Vedant's POV
The hostel room was dim, lit only by the yellow glow of the desk lamp and the flickering shadows of the ceiling fan. My books lay open, untouched. The notes I'd meant to revise were still waiting. But my mind wasn't on game theory or market segmentation.
It was on her.
The girl in the front row.
She hadn't looked at me. Not once. But I noticed her the moment she walked in—straight-backed, purposeful, eyes sharp and unreadable. Pale blue kurta, silver earrings.
She answered the professor's question with precision. No hesitation. No flourish. Just clarity.
"The business model is the blueprint. The revenue model is the income stream."
I remembered the words exactly. Not because of what she said, but how she said it. Like she'd built the sentence brick by brick, and each one mattered.
I knew her name.
Even before attendance.
"Arohi."
She didn't turn when mine was called.
I didn't expect her to.
She was focused. Controlled. The kind of girl who didn't waste energy on things that didn't serve her purpose.
And yet, something tugged.
Not attraction. Not exactly.
Just... awareness.
I didn't like it.
I didn't like not understanding it.
"Bro, you're zoning out again," Nihal said, flopping onto his bed with a packet of chips and zero regard for silence.
"You've been weird since class."
I blinked. "Just tired."
"Sure," he said, crunching loudly. "Anyway, I have news. I think I like someone."
I raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
He grinned. "Meher. Room 306. She's quiet, but there's something about her. Like she's listening even when she's not talking."
I nodded slowly. I remembered Meher—neat handwriting, calm presence, the kind of girl who didn't need to fill space to occupy it.
"She's got this way of looking at people," Nihal continued, "like she's already figured them out but won't say it unless you ask. And she's not fake. No filters, no drama. Just... real."
I glanced at him. "How do you know all that?"
He shrugged, a little sheepish. "We were in line together at the mess. She dropped her spoon and said sorry like she'd committed a crime. I said it was fine, and she just smiled—like she didn't owe me anything, but she still gave something."
I didn't reply. But I understood.
Some people speak in gestures. In restraint. In the way they don't fill silence just to escape it.
"She's Arohi's roommate," Nihal added casually.
That made me pause.
Arohi.
So that was her world. Room 306. The girl who answered questions like they were equations. The girl who didn't glance back.
"She's intense," I said, before I could stop myself.
Nihal looked up. "Arohi?"
I shrugged. "Just an observation."
He smirked. "You noticed her."
I didn't reply.
Because I had.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
Outside, the corridor buzzed with laughter and footsteps. Someone played music too loud. Someone argued over laundry. But inside our room, it was quiet again.
I stared at my notes. The words blurred.
And somewhere between strategy models and market logic, I kept seeing her braid. Her posture. Her silence.
Arohi.
The girl in the front row who didn't look back.