— Nandini's POV
I never noticed Professor Dev Malhotra before that semester.
Not because he wasn't impressive.
Because he didn't try to be.
He taught Behavioral Psychology and Youth Studies.
Most professors spoke to us.
He spoke with us.
That Monday, he didn't start with slides.
He wrote one question on the board:
"When does ambition become violence?"
The class went quiet.
Then confused.
Then alive.
Hands rose.Arguments formed.Stories spilled.
I didn't raise my hand.
I never did.
But I wrote.
And I didn't realize he was watching until he said,"Third row. Glasses. You. What are you writing?"
The room turned.
My face warmed.
"I… I was answering," I said softly.
He smiled. "Out loud is optional. Thought isn't. Would you read it?"
My chest felt too small for my heart.
But I did.
I read what I'd written.
About families.About expectations.About young women who were praised until they were exhausted.
When I finished, the room wasn't silent.
It was still.
Professor Malhotra nodded slowly.
"That," he said, "is observation. Not opinion."
After class, he stopped me near the door.
"Do you write often?"
"Yes," I answered. "But… privately."
"Don't," he said simply.
Then he handed me a thin book.
"Read this. And come talk to me when you're done."
That week, I lived inside that book.
Not the story.
The permission.
On Thursday, I went to his office.
Small. Messy. Warm.
Books everywhere.Plants everywhere.No intimidation.
We talked for forty minutes.
About psychology.About narratives.About why people silence themselves.
He never leaned close.
Never crossed space.
Never made it personal.
But something was happening.
Not attraction.
Recognition.
He treated my thoughts like they had weight.
When I left, he said,"You don't write like someone learning. You write like someone remembering."
That sentence followed me back to the hostel.
All night.
All week.
I didn't tell the girls everything.
I just said, "I think I found my subject."
But inside, something deeper was unfolding.
Not a crush.
Not romance.
A dangerous kind of pull.
The kind where a mind feels seen.
And a life quietly rearranges.