Vedant's POV
Control.
That's what I've always relied on. Control over my emotions, my reactions, my image. Especially my image. People see what I allow them to see—confidence, charm, precision. Never vulnerability. Never distraction.
But Arohi Mehta is a distraction I didn't plan for.
It's only the second day of college, and already she's everywhere. Not in the literal sense—she doesn't flood rooms with noise or laughter. She doesn't orbit around popularity. She's the kind of person who walks into a space and makes it feel like it's hers, without saying a word.
She doesn't try to be seen. She just is.
And that's the problem.
Every time she speaks, the room tilts slightly in her direction. Not because she demands attention, but because her words carry weight. Precision. Confidence. She doesn't fumble. She doesn't hesitate. She doesn't ask for permission to be brilliant.
Today, in our Business Strategy lecture, Ms. Desai asked a question about market segmentation. I knew the answer. But Arohi didn't just answer—she built the answer. Layered it. Made it sound like strategy was poetry.
Even Ms. Desai paused before responding. "Well articulated, Ms. Mehta. That's a textbook answer with a touch of instinct."
Arohi smiled. That same quiet smile. Like she knew she'd nailed it. Like she didn't need applause to feel powerful.
And I hated that I noticed.
I hated that I kept noticing.
Her laugh—rare, but real—was low and unfiltered. Her handwriting, from what I glimpsed, was neat but fast, like her thoughts couldn't wait for her pen. She didn't wear perfume, but somehow the air around her felt different. Like she carried a storm in her silence.
During lunch break, I caught myself watching her again. She was sitting under a tree near the cafeteria, legs crossed, notebook open, pen tapping against her chin. She wasn't scrolling through her phone. She wasn't trying to be part of the crowd. She was just... thinking.
And somehow, that was more attractive than anything else.
She didn't glance my way. Not once. And that made her irresistible.
Because I've met girls who wanted my attention. Who rehearsed their smiles, who knew my name before I said it. But Arohi? She didn't care. She didn't even acknowledge me.
It was infuriating.
It was magnetic.
She's not like the others, I thought.
Which means she's dangerous.
Because the moment I start caring—even a little—I lose control. And I've worked too hard to build these walls. To keep my past buried. To stay untouchable.
I remembered the last time I let someone in. The way she smiled at me like I was her world. The way she walked away like I was disposable. That lesson came with scars I don't show.
So, I did what I always do.
I looked away.
But even then, her name—Arohi Mehta—kept echoing in my mind like a challenge I hadn't accepted but couldn't ignore.
And then, as if the universe was playing games, she walked past me in the corridor. Her eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just a glance.
But it was enough.
Enough to make my pulse skip.
Enough to remind me that some people don't need to speak to leave an impression.
She didn't stop. She didn't turn back.
And I stood there, wondering why someone I barely knew had already become impossible to forget.