Chapter 5 – The First Argument
A misunderstanding creates tension.
The air felt heavy that afternoon.
Not with rain.
With something else.
Meera sat in the canteen with Pooja, half-listening to a story about a senior's dramatic breakup. Her eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.
She didn't tell herself she was waiting.
But she was.
And then he walked in.
Aarav.
But he wasn't alone.
A girl walked beside him — tall, confident, wearing a bright red kurti. She was laughing at something he had said.
Laughing comfortably.
Like she had known him longer than three misplaced days.
Meera's fingers tightened around her cup of chai.
"Who's that?" Pooja whispered immediately.
"I don't know," Meera replied too quickly.
Across the canteen, Aarav pulled out a chair for the girl. They sat. Leaned slightly toward each other. Talking easily.
He looked… relaxed.
Comfortable.
A way Meera had only seen in small glimpses.
Something sharp pressed against her chest.
It shouldn't matter.
They weren't anything.
Not friends officially.
Not close.
Just… something undefined.
And undefined things had no rules.
Still.
Why hadn't he mentioned her?
Why did it look like they were inside a world she didn't know about?
Pooja noticed the silence.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
Her tone came out sharper than intended.
Pooja raised her hands in surrender.
"Okay."
Meera tried to focus on her tea.
But every small movement across the room felt magnified.
The girl touched Aarav's arm while laughing.
He didn't pull away.
He didn't seem uncomfortable.
He looked… at ease.
Something inside Meera twisted painfully.
She hated this feeling.
This jealousy.
This irrational possessiveness over something that didn't even belong to her.
"Let's go," she said suddenly, standing up.
Pooja blinked. "We just got here."
"I have notes to finish."
Without another glance, she walked out.
But she didn't walk fast enough.
Because just as she stepped into the corridor—
She heard his voice behind her.
"Meera."
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
He was walking toward her.
Alone.
The girl remained at the table.
"Leaving early?" he asked.
"Yes."
His eyes searched her face.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
That word again.
Short.
Cold.
He studied her expression.
"You don't sound okay."
She crossed her arms lightly.
"Why does it matter?"
The question surprised both of them.
His brows furrowed slightly.
"What?"
"You're busy," she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the canteen. "You don't have to check on me."
Understanding flickered across his face.
"You mean Ananya?"
Her stomach dropped at the name.
"So you do introduce names," she said quietly.
He blinked.
"She's my cousin."
Silence.
The word echoed in her ears.
Cousin.
Cousin.
Heat rushed to her cheeks — but not the soft kind.
The embarrassed kind.
"You looked… close," she muttered.
"We are," he replied calmly. "We grew up together."
The tension between them didn't dissolve.
It shifted.
"So you assumed?" he asked gently.
"I didn't assume."
"You did."
She hated how steady he sounded.
"I just noticed," she defended.
"And what did you notice?"
"That you seemed comfortable."
"And that's a problem?"
The question landed sharply.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Why was this turning into something bigger?
"I didn't say it was a problem."
"You're upset."
"I'm not."
"You are."
His certainty made something inside her snap.
"Stop analyzing me like I'm some case study!" she burst out.
The corridor quieted slightly.
A couple of students glanced their way.
He went still.
For the first time since she met him, his expression hardened slightly.
"I wasn't analyzing you."
"It feels like it," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it.
A pause.
Then quietly, he asked, "Why does it bother you?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know how.
Because admitting the truth would mean admitting something she wasn't ready to face.
He waited.
When she remained silent, he exhaled slowly.
"I don't owe you explanations, Meera."
The words weren't harsh.
But they hurt.
"I know," she replied quickly. "I didn't ask for one."
"You did. With your expression."
"That's not fair."
"What isn't?"
"You acting like I have no right to feel anything."
The air between them grew tight.
"You said you weren't upset," he reminded calmly.
"Maybe I was."
"Then say it."
She looked away.
"I don't like… not knowing where I stand."
There.
It slipped out.
Raw and honest.
His gaze softened slightly.
"You don't stand anywhere," he said quietly. "Neither do I."
That stung.
"Exactly," she replied.
Silence.
Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, though the sky was still clear.
He looked at her carefully.
"Did you think…" He stopped himself.
"Think what?" she challenged.
"That this was something more?"
Her breath hitched.
The question wasn't cruel.
It was real.
And real things were dangerous.
"I don't know what this is," she admitted.
"Neither do I."
"Then why does it feel like I'm the only one confused?"
He hesitated.
"You're not."
The honesty in his voice startled her.
She searched his face.
For once, he wasn't calm.
There was tension in his jaw.
Something restrained in his eyes.
"I don't like assumptions," he said softly. "If you want to ask me something, ask."
"Fine," she whispered. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I didn't think I needed to."
"And why didn't you think you needed to?"
"Because I didn't think you'd misunderstand."
The word landed heavily.
Misunderstand.
That's what this was.
A misunderstanding.
But it had already created a crack.
"You looked…" she struggled to explain. "Different."
"How?"
"Comfortable."
He held her gaze.
"I'm comfortable with you too."
The statement stunned her into silence.
"But you don't see that," he added quietly.
Her heart pounded painfully.
She had been so focused on what she thought she saw—
She hadn't noticed what was already there.
"Then why does it feel like you're always holding back?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer immediately.
Because the answer wasn't simple.
"Because I don't rush into things," he finally said.
"And I do?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you implied it."
Frustration flickered between them again.
He ran a hand through his hair — the first visible sign of agitation she had ever seen.
"This isn't about Ananya," he said. "This is about expectations."
"Whose expectations?"
"Ours."
The word echoed.
Ours.
"Maybe we shouldn't have them," she whispered.
"Maybe."
Another silence.
He stepped back slightly.
"I don't want this to turn into something complicated."
"It already is."
Their eyes locked.
Hurt.
Confusion.
Unspoken feelings.
"You matter," he said suddenly.
Her breath caught.
"But I don't want to define this before we understand it."
The vulnerability in his voice shook her anger.
She hadn't expected that.
She had expected indifference.
Not honesty.
"I didn't mean to accuse you," she admitted quietly.
"I know."
"I just…"
"Got scared?"
She nodded faintly.
He studied her face for a long moment.
"You're braver than you think," he repeated softly.
Her chest tightened at the familiarity of those words.
"But bravery also means asking instead of assuming."
She swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
The apology hung between them.
He nodded once.
"Me too."
"For what?"
"For not realizing you'd misunderstand."
A small, fragile truce formed.
But something had changed.
A line had been crossed.
Not broken.
But crossed.
They had seen each other's edges now.
And edges were sharp.
A drop of rain hit the ground between them.
Then another.
And another.
Of course.
Rain always arrived at the right moment.
They both glanced up at the darkening sky.
"Looks like your timing theory is working again," she said softly.
A faint smile returned to his lips.
"Maybe."
Thunder rolled gently.
She didn't close her eyes.
He noticed.
"Progress," he murmured.
They stood there in the light rain, not touching, not speaking further.
But understanding something new.
This wasn't simple attraction.
It wasn't just curiosity.
It was fragile.
And fragile things needed honesty.
Or they shattered.
As the rain fell steadily around them, Meera realized something important—
This was their first argument.
And arguments only happened when something mattered.