College had a rhythm by the time I reached my third year. Classes, competitions, festivals, and endless project assignments filled the days, leaving little room to breathe, yet somehow, I thrived in the chaos. It was during these years that I noticed him more—Surya. He wasn't someone who demanded attention, yet there was a quiet steadiness in him that made me aware of his presence.
We were friends, nothing more, nothing less. I would see him in the library, lost in his notes, or in the lab, focused on experiments, occasionally sharing a brief laugh over some joke or mishap. We talked about projects, about college life, about exams—but never about anything personal. And yet, his presence became familiar, comforting, like the faint smell of rain on a dusty road: subtle but unforgettable.
It was during our final year that I realized how much he had changed. He had been silently observing me for years, helping in small ways I barely noticed. Like the time I struggled with the coding assignment for our lab project, and he stayed back late one evening, patiently explaining each step until I understood. Or the day I forgot my lunch and found a small packet of snacks waiting on my desk, with a simple note: "Thought you might need this."
I never thought much of it. To me, it was Surya being Surya: quiet, kind, and thoughtful. Little did I know, those moments were threads of something deeper, weaving a connection I couldn't see.
Our final year project brought us closer, though we still remained friends in the eyes of the world. Long nights in the lab, shared coffee cups, and endless debates about the best approach to our work made the hours slip by unnoticed. I laughed more than I had in months, leaning on him as a reliable anchor amidst the chaos of deadlines and presentations. Yet, in all those moments, I never realized how much he had fallen—how deeply, how quietly, and how carefully he had carried his feelings for me for years.
The last few weeks of college were a blur of farewells, packing, and hurried goodbyes. I was focused on my future, my family's expectations, the uncertainty that came after graduation. Surya was there, always attentive, helping me tie together loose ends, reminding me to breathe when I panicked over presentations, carrying my bag without complaint, checking if I had eaten. And then, one evening, he finally broke the silence.
We were sitting on the steps outside the lab, the sky painted in soft shades of orange and pink, the campus slowly emptying around us. His hands were clasped together, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. I could feel a shift in the air, a tension I hadn't noticed before.
"Sri…" he began, voice low, hesitant, "there's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time."
I turned to look at him, curiosity prickling through me. He looked nervous, almost vulnerable—so different from the calm, steady Surya I knew.
"I… I've loved you," he said, the words spilling out as if they had been locked inside for years. "Since the third year. I never told you because… I didn't want to make things difficult, or put you in a position where you couldn't say yes. But I had to tell you now, before we leave this place. I had to let you know, even if it changes nothing."
My heart stopped. I could see the sincerity, the raw honesty in his eyes. And then, unexpectedly, I felt it too—an ache, a pull, a recognition of the feelings I had tried to ignore. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I had always liked him, admired him, leaned on him, but family expectations, responsibilities, and caution had kept me silent. I never thought I could fall harder than I already had—but standing there, hearing him confess, I realized I already had.
I didn't answer immediately. I wanted to, wanted to say yes, wanted to throw caution to the wind, but the weight of everything else pressed down. Yet, in that hesitation, his care and concern wrapped around me like a warm blanket. The thoughtfulness in his words, the years of quiet love, the small gestures I hadn't noticed before—all of it struck deeper than I expected.
For the first time, I felt the danger and thrill of letting myself care as much as he did, of giving in to a connection I had unknowingly nurtured alongside him. And though I didn't say the words, I knew something had shifted. That moment, on those quiet steps, was more than a confession. It was the beginning of something neither of us fully understood, yet both of us had been waiting for.