The studio smelled faintly of fabric dye and coffee. Bolts of cloth were stacked against the walls, sketchbooks lay open on every desk, and the faint hum of sewing machines filled the air.
Inayat leaned over her sketchpad, pencil moving quickly, her brows slightly furrowed. She wasn't just drawing a dress—she was breathing it into existence. The lines flowed bold and unafraid, just like her.
"Inayat," Zara's voice broke through the silence. "Do you ever... stop? We're supposed to be students, not designers for Milan Fashion Week."
Inayat smirked, not lifting her eyes.
"Passion doesn't wait for degrees, Zara."
Zara groaned and flopped dramatically across her desk. "One day, your boldness will kill me."
The class bell rang. Chairs scraped, chatter filled the room. Inayat calmly packed her things, slid the sketchbook under her arm, and stepped into the busy corridor.
She turned a corner—
—and collided head-on with someone.
Papers flew. Her sketchbook tumbled to the floor, pages flipping open like wings.
"Seriously? You walk like the corridor belongs to you." Inayat snapped, kneeling to collect her work.
"Excuse me?" The boy's voice was low, edged with amusement. "You're the one who came charging like a bullet train."
Inayat straightened, clutching her sketches, and met his gaze. He was tall, carrying a stack of books—his T-shirt read: Philosophy: Overthinking in Style. His grin was lazy, teasing.
Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, so now it's my fault?"
"Usually is." He bent to pick up one of her designs. "You drew this? Not bad."
She snatched it from his hand. "Not bad? Excuse me, these are original designs. Not for randoms to touch."
He raised his brows, still smiling. "Relax, Picasso. I wasn't stealing your masterpiece."
"Don't call me that," she muttered, brushing invisible dust from her paper.
He extended a hand. "Feroz. Final year, English department."
Inayat ignored the hand, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. "Inayat."
"Bold type, huh? No handshake, no smile. Just straight attitude."
Inayat tilted her head, lips curving into a half-smile. "And you're the type who stands in hallways wasting time instead of studying?"
Before he could reply, Zara called from down the corridor, "Inayat! Café?"
Inayat shot Feroz a quick look. "Try not to stand in people's way next time."
She walked off, her heels clicking against the floor.
Feroz watched her go, a grin tugging at his lips. He muttered under his breath, "Interesting."
.........................................
That night, sitting by her window, Inayat opened her sketchbook again. She tried to focus on fabric patterns, but her pencil kept drifting, sketching the outline of a boy's face—calm eyes, gentle smile.
Usman.
Her chest tightened. The name was like a secret she never said aloud. Childhood memories rose unbidden—gulmohar trees, stolen laughter, the sting of the day he had turned away.
Inayat closed the book quickly, pressing it to her chest. She was fearless in front of the world, bold against anyone who challenged her. But the memory of Usman... that was the one thing that still had the power to make her heart tremble.