padmavathi" for the tenderness in her writing now felt almost invisible, unsure if she even had a story left to tell.
Still, she tried — quietly, awkwardly. She made a few hesitant efforts to join conversations during breaks, often trailing off mid-sentence, her nerves swallowing her voice. One person, however, kept catching her attention: Neha — a second-year student with a loud laugh, tangled curls, and a camera that never left her side. Neha saw the world through her lens, pausing between classes to capture sunlight glinting off puddles, leaves trembling in the breeze, or laughter frozen in motion.
Padmavathi admired her from afar, drawn to Neha's ability to find beauty in the ordinary. A few times, she tried to start a conversation — once about a book they were both reading, another time about a poem someone had recited in class. But her words always came out awkward, overthought, like mismatched puzzle pieces forced into place. Neha responded kindly, if distractedly, before turning back to her friends or disappearing down a hallway with her camera swinging at her hip.
Then, one rainy afternoon, everything shifted — if only slightly.
The monsoon clouds had gathered thick above the city, and by the time Padmavathi stepped out of class, the sky had split open. She stood beneath the college portico, watching the rain sheet down in silver waves, cursing herself for forgetting her umbrella. Students hurried past her, laughing, huddling under shared canopies, while she remained still, unsure whether to wait it out or make a run for it.
"Hey," came a voice. She turned, startled.
It was Neha.
Without a word, Neha held out her umbrella — a bright yellow one, printed with cartoon elephants. "Come on," she said casually. "You'll get soaked."
Padmavathi hesitated, then stepped under it. The umbrella was small, and they walked shoulder to shoulder, the scent of wet earth rising between them. Neha didn't talk much, just pointed out the absurd size of the puddles and laughed when a scooter splashed them both near the gate.
It wasn't a grand gesture, but to Padmavathi, it felt like the first real moment of warmth she'd had in weeks.
That night, in her narrow room lit by a single flickering bulb, she opened her notebook again.
The words came more easily this time — hesitant, yes, but alive. She wrote about the rain, the umbrella, the quiet kindness of a stranger who noticed her when she felt most unseen. For the first time in a long while, her story didn't feel forced. It felt like breathing.
She wasn't sure if it meant anything yet. But it was a beginning.