The air inside the lecture hall buzzed with subdued chatter as students filtered in for their Wednesday morning CS class. Jorge flopped into the seat next to Bharath, still yawning, while Ravi tossed his bag down with a sigh like it had disappointed him in so way.
“Midterms, man,” Ravi muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Why’d they hit us with that this early?”
“Welco to Georgia Tech,” Marisol said sweetly, sliding into the seat next to Bharath with a fresh spiral notebook in hand. “Where hope goes to die by October.”
Bharath chuckled but was already scanning the syllabus. “It’s still three weeks away. We’ve covered most of the fundantals already.”
“Oh thank God,” Jorge said, turning to him. “Because I was definitely counting on you to explain polymorphism in English later.”
Ravi smirked. “Our boy’s the Indian Yoda. Calm he is. Smart he be.”
“Focus you should,” Bharath replied in a perfect impression, which earned a groan and a high-five.
The banter helped settle so of the nerves. The Professor’s voice was its usual dry monotone, but Bharath tuned in quickly, already mapping out which topics to review and which ones to help Jorge, Marisol and Ravi with.
But when class ended and the others filtered out, Marisol nudged him gently. “Ready for part two?”
He nodded, and together they walked the short distance to their calculus class. The mood shifted as soon as they stepped into the room.
There she was.
Ayesha.
She was seated near the front - long legs crossed, flawless hair cascading over one shoulder, pager in hand, gum snapping softly between her teeth.
She looked... unreal. Designer jeans, subtle smoky eyeliner, a crop top that skirted the edge of the dress code, and a practiced scowl that dared anyone to talk to her first. The people around her laughed too quickly at her jokes, hung on her words like acolytes.
And she didn’t even glance at Bharath.
But the silence she left in her wake was louder than any greeting.
Marisol felt Bharath stiffen beside her. She looked up, catching the faint flicker in his eyes - not longing, not regret. Just... a soft ache. A mory.
She knew that look. She'd worn it herself before.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept walking with her to their usual spot in the second row.
Ayesha didn’t even blink.
It was like they were ghosts now.
Marisol settled beside him and leaned in slightly, her hand brushing his.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
Bharath gave a tiny smile. “Yeah.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
She understood.
He rembered the girl who had once laughed with him in a taxi, kind and full warmth that only ca with new beginnings. She wasn’t there anymore. This was soone else. Soone sculpted and sharp. Soone who had traded depth for shine.
And for the first ti, he didn’t want her back.
The class began. Limits. Derivatives. Rate of change.
Bharath locked in.
Marisol stole glances at him as he scribbled through the professor’s questions with fluid grace, head tilted in concentration, fingers tapping lightly as he solved each problem before it was fully asked.
God, he was beautiful when he was in his elent.
When class ended, Marisol didn’t wait.
She leaned over and kissed his cheek, right there in the aisle as students shuffled past them. A few heads turned. A few eyebrows rose.
She didn’t care.
Neither did Bharath. He turned to her and smiled like the sun had just walked into the room.
Ayesha glanced up at that mont, eyes flicking over them.
But her expression didn’t change.
Or maybe… she didn’t let it.
Ayesha crossed one long leg over the other, her boot tapping a slow, idle rhythm as the last few stragglers filed out of the lecture hall. Her bubblegum snapped - sharp, deliberate.
Marisol was leaning over Bharath’s desk again. All soft eyes and ‘accidental’ skin. Elbow grazing his. Smile that said I'm effortless.
Please.
Ayesha tugged off her sunglasses with a flourish and turned to the girl beside her. “So we’re just… doing this now?” she muttered.
Zara didn’t look up from her compact mirror. “Apparently. He’s gone full labrador.”
Ayesha snorted. “She even kissed him in public. You’d think he cured cancer.”
Zara smirked, reapplying lip gloss. “More like caught a squirrel and decided to marry it.”
They both laughed - quiet, catty - the practiced sound of girls who ruled high school and never unlearned it.
Bharath. God, of all people. Still slouchy, still earnest, still walking around like life owed him honesty. Back when he’d stamred through a “hi” on the quad that first week, Ayesha had pegged him in five seconds: Smart. Soft. Aching for soone to see him.
She didn’t.
She made sure of it.
Boys like Bharath were dangerous - not because they hurt you, but because they ant it. The poetry. The loyalty. The wide-eyed belief that love fixed things.
They’d crawl into your soul, and when you crushed them - and you had to, for your own survival - they’d haunt you. Make you feel like the villain in a rom-com you never agreed to star in.
So she’d iced him out. Gently. Cleanly. Like pulling duct tape off skin - one quick rip and no eye contact.
Now he was here. With her. With “sunshine and softness” Marisol, all curls and curves and actual laughter. Looking at him like he was safe.
“Do you think she’s serious?” Zara asked.
Ayesha shrugged. “I think she’s bored. Girls like her always want a story.”
Zara raised a brow. “And you don’t?”
“No,” Ayesha said, gum snapping. “I want receipts.”
Still, her eyes wandered back.
He looked good. Still awkward, still wildly unpolished. But there was sothing new in the way he held himself - like he’d stopped trying to be invisible. Like soone had finally handed him permission to exist without apology.
It wasn’t jealousy. Not really.
It was just… unnerving. The way he looked at Marisol like she mattered. Like he mattered. As if the whole damn world hadn’t spent years proving otherwise.
She couldn’t rember the last ti soone looked at her like that. Not without angle. Not without a mirror in it.
Zara followed her gaze and grimaced. “Ugh. They’re disgustingly cute. She’s gonna ruin him.”
“No,” Ayesha murmured, voice softer than she ant. “She’s gonna make him impossible.”
Zara blinked. “What?”
“Never mind,” Ayesha said quickly, rising from her seat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go. Before this turns into a musical.”
They walked out without looking back. But as Ayesha stepped into the corridor, she stole one last glance - just a flicker - at Bharath laughing, forehead pressed to Marisol’s like they were the only two people in the room.
The ache in her chest surprised her.
She chewed her gum slower.
Because the truth?
She didn’t want him.
She wanted what he believed was still possible.
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