Arohi's POV
The corridor was a blur of chipped paint, echoing footsteps, and the scent of disinfectant that clung to the walls like nervous energy. Girls moved in clusters—some laughing too loudly, some whispering into phones, some already forming alliances like soldiers before battle. I walked alone, my duffel bag digging into my shoulder, my spine straight with purpose.
Room 306. Third floor. No lift.
Of course.
Each step felt like a quiet rebellion. I wasn't here to be dazzled by campus life or swept into hostel gossip. I was here to earn something real. Something that could lift my family out of the quiet sacrifices they never spoke of.
I wore my maroon kurta with mirror embroidery—chosen not for fashion, but for memory. My mother had stitched it herself, the tiny mirrors catching light like fragments of hope. Paired with faded jeans and her silver jhumkas, it was my armor. My braid was tight, my expression tighter. I didn't want to look like I was trying to fit in. I wanted to look like I belonged—on my own terms.
The room was modest. Two beds, two desks, one window with a curtain that refused to stay drawn. A steel cupboard stood between the beds like a silent judge. My roommate was already there, arranging her books with the precision of someone who found comfort in symmetry.
She looked up. "Hi," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I'm Meher."
"Arohi," I replied, placing my bag on the empty bed.
We didn't exchange life stories. Just names. A nod. A quiet agreement to coexist.
I unpacked slowly, placing my books on the desk, my toiletries in the drawer, my hopes somewhere between the folds of my blanket. Meher didn't ask questions, and I didn't offer answers. But I noticed the way she moved—methodical, like someone who had learned to rely on routine.
Dinner was served in the mess hall downstairs. We walked together, not side by side, but close enough to feel less alone. The food was bland—overcooked rice, watery dal, and a vegetable curry that tasted like compromise. The lighting was harsh, the noise overwhelming. I ate quietly, observing more than engaging.
Some girls already had inside jokes. Some were texting people they missed. I had no one to text.
Except maybe Riya.
But I hadn't messaged her in weeks.
She was the kind of friend who used to braid my hair before exams, who knew when I needed silence and when I needed sugar. We used to dream together—about scholarships, escape, independence. But things changed.
After him.
He made her feel seen. Special. Wanted. And then he left—no explanation, no apology. Just silence.
She didn't cry in front of anyone. But I saw it. The way she stopped wearing kajal. The way she avoided mirrors. The way she folded into herself like a letter no one wanted to read.
I didn't know how to help her. So, I built walls. Around her. Around myself.
I stopped believing in casual affection. In boys who said all the right things until they got what they wanted. In the idea that love could be anything but dangerous.
And yet, here I was. In a new room. With a stranger who offered me glucose biscuits and didn't ask why I looked like I hadn't slept in days.
That night, as we lay in our beds, the ceiling fan spinning above like a lazy compass, I stared at the cracks in the plaster and thought about home. About my father's ink-stained hands. My mother's quiet strength. The way they looked at me when I got my admission letter—pride mixed with fear.
I wasn't here to make friends. I wasn't here to be liked.
I was here to study. To rise. To protect the people who had sacrificed everything for me.
And maybe, just maybe, to find someone who didn't want anything from me except truth.