The college café buzzed with noise—mugs clinking, chairs scraping, and students laughing far too loudly for a Monday morning.
Inayat pushed the glass door open, her sketchbook tucked safely under her arm. Zara had already grabbed a table by the window.
"Ina!" Zara waved dramatically. "Over here, madam designer!"
Inayat slid into the chair opposite her. "Stop yelling, Zara. You're acting like I'm some celebrity."
"Well," Zara sipped her cold coffee with a sly smile, "the way you walk through the corridor, bold and untouchable—people already look at you like one."
Before Inayat could retort, a familiar voice interrupted.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Inayat looked up. And there he was. Feroz
He stood holding a tray with two steaming mugs, eyes twinkling like he already knew the answer.
Zara, ever the social butterfly, grinned. "Nope! Sit, sit."
Inayat shot her a glare, but Feroz had already taken the chair beside her, setting his tray down.
"You again," Inayat muttered.
"Fate," he replied smoothly, sipping his coffee. "Or maybe just bad luck—yours, not mine."
Zara laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. "I like him! He's funny."
Inayat rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage him, Zara."
Feroz leaned back casually. "So, Miss Designer. What's your department?"
"Fashion design," she answered curtly, stirring her coffee.
He tapped the table thoughtfully. "Figures. You've got that—what's the word—dramatic flair. Like you're always ready to walk a runway."
Her lips twitched despite herself. "And you? Apart from bumping into girls with sketchbooks?"
"English literature," he said, almost proudly. "Which basically means I drown in books, write essays no one reads, and sound philosophical for no reason."
Zara clapped. "Wow, dramatic meets philosophical. Perfect duo."
"Not a duo," Inayat corrected quickly.
Feroz smirked, lifting his mug. "We'll see."
....................................
That night, back in her dorm room, Inayat sat by the window, her sketchbook open. The café chatter still echoed in her head. Feroz's teasing, his lazy grin, the way he didn't back down from her sharpness—it was... unusual.
But when her pencil moved, it didn't sketch Feroz.
It traced the lines of another face.
Usman.
She remembered the old wooden bench under the gulmohar tree in her childhood park. The way he used to argue with her, not to annoy her, but to make her laugh.
A soft ache settled in her chest.
She whispered to the empty room, "Why does the past never let go?"
She closed the book quickly, shutting the memory with it.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, she'd think only of her designs. Not of Usman. Not of heartbreak.
But her heart knew better.