I've always preferred the last bench. Not because I'm trying to avoid attention—though that's a bonus—but because it gives me space. Space to think, to observe, to stay detached. The window beside me is my escape hatch. When the world gets too loud, I just look out and let the breeze do the talking.
Nihal was still whining about the lack of girls in our section. Aryan and Mudit were teasing him, throwing around dramatic lines like, "How will you survive without admirers?" I didn't join in. I never do. I've learned that silence is often more powerful than charm.
Then the door opened.
She walked in—not like she was trying to make an entrance, but like the room had been waiting for her. Her steps were quiet, her presence louder than any voice. She didn't wear anything flashy. A simple kurti, jeans, a loose ponytail. No makeup. No performance. Just... her.
And yet, something shifted in me.
I didn't know her name. But I knew the feeling. That flicker in the chest. That moment when your breath stumbles and your thoughts forget where they were going.
I hated it.
Not again, Vedant. You promised yourself.
I looked away, jaw tightening. I wasn't going to fall for anyone. Not after what happened. Not after trusting someone who turned affection into ammunition. I'd learned my lesson. People admire you when you're distant. They want you when you're unavailable. But the moment you let them in, they start measuring your worth in terms of what you can offer, what you can lose.
"Dude, you saw her, right?" Nihal nudged me, eyes wide. "She's like... celestial."
I didn't respond.
"She's in our section," Mudit added. "Name's Arohi Mehta. Scholarship student. Heard she's brilliant. Like, scary brilliant."
Arohi Mehta.
The name settled in my mind like a challenge. She didn't look my way. Not once. And somehow, that made me notice her more.
She took a seat near the front, pulled out a notebook, and started writing. Her focus was razor-sharp. No small talk. No glances. Just purpose.
Good.
I didn't want her to notice me. I didn't want anyone to.
Because falling for someone meant giving them the power to leave. And I'd already lost too much to make that mistake again.
I turned back to the window, letting the breeze distract me. Letting the distance do its job.
But her name—Arohi—kept echoing in my mind like a song I didn't want to hear.
Then the professor walked in—Ms. Desai, our Business Strategy lecturer. Sharp eyes, no-nonsense tone, the kind who could silence a room with a single look.
"Let's begin with a simple question," she said, placing her bag on the podium. "What's the difference between a business model and a revenue model?"
Silence.
A few students looked around, unsure whether they were supposed to know the answer yet. It was the first day, after all. No one had notes. No one had context.
Then, her voice cut through the quiet.
"Ma'am, may I?" Arohi asked, her tone polite but steady.
Ms. Desai raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead."
"A business model explains how a company creates and delivers value—it's the overall structure. A revenue model focuses specifically on how the company earns money. It's part of the business model, but more about pricing and income streams."
The room was quiet for a beat. Then Ms. Desai smiled.
"Well said, Ms. Mehta. That's the kind of clarity I expect from this class."
Arohi nodded once, then sat back, unfazed.
I watched her, just for a moment longer than I should have. She wasn't just smart. She was sharp. The kind of sharp that doesn't wait for permission to speak. The kind that doesn't need notes to know what she's talking about.
And suddenly, I knew.
She wasn't going to be easy to ignore.