Sameera's POV:
The lights were warm. The crowd was buzzing. Music played softly in the background.
But I could only feel one thing.
His stare.
I didn't even mean to look in his direction. But something pulled my eyes there.
And sure enough — there he was. Saharsh.
Standing near the tech console, surrounded by his group of I-think-I'm-funnier-than-I-actually-am boys, wearing a plain black t-shirt layered with a fitted leather jacket. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — and okay, who allowed rolled-up sleeves to look that good?
Dark jeans.
Messy-but-not-accidental hair.
A silver chain peeking from beneath his t-shirt.
And that quiet kind of confidence that made you want to know what was going on in his head.
God.
Why was I getting actual chills from just one look?
I quickly blinked away and walked over, trying not to trip on my own heels. "You're fine," I whispered to myself. "You are not fifteen. Get a grip."
As I approached the boys, Aryan was the first to break into a dramatic gasp.
"Sameera Gayaki," he declared like a movie announcer. "Who gave you the right to look like this tonight?"
"Say it louder for the people at the back," Atharva added, doing an exaggerated bow.
Even Shivam — who usually reserved his flattery for exactly one person (Kiara) — gave me a grin. "This event has officially peaked."
I laughed, my cheeks warming. "Relax, guys. It's just a dress."
"That is not just a dress," Ujjwal said, shaking his head. "That dress and you should be in a museum. With security."
My eyes flicked to Saharsh.
He hadn't said a word.
He was just... watching me. Quiet. Focused. Like he had a thousand things to say but none of them were ready to come out.
Was I overthinking this?
Probably.
But somewhere... somewhere deep inside, I think a part of me was waiting. Waiting for him to say something. Just a "you look nice," maybe. A smile. A compliment. Something.
But it didn't come.
He just nodded lightly when our eyes met — cool and unreadable as always. And then turned back to check some speaker wiring like I hadn't just walked in with my heart wrapped around my ankles.
"Ouch," whispered Sanskruti beside me. "You were hoping he'd say something, weren't you?"
"I was not," I lied, glaring at the floor.
She smirked. "He will. Eventually. He's just in his brooding mysterious phase. Let him be dramatic."
I sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Whatever. We have an event to pull off."
And so we did.
The music was louder now, the room slowly filling with people. Laughter echoed around us as the first set of games began. Rishi was yelling about quiz rules. Janhvi was already threatening to disqualify someone for cheating. Kiara and Shivam were caught in a weird flirt-fight.
And somewhere between all that chaos...
I found myself stealing glances at him again.
And catching him doing the same.
The crowd grew louder around me as the emcee announced, "And now, a very special performance by none other than Saharsh Singh!"
My heart skipped.
I turned just in time to see him walking up to the stage, slinging a guitar across his shoulder. The lighting fell perfectly on him, as if the entire setup had waited all evening just to highlight him. He looked so annoyingly effortless—black shirt rolled to the elbows, fingers adjusting the mic, that calm confidence taking over.
And then he strummed.
A slow hum rippled through the crowd. That first chord hit, and the girls lost it.
"OH MY GOD HE'S SINGING!"
"HE PLAYS GUITAR TOO?"
"I swear he looked straight at me just now!"
I wanted to roll my eyes. But... okay, I'll admit—he did look like a walking heartbreak with that guitar.
Then he started singing.
> "Dooron dooron se, kyun aaj tu dikhe..."
("From a distance, why do you seem so close today...")
And everything around me blurred.
Because... he was looking at me.
Me.
Eyes locked. Voice steady. The world around him fading as his gaze anchored into mine.
I froze. For a second, I didn't know if I was breathing. The words of the song melted into the air like silk, each line like a string pulling me closer to something I hadn't yet named.
And then, mid-verse, he stepped off the stage.
The whispers started.
"Where's he going?"
"Is he walking into the crowd?"
"Who is he—wait, wait—is it Sameera??"
Yup. That would be me.
I stood still as he moved through the people like they didn't even exist. His voice never wavered. His eyes never left mine.
When he stopped right in front of me, the room practically stopped breathing.
I didn't know what to do. My palms were cold. My stomach? Chaos.
He extended a hand.
Still singing.
Still staring.
I hesitated. Just a second.
But then... I gave him my hand.
And just like that, we were dancing.
Nothing dramatic. Just his hand in mine. One arm around my waist. Swaying. Slow. Intimate. The kind of closeness that steals every thought from your head.
> "Main tere liye bana hoon, tu meri hai..."
("I'm made for you, you're mine...")
His voice softened near the end of the song. The lights dimmed into golden amber. People clapped. Some cheered. Others stared, stunned.
But I barely heard anything.
Because all I could feel was the warmth of his breath against my ear as he leaned in and whispered—
"So you know how to look beautiful huh! If someone told me years ago that little ladoo would grow up to look like this... I wouldn't have believed them."
Ladoo.
My breath caught.
Nobody had called me that in years.
Nobody except a handful of kids from my childhood classroom.
Nobody except one boy.
I froze, my heart beating a little too fast. That name belonged to a time I thought I'd left behind.
My eyes searched his, looking for a trace of that boy I remembered.
And there it was — a flicker, a spark, hidden beneath the calm way he smiled at me.
The song ended, the room erupted into applause, and he slowly let go of my hand. But the echo of that word — Ladoo — stayed, buzzing in my chest, pulling loose memories I wasn't ready to face yet.