Vedant's POV
The library had always been my refuge. Not for silence, but for structure. The rows of books, the cataloging system, the way knowledge sat neatly on shelves waiting to be claimed—it made sense. Unlike people. Unlike noise. Unlike the unpredictable rhythm of conversation.
I came for one book.
Strategic Market Analysis.
Shelf 3B. Second row from the window.
I'd checked the catalog earlier. I knew exactly where it was. I didn't expect anyone else to be looking for it. Most students were still settling in, still figuring out which classes mattered and which ones could be skimmed.
But when I turned the corner, someone was already there.
Her.
Arohi.
She stood with one hand resting lightly on the spine of the book, her fingers tracing the title like she was reading it through touch. Her braid fell over one shoulder, and she wore a deep maroon kurta today—simple, sharp, deliberate. Her posture was straight, her gaze focused. She hadn't noticed me yet.
I paused.
Not because I was unsure. But because something about her presence made the air feel heavier. Like I'd walked into a moment that wasn't mine.
I stepped forward quietly, reaching for the same book.
Our hands touched the spine at the same time.
She looked up.
And I saw them.
Her eyes.
Dark, almond-shaped, and impossibly still. They didn't widen in surprise or soften in apology. They just held me. Not like a question, not like an invitation—more like a mirror. Unflinching. Exact.
There was no flirtation in them. No curiosity. Just clarity.
Like she saw me and didn't need to react.
Like she'd already decided who I was and didn't need confirmation.
And yet, something in me stilled.
Her eyes weren't beautiful in the way people usually mean. They weren't dramatic or glossy or framed by practiced expressions. They were beautiful in the way silence is beautiful—when it's earned, not given. When it's deliberate.
I didn't move. Neither did she.
We stood there, fingers grazing the same book, eyes locked in a moment that felt longer than it was. The silence between us wasn't awkward. It was deliberate. Like neither of us wanted to be the first to break it.
I didn't believe in moments.
I believed in logic.
In structure.
In control.
But her eyes made me forget all of it.
And I hated that.
She blinked first. Pulled her hand back. "You take it," she said, voice calm, almost indifferent.
"No," I said, before I could stop myself. "You were here first."
She hesitated. Just for a breath. Then nodded once, took the book, and turned away.
No smile. No thank you. No lingering.
Just grace.
Just distance.
I stood there for a second longer, staring at the empty space where her hand had been. My own fingers felt colder now.
I didn't understand it.
I didn't want to.
It was just a book. Just a girl. Just a moment.
But her eyes stayed with me.
They weren't asking to be remembered.
But I remembered them anyway.
I walked back to my table, sat down, opened my notebook—and stared at the blank page.
I tried to write. I couldn't.
I tried to forget. I didn't.
I told myself it was nothing. Just coincidence. Just proximity.
But I knew better.
And I hated that I knew.