The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. Aarav stayed furious and stewing — not speaking much, not reacting, just simmering like a pressure cooker on low heat. He had a tendency to overthink things once he got fixated on them — and clearly, that was what was happening here. His brain had picked one problem, clung to it like a leech, and refused to let go.
By evening, Nalini and Karan's amusement had faded, giving way to concern and logic. The shift was almost comical — like watching two people realise their favourite drama show was, in fact, a live person spiraling three feet away from them.
"It's just an arrogant boy, Aarav. Don't lose sleep over it," Karan said, for what must've been the fourth time, his voice softer now, far more serious than he usually allowed himself to sound.
Nalini added her version of tough love, dry as ever. "He's not worth this many mood swings and cortisol spikes. The more you think about it, the more you'll spiral. And frankly, you don't have the mental bandwidth for spiraling right now."
Shockingly — almost miraculously — these responses managed to placate Aarav somewhat. Maybe it was the rationality. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was that rare moment where he actually agreed he had too much on his plate.
His ankle was healing. His pharmacology and pathology notes weren't going to write themselves. He had clinical posting tomorrow morning. He had tutorials. He had Joshi's dry lectures that, if missed, came back to bite harder than a stray dog outside Boys' Hostel A.
Basically, he had enough going on with his studies as it was — and that's not counting everything else that came with medical college life.
He really did not have time for this.
The giant was an asshole, sure — even more than that, in fact — but for now, he was reduced to a managed problem. Something to be filed away under "Annoyances to be Dealt With Later," right below "Joshi's inevitable surprise test" and right above "Karan's random existential crises."
Aarav let out a slow breath and decided — quite firmly — that he would not let this derail his week.
And thus, five whole days passed in silence.
Aarav didn't even glance at the first-years' hostel block. He didn't think about the puddle incident. He didn't think about the arrogant boy with the ridiculous height who had jabbed a finger into his chest with zero shame. The Nikhil problem shrunk smaller and smaller in his mind as the days passed, until eventually, it was… almost forgotten.
It was peaceful.
He was no longer stewing. His ankle was healing nicely. He was attending Joshi's lectures. His notes were getting written. Life, surprisingly, had returned to normal.
For Aarav.
For Nikhil, however…
It was boring. Utterly, completely boring.
The initial thrill of his dramatic, defiant introduction had long since worn off. His days had settled into the same monotony he'd known before. His father's calls remained the same — the two of them always arguing about something or the other until the line disconnected and the irritation lingered. The routine of lectures and dissection — which had never truly interested him — now felt even more unbearable because the one interesting thing he had stumbled upon in this place had disappeared.
Anuj's constant state of panic and dramatic rants was entertaining for about two days. After that, it became background noise. A daily soundtrack. Something to tune out while brushing his teeth.
And Nikhil Goyal — who, although sunny and cheerful on the outside, was internally a feral little gremlin constantly in search of stimulation — was completely, utterly bored.
His mind kept drifting back to that morning.
The sight of that senior — the flush of anger on his sharp features, the small, slender finger jabbing into Nikhil's chest, ranting about god knows what (because at this point, the actual words had blurred) — stayed with him. Lingered. Hovered. Tormented.
The way those dark brown eyes flashed with temper.
The way his pretty features twisted into something meant to resemble an intimidating scowl but ended up looking more like an adorable, offended cat.
It was always in Nikhil's thoughts now. Orbiting him like a shiny object he wasn't supposed to touch.
And it was, at this point, driving him insane.
He was drawn to the pretty senior like a toddler to an iPad playing Cocomelon.
He was a gremlin — and this gremlin had just found a big red button that said DO NOT PRESS, and when he had pressed it, it produced the most delightful reaction. Truly, a reward system custom-tailored for his questionable morals.
The only problem was — the button had disappeared.
Vanished.
And Nikhil, being the possessive goblin he was, wanted his treasure back.
He found himself taking the long way to classes — and sometimes deliberately taking the wrong ways, the ones unofficially restricted by seniors for first-years until freshers' party. As if, by some miracle, the senior would materialise from thin air to tell him off again.
But nothing.
He lingered in the common area.
Still nothing.
He took routes that went through pharmacology, microbiology, or pathology departments — second-year territory — hoping for even a momentary glimpse of that dark-brown-haired senior.
He kept an eye out for a certain petite figure with a stormy scowl.
But no such luck.
It was like Nikhil was stranded in a desert, wandering endlessly, and the only sip of water he'd ever wanted was right there yet somehow out of reach. Aarav had either vanished off the face of the earth or made avoiding him his primary objective.
Which — to Nikhil's utter surprise — offended him.
It was insulting.
He'd made such a dramatic entry into the senior's life — first with the puddle accident, then with his unapologetic defiance — which seemed to shake up the entire system that the pretty senior held so dearly.
And now?
That same senior, who had so passionately declared war and told Nikhil to "watch his back," had just… decided to withdraw?
To take the higher road?
To treat Nikhil like some insignificant headache he couldn't be bothered with anymore?
No.
Absolutely not.
That wouldn't do.
Nikhil refused to be forgotten like a footnote. Not after all that.
The urge was almost a physical ache — like an itch he couldn't reach.
The challenge was no longer about the system or hierarchy or arrogance.
It was simpler.
Nikhil Goyal refused to be forgotten.
He needed to get the senior's attention again. And this time, in a way he couldn't be ignored.
In a way that guaranteed the senior would have to deal with him.
One way or another.