Navya's pov:
I didn't sleep properly.
Not because of fear.
Because of curiosity — the kind that taps at your mind even when your eyes are closed, refusing to let you rest.
Every time I shut my eyes, I saw them again.
His eyes. The way they didn't rush. The way they didn't soften.
By morning, I convinced myself I was overthinking.
He was a doctor.
A judge.
A professional.
Someone important.
I was just a student who had presented a project.
Nothing more.
The AI medical camp auditorium felt different on the second day.
Quieter.
Sharper.
Like the room had learned how to hold its breath.
When my name was called for clarification, my chest tightened — instinctive, immediate — but my steps didn't falter. Fear had never stopped me from moving forward. It only made me more aware of every movement.
I walked to the front.
And there he was.
Same calm.
Same unreadable expression.
Except this time, he wasn't scanning the hall.
He was waiting.
"Good morning, Navya," he said.
He said my name correctly. Slowly.
That alone unsettled me.
I nodded. "Good morning, sir."
"Sit," he gestured to the chair opposite him.
Not beside.
Opposite.
Like an examination.
Like a confrontation.
He didn't open the file in front of him.
Didn't glance at the slides.
He looked at me.
"Why did you choose a medical project?" he asked calmly.
"You're a computer science student. You could've worked on anything."
I hesitated.
"My grandmother," I said finally. "She was diagnosed too late. Not because doctors failed — because patterns were missed. Data reached them too slowly."
He watched my face closely.
"So what exactly do you expect medicine to do with your code?"
"This project isn't about replacing doctors," I replied carefully.
"It's about assisting them. Speed. Prediction. Pattern recognition."
He leaned back slightly.
"And if a doctor doesn't understand how your model works?"
That's when my chest tightened.
"Sir," I said carefully, choosing each word,
"medicine doesn't need to understand code. It needs to trust it."
Silence.
My heartbeat was loud in my ears.
Something changed in his eyes.
Interest.
But he didn't stop.
"What if the model fails?"
"What if it delays treatment?"
"What if a life is lost because your algorithm was trusted too much?"
Each question pressed harder than the last.
My fingers began to shake. I curled them inward, hiding it.
"That responsibility," he continued, voice low and controlled,
"would be yours. Are you prepared to carry it?"
Fear climbed my spine.
"Yes," I said.
Not confident.
Not loud.
Honest.
His gaze darkened.
Not with doubt.
With satisfaction.
He saw my fear.
And he didn't ease because of it.
He liked it.
He slid a water bottle toward me.
"Drink."
I shook my head immediately. "I'm fine, sir."
If I took it, I would spill it.
He noticed. Of course he did.
He pulled the bottle back without comment and closed the file.
"You may go."
No reassurance.
No softness.
Just release.
My legs moved before my thoughts could catch up.
I walked straight to the washroom.
Locked myself inside.
Cold water hit my face once.
Then again.
Until the shaking slowed.
Until my breath returned to rhythm.
When I stepped out, my lashes were wet, kajal faintly smudged, curls loosening around my face.
And then I saw him.
Leaning near the corridor window.
Waiting.
My heart dropped.
"Navya," he said — quieter now.
I stopped.
"Don't fear me," he added.
"I'm just a doctor to you."
Just.
He extended the water bottle again.
This time, my hands were steadier.
I took it.
Our fingers didn't touch — but the space between them felt deliberate.
I drank slowly.
He watched like it mattered.
"Why did you leave yesterday?" he asked casually.
"I had an exam."
"Which one?"
"Data Structures."
"And how did you do?"
I hesitated. "I didn't top it. But I didn't fail either."
No pride.
No apology.
Just truth.
He nodded slightly.
"You don't chase perfection," he said. "You chase honesty."
I didn't know if that was observation or approval.
"You did well today," he added.
Not encouragement.
Acknowledgment.
As he stepped away, he said one last thing — not looking at me this time.
"Pressure reveals people, Navya. It doesn't create them."
I stood there long after he left.
Holding the empty bottle.
Wondering why my fear hadn't disappeared
only changed shape.
****************************************
Arjun's POV
She didn't walk in nervous.
She walked in aware.
That difference matters.
Most people collapse under pressure.
She tightened inward — controlled, precise.
When I questioned her project, I wasn't testing her knowledge.
I was testing her conscience.
When I pushed consequences, I watched her hands shake — just enough.
Fear, contained.
Good.
She didn't deny responsibility.
She accepted it.
When she refused the water, I knew she understood her limits.
That kind of self-awareness isn't taught.
It's earned.
I let her go on purpose.
People reveal more after escape.
When she returned with wet lashes and softened defiance, something inside me settled.
I approached again — not as an evaluator.
As a man observing something rare.
She answered personal questions the same way she answered technical ones.
Without performance.
Without exaggeration.
Her kajal was slightly smudged.
Her floral clip matched her kurti unconsciously.
Her curls refused obedience.
She wasn't trying to be memorable.
That's why she was.
As she stood there, gripping the bottle, I knew one thing clearly:
She thinks this ends with clarification.
It doesn't.
I don't release problems that make me think.
And I don't lose interest.
Especially not when the variable looks like her.
_____________________________________
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