The auditorium smelled faintly of new paint and polished wood, mingling with the slightly sour tang of too many nervous humans crammed into one space.
I, Adithya Aravindan, slouched into the middle row, hoodie hood tugged low over my black hair, legs stretched lazily in front of me. A loner in every possible sense, a freshman preferring the comforting quiet of my own thoughts over awkward smiles and shallow greetings.
Around me, the air buzzed with a strange energy, a mix of excitement, anxiety, and over-caffeinated chatter. Some students whispered to each other, voices like tiny mosquitoes buzzing relentlessly. Others stared at their phones, thumbs flicking with restless impatience.
Above the stage, a gigantic banner proclaimed:
"Welcome Freshmen! New Beginnings, Endless Possibilities."
I squinted up at it, muttering under my breath, "Endless possibilities… sure. Endless possibilities to annoy me."
The seats nearby hosted a lively debate between a cluster of freshmen.
"Did you see the drama club poster?" a girl with long, chestnut hair asked, eyes shining with enthusiasm.
"I heard their seniors are… intense," a boy with thick glasses mumbled, scratching nervously at his hair.
"I don't care! Drama or music, I'm joining something. I need friends," another piped up, voice trembling slightly.
I shifted just enough to glance their way, half-listening. Somehow, their chatter reminded me why human interaction was overrated. Friends required energy, explanations, patience… things I had in dangerously short supply.
The lights dimmed slightly, and a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to the stage as Kanika Veeramani appeared. Known as the freshman representative with a perfect academic record—99% across the board—she radiated confidence like someone had trained the air itself to bend to her will. She tapped the microphone; it squeaked in protest.
"Hello, freshmen!" Her voice was smooth, crystal-clear, and somehow carried all the way to the back of the auditorium without effort.
"I'm Kanika Veeramani, your freshman representative. Congratulations on making it here. Today isn't just the beginning of your college life; it's the start of your journey into independence, self-discovery, and…" She paused dramatically, letting her words sink in, eyes scanning the crowd with perfect, unreadable calm.
The room erupted into applause. I rolled my eyes and leaned back, muttering, "Self-discovery, huh?"
Kanika continued, her speech flowing like a practiced river. She spoke about opportunities, clubs, internships, and the thrill of meeting new people—her words painting vivid, colorful images of the "ideal college experience." Most of the students seemed enraptured, some even scribbling furiously into their notebooks as if she had just revealed the secrets of life itself.
I could almost see her script shining in her eyes, but there was a raw, magnetic energy to her presence. Even for a perfectionist, she had charm—an aura that demanded attention without begging for it.
"…And remember, the choices you make now shape the person you'll become tomorrow. Embrace challenges, seek friendships, but also remember to trust yourself."
A collective sigh of admiration and relief passed through the audience.
People whispered, "Wow… she's amazing,"
"99%? No wonder,"
"Can someone explain how she's so perfect?"
I, on the other hand, was already counting ceiling tiles and wondering if anyone else noticed how the auditorium smelled like wet cardboard mixed with old perfume.
Then, something unusual caught my attention—a faint, rhythmic thump, almost musical. I tilted my head and noticed a girl sitting next to me, headphones snug over her ears, eyes closed, nodding lightly to something only she could hear. Her hair was an unusual shade, somewhere between lavender and ash brown, cascading in loose waves over her shoulders.
The music emanated faintly, but my brain immediately clicked: that's my track.
I froze. Not just any song—my latest release on YouTube, uploaded under the channel "Veil of Sound", with a small but dedicated fanbase of a few thousand subscribers. I'd gone full "masked terrorist" for the cover art, face obscured by a scarf and sunglasses, just to be dramatic, and apparently it worked.
Someone here was actually listening to it.
Right now.
In the same row.
I almost panicked. Not because someone knew the song existed—but because someone liked it. Someone genuinely liked it.
The girl adjusted her headphones slightly, completely unaware of me staring at her. She wasn't checking her phone, wasn't humming along—she was immersed, completely absorbed.
The faintest smile tugged at her lips, and my chest did something strange.
I didn't even know I had a chest that could do that.
I leaned slightly closer, trying not to be obvious. The subtle details—the oversized pastel blue shirt, the glint of a silver charm bracelet, the slight bob of her head to the rhythm—were more fascinating than anything Kanika could say from the stage.
Her legs tapped once… twice… thrice… each beat in perfect sync with the track's rhythm.
Some part of me screamed, Don't say anything. Don't freak her out. Another part—a louder, more reckless part—thought, Ask her what she thinks of the song. Ask her now.
Kanika's speech ended with a flourish, the words "embrace the challenges, seize the opportunities, make your time unforgettable" echoing through the auditorium. The applause was thunderous. Everyone was cheering for her message, everyone except me—my attention was still on her, listening to my music, oblivious, perfect, impossible.
I realized then that I had spent the first two hours of college watching a stranger enjoy something I created while hiding my face like a "terrorist musician," and I didn't know whether to feel proud, embarrassed, or both.
Either way… I wanted to know more about her.
In the classroom.
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust, stationery, and something floral that might have been someone's perfume—or possibly a desperate attempt to mask body odor.
I didn't care.
Not one bit.
My desk was a cold, smooth slab of wood, scarred by generations of bored students who'd doodled their secret lives onto it. I slouched against it, chin propped on my palm, my mind looping endlessly over her.
The girl from the auditorium.
Her image kept replaying like some cursed, beautiful loop in my brain. The way her fingers tapped lightly against her thighs, perfectly in rhythm with the background music only I seemed to notice. The soft, serene intensity in her brown eyes. The subtle sway of her hair that caught the light and somehow made the ordinary look… magical. How was it even fair that a stranger could occupy this much real estate in my head?
Who is she? my mind hissed. What's her name? How does she even know my music? Does she like it—
I shook my head violently, like shaking off an annoying fly.
Relax, Adithya.
Calm down.
Don't do… fascination.
Love at first sight is a bullshit marketing ploy invented by romcoms and pop songs.
And she didn't even know I existed. Not one glance.
Meanwhile, I had been ogling her like a starving hyena who accidentally wandered into a garden of flowers.
Shit. That's embarrassing.
This… this is an anomaly. A blip in my carefully curated, perfectly average, perfectly solitary life.
But try as I might to rationalize, my ears remembered the beat of my track, and my chest remembered her tiny, almost imperceptible movements syncing with it. A strange warmth spread across my ribs, one that hadn't stirred in months—or maybe years. I didn't even know her, and yet, somehow, she had reached something inside me that had long been dormant.
Then came a voice, slicing through my reverie like a neon knife.
"Hey, what are you daydreaming about?"
I flinched. My deskmate—Vikram Chidambaram, a disaster of black hair and untamed energy—leaned over my desk, grinning like he'd just discovered a new meme to share with the world. The kind of extrovert who laughed at his own jokes loudly enough to make nearby fish tanks shake. Or maybe it was just the desk shaking; hard to say.
"Uh… nothing," I muttered, praying my blush didn't give me away.
"Nothing?" He raised an eyebrow and smiled wider, which somehow made me regret every gene in my body. "Come on, man. That face says thinking about a girl. Admit it."
Is he psychic, or am I just broadcasting my internal monologue like a terrible radio signal?
I froze, calculating my escape angles. "No. I'm… studying the light patterns on the ceiling. Very important. Very scientific."
Vikram's laugh echoed across the room, loud enough to make someone drop a pencil somewhere in the back. "Scientific, huh? Sure, sure. So, you're watching the ceiling… while your heart does the Macarena?"
I didn't answer. Words would ruin the delicate, perfectly fragile tension of my thoughts. But Vikram, being Vikram, didn't stop.
Vikram continued talking, narrating bits of what he remembered from the morning: the auditorium, Kanika Veeramani's speech, the applause, the nervous giggles of the freshmen. But my mind filtered everything through the lens of her presence, her tapping, her aura.
By the time I realized it, the professor had entered the classroom. A soft murmur of greetings spread, and the chatter immediately died down.
The professor was a tall woman with short, silver-streaked hair that caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, and eyes sharp enough to pierce through any pretense.
She carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had seen countless first-years stumble, flail, and try to charm their way through life—and failed.