That night, after chai with Rahul and Riya, he sat alone in his room, the dim glow of the phone screen painting shadows on the wall. His thumb hovered over her name again—but this time, something shifted.
A green circle appeared at the top of WhatsApp: New Status.
Curious, he tapped it.
Two tiny puppies filled the screen—playful, clumsy, their eyes wide with innocence. He smiled despite himself. For a moment, all his fear melted away. Maybe this was the chance he'd been waiting for.
And before doubt could stop him, he typed:
Him: "Those puppies are adorable. Are they yours?"
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Her: "Haha, no. I wish. Saw them near my hostel gate. Couldn't resist clicking a picture."
Him: "They're lucky you found them. Honestly, they look happier than half the students here."
Her: "(laughing emoji) True. I think they're less stressed about exams than we are."
He laughed softly at the screen. The ice was broken.
That night, their chat stretched further. From pets to favorite foods, from the chaos of the hostel to the places they missed back home. She told him about her small town, about how the city still overwhelmed her sometimes. He listened, asking questions, adding humor just to make her laugh.
Day after day, the conversations continued. Sometimes short, sometimes stretching past midnight. They shared music, memes, secrets wrapped in half-truths. She was shy in some things, bold in others, and he found himself drawn deeper with every word.
A week later, after classes ended, he finally asked,
"Have you ever really seen the campus? Beyond the classrooms and canteen?"
She shook her head. "Not much. Why?"
"Come on then. I'll show you."
And so, they walked.
He took her to the green zone, where the trees muffled the city's noise, and the air felt easier to breathe. She paused to touch the bark of an old tree, smiling as though she'd discovered something sacred.
They wandered through the ground, wide and empty at that hour, where he told her about late-night cricket matches with friends. She laughed at his exaggerated stories, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
The open-air theatre was quiet, its stone steps echoing with old performances. They sat for a while, side by side, talking about nothing and everything—the kind of conversation that didn't need direction, only presence.
Finally, he led her to the lakeside. The water shimmered under the fading sun, a mirror of colors. She stood there, silent, the wind playing with the ends of her white dupatta. He thought she had never looked more alive.
Then, without warning, the sky cracked open. Rain spilled down, sudden and merciless.
She squealed softly, covering her head with her hands. He laughed, not moving, letting the drops soak through his shirt. For a moment, they just looked at each other—the world blurred by rain, their laughter caught between shy glances.
"Come on," he said, pulling her towards the nearby tea stall.
They huddled under the tin roof, sharing a steaming cup of chai, raindrops still clinging to their faces. She was quiet, cheeks flushed, her eyes darting away whenever his gaze lingered too long.
In that silence, he realized—sometimes love didn't begin with grand confessions. Sometimes, it began with puppies, a campus walk, and a single cup of chai shared in the rain.