Nikhil vaguely remembered the directions to the auditorium — along with a shortcut one of the boys at dinner had mentioned — across the main quad, past the anatomy building.
He turned toward it now, crossing the stretch between Physiology and Forensic & Toxicology, hoping to save himself a few extra minutes. The said shortcut was a narrow pathway, still glistening faintly with rain, small puddles pooling near the edges. Since it wasn't the official route, the area wasn't cemented, just a muddy strip bordered by flowerbeds and slightly overgrown grass.
Nikhil's steps were quick and focused — all that existed in his mind was the ticking clock and the desperate need to get to the auditorium before the ceremony started. He rounded the corner at full tilt—
— and slammed straight into someone.
It wasn't just a bump; it was a full-blown collision. The other person was small, solid, and clearly unprepared to be rammed by a six-foot-one human missile. There was a startled gasp, a blur of motion, and finally— a thick, wet splat.
Nikhil stumbled, barely catching himself against the wall. The person he'd hit hadn't been so lucky.
A boy — maybe 5'6 at most — sat in the middle of a muddy puddle, dark brown hair plastered against his forehead, water dripping down his cheek. His glasses were hanging crookedly off the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off entirely. The white shirt he'd probably taken the trouble to iron that morning was now splattered with brown, and his trousers were soaked through. A textbook, which had likely been in his hand, lay miserably on the wet grass nearby, its pages already curling as they absorbed the water.
For a single horrifying second, Nikhil could only stare. It was like watching a trainwreck in slow motion — one you caused — but you couldn't look away. His brain scrambled to make sense of the scene: the boy, half a foot shorter than him, sitting stunned in the puddle, mud-streaked and drenched. Dark brown hair. Dusky skin. Sharp, pretty features contorted in an expression that was equal parts shock and fury.
Their eyes met.
"I am so, so sorry," Nikhil blurted, guilt spilling out of him in an instant. The fall hadn't looked gentle in the slightest. He even stretched a hand out to help the boy up, taking a hesitant step forward.
And then his watch lit up.
1:34.
The ceremony.
Time — that one cursed resource — was sprinting faster than he ever could.
The boy, meanwhile, seemed to be recovering from the shock. His lips parted, surely to unleash the kind of verbal explosion Nikhil thoroughly deserved. But no words came out yet — which was somehow worse.
Under normal circumstances, Nikhil would've stayed. He'd have helped him up, apologized a few more times, maybe even bought him coffee later out of guilt. But panic steamrolled over courtesy.
"Look — I'm really, really late," he explained breathlessly, words tumbling over one another as he backpedaled. "Seriously, I'm so sorry! But I have to go now—"
And before the drenched, stunned boy could process a single syllable, Nikhil was gone — sprinting toward the auditorium, leaving behind a trail of muddy footprints and a fuming senior sitting in cold, murky water.
Aarav watched the tall figure disappear around the corner, disbelief quickly curdling into rage. His hands clenched by his sides — still in the puddle, a detail he registered a few seconds too late. Now his palms were muddy too. Every slight movement made the muck squelch unpleasantly beneath him.
Cold, grimy water seeped through his clothes, clinging to his skin in the most revolting way possible. But even that wasn't the worst part.
As the initial adrenaline wore off, a sharp, burning pain flared up his ankle. He hissed under his breath, trying to shift his weight — only for the pain to spike like electricity.
Twisted.
Of course it was twisted.
The realization sank in with the weight of a thousand bad decisions. Miserable, infuriating waves of it, each one making his blood pressure rise a little higher.
That boy — that giant of a reckless first year — had barreled into him, drenched him, and now left him with a possibly twisted ankle. Aarav could picture him clearly: white dress shirt, formal trousers, not the standard uniform — which meant freshie. The apron in his hand confirmed it. He wasn't even wearing it.
A first year.
A first year had knocked him into a puddle like a bowling pin.
And because of that, he was going to miss Professor Joshi's Pharmacology lecture. Joshi, who was notorious for his zero-tolerance attendance policy. Joshi, whose bad-books list was a death sentence for your internals.
For a long moment, Aarav just sat there — blinking slowly, stewing in his muddy rage.
Then the numbness gave way to fury.
He was going to find that fresher. He was going to find that clumsy, reckless giant of a fresher who had ruined his clothes, his ankle, and, quite possibly, his academic reputation in one fell swoop.
And when he did—
That boy was going to pay.