The auditorium — mid white coat ceremony.
The entire event passed in a blur of pomp and circumstance. Nikhil sat somewhere near the middle rows of the vast, echoing hall, his expression neutral and politely blank as he watched the stage. The dean, the vice principal, the directors — one by one, they all took turns giving their long-winded speeches.
The essence of each was the same, though each insisted on taking an entire half-hour to express it:
"Noble profession... great responsibility... serving the people..."
Those words floated through the air like incense smoke — repeated so often they'd lost all meaning.
Nikhil listened passively, fighting to suppress an eye-roll. As if. A noble profession? Sure. But at the end of the day, it was still a profession — people did it for a living, not sainthood.
The starched fabric of the new white apron rested heavy on his lap, its stiffness foreign against his fingers. It made him oddly uncomfortable — like the cloth was demanding a kind of purity or reverence he wasn't ready to give. Around him, several students wore that unmistakable starry-eyed look — the kind that screamed "I'm here to save lives." It made him want to roll his eyes. He didn't hate their idealism exactly... but it made something uneasy stir in him.
No, he told himself, jaw tightening slightly. Don't go down that spiral again.
He tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Anything else.
Unfortunately, his brain, traitorous as ever, latched onto the only distraction available — the one thing that had already made his morning memorable.
The shortcut. The narrow pathway. The collision.
Thump. Gasp. Splat.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The speeches were wrapping up, and students were now being called to the stage row by row. His gaze drifted absently to the front — but his mind was very much elsewhere.
He really had been in a ridiculous rush earlier. He'd arrived late, slipping into the auditorium when the dean was already mid-welcome speech. Still, that was no excuse for running down some poor guy like a mad bull. The shorter boy — and he was shorter, at least half a foot — had let out a sound when he fell. Not a performative yelp, but a sharp, reflexive gasp — the kind that only comes out when you're genuinely hurt.
And then Nikhil, model of grace and panic that he was, had just... left him there.
In the puddle.
A warm wave of guilt washed over him, spreading unpleasantly down his chest. Nikhil wasn't the type to overthink small things — but even he wasn't callous enough to ignore that he'd possibly flattened a stranger and bolted. He should have stopped. Helped him up. Checked if he was fine. Done literally anything except flee the scene like a criminal.
His eyes flicked up briefly as the next row of students went to the stage. His mind, however, was replaying the incident — frame by frame. And somewhere in that slow-motion replay, a detail sharpened.
The boy had been... small. And — not that Nikhil usually noticed these things — rather pretty.
It was an undeniable fact, however embarrassing it was to admit, even internally. The boy's features were sharp but not harsh; his straight brown hair framed his face beautifully, sticking to his forehead in wet strands. His dusky skin had a warmth to it, even when his expression had been contorted with indignation. His cheeks had been faintly red — whether from anger or the shock of the fall, Nikhil couldn't say. And those eyes — wide, black irises magnified behind rectangular glasses — had glared up at him with a kind of furious dignity that almost made Nikhil want to laugh.
Almost.
The puddle boy had been, in short, cute. Painfully so. Possibly even Nikhil's type, if one ignored the murder in his eyes.
He sighed quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. The boy's clothes had been absolutely ruined — the dark brown trousers soaked through, the once-pristine white shirt turned muddy beige. Even his apron had looked like a lost cause.
And that's when another detail clicked.
Anuj's voice echoed in his head — one of those long, pointless dinner rambles.
"It's easy to spot a senior! They wear uniforms — white shirt, brown trousers, and of course, a white apron. All neat and proper. Don't confuse them with freshers!"
Oh.
Oh no.
The realisation hit like a slow-building car crash. He hadn't just collided with a random fellow first year. He had mowed down a senior.
A senior who was, at this very moment, probably sitting somewhere with a sprained ankle, a ruined uniform, and an unholy grudge against a certain first-year menace.
For one tense second, actual apprehension prickled through him. He could practically hear Anuj's voice in his head again, dramatizing senior wrath like it was divine retribution.
But then — as always — the panic evaporated as quickly as it came. Nikhil exhaled, leaning back with an internal shrug. Even if it had been a senior, it wasn't the end of the world. It had been an accident, an honest one. It's not like he'd deliberately launched himself into the guy's personal space. And he had said sorry. Very sincerely, might he add.
Surely, any reasonable senior would understand that.
He'd apologize properly the next time they met — buy the guy a coffee, maybe offer to pay for dry-cleaning. He'd even toss in a few smiles, maybe a charming grin or two. The other would surely forgive him. Who wouldn't? It wasn't like the senior would hold a grudge over something as small as—
A collision. A soaking. A sprained ankle. Public humiliation.
...Right?
Nikhil didn't dwell on that list. He straightened the apron in his lap as his row was called to the stage, pushing away the last flickers of worry.
Well. Whatever.
It was an honest mistake, and he'd fix it with a little charm and sincerity. The senior — small, pretty, and, hopefully, not unreasonably dramatic — would understand.
How much trouble could one drenched, angry boy possibly cause, anyway?
Blissfully unaware of just how spectacularly wrong that assumption was, Nikhil stood, adjusted his apron, and walked toward the stage with a calm smile — completely confident that the matter was already settled in his mind.
After all, how bad could it really get?
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