— Nandini's POV
I had never stayed back after class before.
Not really.
I usually disappeared quietly.Back to the library.Back to corners.Back to pages.
That day, Professor Malhotra had asked me to wait.
"About your article," he said.
The classroom slowly emptied.
The noise left with it.
Only the fans.The windows.The city.
He sat on the edge of the desk while I stood near the first row.
"I've been thinking about your writing," he said. "Your observations are not academic. They're lived."
I didn't know if that was praise or warning.
"I don't know how to write lighter," I admitted.
He smiled faintly. "Then don't."
He walked to the board and wrote a name.
National Youth Psychology Fellowship.
"They take five students across the country," he said. "I want you to apply."
My breath caught.
"I'm only first year," I said.
"So were most people when they were first," he replied.
I laughed softly before I could stop myself.
Then he turned back to me.
"And," he added, "your article has been shortlisted for a city journal. They want to meet you."
Something inside me stilled.
"I've never… met editors," I said.
"You will," he replied. "Soon."
He handed me a file.
Then hesitated.
"Nandini," he said, not like a professor, not like a friend. Just… like a person. "Do you ever feel like you're holding something too heavy for your age?"
The question slipped under my skin.
"Yes," I said quietly.
He nodded. "So do many women who are told they're mature."
He paused.
Then said, "Be careful not to confuse depth with duty."
I didn't fully understand.
But I felt it.
When I walked out of the classroom, the corridor looked different.
Like something had tilted.
That evening, I sat in the library reading the fellowship guidelines.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Message.
This is Dev Malhotra. I realized I didn't give you my email. For the fellowship.
I stared at the screen.
A professor.
Messaging me directly.
It shouldn't have felt strange.
It did.
I replied with a simple thank you.
Nothing more.
A few seconds later:
Also, your piece about emotional labour… it stayed with me.
My fingers hovered.
I typed.
Then erased.
Then finally wrote:It was difficult to write.
The reply came quickly.
That's usually how the important ones are.
I locked my phone.
Not because he said something wrong.
Because something inside me had responded.
And that scared me more than attention.
That night in Room 407, I watched Ananya edit something serious, Meher speak quietly on a call, Pihu lie staring at the wall.
I wanted to tell them.
About the fellowship.About the editor.About the message.
But I didn't.
Not because it was a secret.
Because it felt… unfinished.
And somewhere inside me, a thought formed that I didn't invite.
What if someone finally sees the parts of me no one else does?
The thought didn't feel romantic.
It felt dangerous.
Because it wasn't about him.
It was about me.
And I didn't yet know what to do with that.