The third day of college began without Ishani.
This was something Vijay noticed about four minutes after sitting down in Room 204, which was itself something he noticed noticing, and that felt slightly strange.
The chair beside him — the window seat, her seat — was empty.
The class was slowly filling up around him. Sara walked in with Aryan and Priya, all three of them slightly breathless, like they had been in the middle of an important conversation and didn't want to lose track of it. Sara glanced at the empty seat beside Vijay, then at him, then at her phone, as if she was already typing a message in her head.
Vijay kept looking at the door.
Professor Mehta — their second-period teacher, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties who taught Literary Theory with calm authority — was already at the board, writing in large, steady letters.
CHAPTER ONE: THE NATURE OF THE TEXT.
The door was still open. Students were still coming in. Maybe two minutes left before class officially started, which also meant two minutes before Professor Mehta would close the door and begin, no excuses allowed.
Vijay looked at the empty seat again.
Then at the door.
Then at his notebook, where he wrote nothing because his attention wasn't there at all.
At one minute to nine, Sara's phone buzzed. She checked it under the desk, and her expression changed slightly.
She looked at Vijay and whispered, "Ishani is stuck in traffic. Her auto broke down near Koregaon Park. She's running."
Vijay said nothing.
He just kept looking at the door.
Thirty seconds.
Professor Mehta put the chalk down, turned around, and walked toward the door.
And at that exact moment, Ishani appeared.
She came in almost running — which for someone like her, who usually moved with calm control, looked completely different. Her dupatta was slightly out of place, her hair not as neat, and her face showed something Vijay had never seen before — she looked flustered. Genuinely.
She stopped at the entrance.
Professor Mehta stood right in front of her.
The whole class went silent.
"Miss—"
"Ishani Sharma," she said quickly, a little breathless. "I'm sorry, Professor. My auto broke down. I ran the last—"
"I appreciate the effort, Miss Sharma," Professor Mehta said in a tone that clearly didn't appreciate anything. "But my class begins at nine. It is now nine-oh-three."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Sorry does not reverse time," Professor Mehta replied calmly. "You will report to the library after second period. There is a backlog of returned books. Mrs. Kamat will supervise. One hour."
No one spoke.
Ishani's jaw tightened just slightly — such a small movement that most people wouldn't notice. But Vijay did.
She nodded once. "Yes, Professor."
"You may sit."
Ishani walked to her seat. She placed her bag down carefully, adjusted her dupatta, opened her notebook.
She didn't look at anyone.
Vijay watched all of it in silence.
And then, before he could fully think about it — his hand went up.
.....
Professor Mehta looked at him.
The class looked at him.
For a moment, Vijay became very aware of what he was doing. But strangely, he didn't stop.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I was also late," Vijay said calmly.
Complete silence.
His voice stayed steady. Like he was just stating a fact.
"I came in just before Miss Sharma. You might not have noticed — I used the side door."
He pointed vaguely toward the wall.
Professor Mehta looked at him carefully.
"Name?"
"Vijay Malhotra."
She wrote something down.
"You will also report to the library after second period, Mr. Malhotra."
"Yes, Professor."
"One hour. Mrs. Kamat."
"Understood."
She turned back to the board.
The class finally relaxed.
Vijay looked down and calmly wrote the date in his notebook, even though his heartbeat was definitely faster than normal.
From beside him, very softly, Ishani said, "There is no side door."
He didn't look up.
"There's a wall," she added quietly. "With a mural."
"Hm," Vijay replied.
"You lied."
"I reported information."
"Inaccurate information."
"Depends on perspective."
There was a pause.
Then she asked, very quietly, "Why?"
Vijay glanced at her for a second.
She was looking at him in a way she never had before — curious, slightly confused, trying to understand something deeper.
"You were running," he said simply.
And then he looked back at his notebook.
That was all.
And somehow, that was enough.
.....
Second period passed slowly, then quickly — like time does when you're waiting for something.
Professor Mehta turned out to be an excellent teacher. By the end, Vijay had pages of notes and a list of books he actually wanted to read.
But part of his attention stayed beside him.
Ishani wrote neatly, focused as always. She didn't look at him again. But once, when the professor said something sharp and insightful, Vijay heard it again.
That tiny sound.
That almost-laugh.
He smiled to himself.
When the bell rang, Sara immediately turned around.
"Library duty? Together?" she asked with excitement.
"Apparently," Ishani replied, packing her bag.
Sara gave Vijay a look full of meaning.
He ignored it.
.....
The library was on the second floor of the East Wing — big, quiet, filled with tall wooden shelves and the smell of old books.
Mrs. Kamat greeted them with a clipboard.
"Returned books are on the cart. Shelve them properly. Fiction alphabetical, non-fiction by Dewey decimal. Any questions?"
"No, ma'am," they both said.
"One hour," she added, and walked away.
They looked at the cart.
It was full.
Ishani picked up a book immediately and started working.
Vijay followed.
.....
For fifteen minutes, they worked in silence.
Then Vijay got stuck trying to place a book.
Ishani quietly took it from him, walked to the correct shelf, and placed it perfectly.
"How do you know all this?" he asked.
"I worked in the school library once," she said.
"Of course you did."
She looked at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means it suits you."
She thought about it.
"I like things in order," she said.
"I can see that."
.....
Soon, they found a rhythm.
He handed books. She placed them.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn't.
Both felt natural.
At one point, Vijay held up a book. "This one's yours."
She glanced at it. "I've read it."
"Is it good?"
"It's very long. And very good."
"How long?"
"Fifteen hundred pages."
He stared at her. "You read that?"
"Three times."
He said nothing.
Just quietly placed the book with respect.
.....
Forty minutes later, the cart was empty.
The library was almost silent now.
Vijay placed the second-last book in the poetry section.
Ishani came and placed the last one beside it.
They stood there.
Soft golden light came through the window, falling across the books — Neruda, Plath, Keats, Tagore.
"Can I ask something?" she said softly.
"Yes."
"Why did you really do it? This morning."
He knew the question would come.
He didn't avoid it.
"You had a look on your face," he said slowly. "Like you were trying to fix something inside before anyone noticed."
She didn't move.
"And I thought… you shouldn't have to do that alone."
Silence.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"I know."
"You got punished."
"Library duty," he smiled slightly. "Not the worst thing."
She let out a soft breath.
Then he looked at her.
Her expression had changed — softer, more open.
"Vijay," she said.
"Hm."
"Thank you."
Just two words.
But they felt real.
Deep.
"Anytime," he said.
And he meant it.
.....
They stepped out into the bright college afternoon.
Sara was waiting.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Fine," Ishani said. "We shelved books."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Sara looked at Vijay.
He just shrugged.
She smiled knowingly.
He looked away.
.....
That night, Vijay sat by his window.
He wrote for a long time.
About the library.
The light.
The quiet.
And her.
At the end, he wrote:
She said thank you like she meant it.
Not casually.
Not out of habit.
But from somewhere deep.
I think that's how she is.
Slow.
Honest.
Real.
I think I need to be careful.
I think… it might already be too late.
.....
He closed the notebook.
Looked at the night sky.
And smiled.
Softly.
Like something had just begun.