Arohi's POV
The mess hall was a storm of sound—steel trays clanging, slippers slapping against the floor, voices overlapping in a dozen languages. The air smelled of boiled tea, burnt oil, and something vaguely sweet that didn't taste half as good as it promised. Girls moved in clusters, some already laughing like they'd known each other for years, some scanning the room for a place to sit, a place to belong.
I walked in alone, tray in hand, eyes steady. I didn't want to sit with the loud ones. I didn't want to be asked where I was from or what my hobbies were. I wanted silence. Or something close to it.
The breakfast was predictable—two idlis, watery sambar, and a chutney that looked like it had been made in a hurry and regretted it. I took what I needed and found a corner table near the window, where the sunlight filtered in through dusty glass and made everything look softer than it was.
I sat down and began to eat slowly. Not because I was savoring the food, but because I needed the rhythm. Chewing, swallowing, breathing—it gave me something to hold onto.
That's when she sat down across from me.
No greeting. No hesitation. Just a quiet clatter of her tray and a nod.
She wore a black kurta with white threadwork; her hair pulled into a messy bun that looked accidental but wasn't. Her eyes were sharp—not cruel, just observant. Like she saw things and didn't feel the need to comment on them.
"I'm Isha," she said, finally. "Room 308. You're in 306, right?"
I nodded. "Arohi."
She didn't smile. I didn't either. But something passed between us—an understanding, maybe. A shared refusal to perform friendliness.
"You looked like you hated the crowd last night," she said, tearing her idli with practiced fingers.
"I don't hate it," I replied. "I just don't need it."
She smirked. "Same."
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Not awkward. Just... efficient. I liked that she didn't fill the space with unnecessary words. She didn't ask me where I was from or what I was studying. She didn't compliment my earrings or ask if I had a boyfriend.
Instead, she said, "You ironed your kurta. Most girls don't bother."
I looked down at the pale blue fabric. "It's habit."
"Looks like discipline," she said. "Or pride."
I didn't reply. But something in me softened.
She dipped her idli in chutney and said, "I came here to win. Not to be liked."
I looked up. Her tone wasn't arrogant. It was honest. Familiar.
"Same," I said.
She glanced at me then—really looked. Not in the way boys do, scanning for softness. But in the way girls do, searching for edges. Her gaze lingered on my face, and I felt the urge to explain myself—not with words, but with presence.
Isha didn't flinch from my gaze. She met it, steady and unbothered.
"You're not here to make friends either," she said.
I shrugged. "I'm here for my family. For myself."
She nodded, like she understood that kind of weight. "Same. My dad thinks I'm wasting my time. My mom thinks I'll burn out. I think they're both wrong."
I didn't say anything. But I wanted to.
We finished our breakfast in silence. When she stood up, she said, "If you ever want to study together, knock."
I nodded. "You too."
As I walked back to the hostel, the sun warming my back, I felt something shift. Not a friendship. Not yet. But a recognition.
Of someone who didn't ask for permission to be serious.
Of someone who understood that ambition could be lonely.
Of someone who, like me, had learned to wear silence like armor.
And maybe, in this place full of noise and performance, that was the beginning of something real.