Arohi's POV
The classroom smelled faintly of floor polish and old paper—sterile, quiet, and far too polished for the kind of hunger I carried. I stepped in early, before the crowd thickened, my bag slung over one shoulder, notebook clutched like a shield. The air was cool, the lights too bright, and the silence felt like a challenge.
I scanned the room quickly, not out of curiosity but habit. That's when I saw him.
By the window.
Green T-shirt. Black jacket. Posture relaxed, gaze turned outward like he was watching something only he could see. His elbow rested on the sill, fingers tapping absently against the desk. He didn't look up. But something about him—his stillness, his quiet—registered.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He didn't perform.
And yet, the air around him felt different. Like silence had chosen him.
I didn't know his name.
I didn't want to.
I turned away, walked straight to the front row, and chose the seat closest to the board. I wanted proximity to clarity. To control. To the place where effort mattered more than noise.
My notebook opened with a soft crack. Pen poised. Breath steady.
I had read the syllabus twice. Memorized the first chapter. Rehearsed the questions I might ask. I wasn't here to be surprised. I was here to stay ahead.
The professor entered with a brisk nod, adjusted her glasses, and launched into the lecture—business models and revenue models. Her voice was clipped, efficient, the kind that didn't wait for anyone to catch up.
"Can anyone explain the difference between a business model and a revenue model?"
A pause.
I raised my hand.
She nodded. "Yes?"
"A business model defines how a company creates, delivers, and captures value. It's the overall strategy—what the company offers, to whom, and how. A revenue model is a subset of that. It focuses specifically on how the company earns money—through subscriptions, commissions, ads, or direct sales. The business model is the blueprint. The revenue model is the income stream."
The professor gave a small nod. "Well articulated."
I felt a few heads turn. I didn't care. I wasn't here to be impressive. I was here to be prepared.
And then, during attendance, the professor called out:
"Vedant Kapoor."
A quiet "Present" from behind me.
I didn't turn around. But the name settled into my mind like a stone dropped into still water.
Vedant.
So that's who he was.
I kept my eyes on the board, my fingers steady. But something tugged. Not loud. Not obvious. Just a flicker. A shift.
I hated that I noticed.
He hadn't spoken. He hadn't looked at me. But his presence felt like a thread pulling at the edge of my focus. Not intrusive. Not demanding. Just there.
I reminded myself of why I was here.
Of my father's ink-stained hands.
Of my mother's stitched handkerchiefs.
Of my brother's crumpled note.
I wasn't here for distractions.
I wasn't here to be seen.
I was here to rise.
I thought of Riya.
Of the way she used to smile at her phone.
Of the way she stopped smiling altogether.
I thought of the girls who mistook attention for affection.
Who mistook silence for mystery.
Who mistook proximity for promise.
I wouldn't be one of them.
When class ended, I packed my things quickly. My steps were sharp. I walked out with my head high and my heart locked.
Outside, the sun hit my face like a challenge. I welcomed it.
Let it burn away the flicker.
Let it remind me who I was.
And if Vedant Kapoor ever looked at me again, I'd make sure he saw nothing but focus.