Aanya had entered college with a very specific fantasy in mind—slow-motion campus shots, friends laughing at inside jokes, and seniors who looked like they'd stepped out of a coffee commercial. Instead, the main cafeteria smelled like oil + stress + samosas, and everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged except her.
She hovered near the entrance with a plastic tray, debating whether to sit near the window, where Instagram people lived, or the darker middle area, where engineering students whispered about attendance and impending doom. Somewhere in the corner, a group of boys argued passionately about "Wi-Fi vs Data." Apparently, this was an actual war.
Her roommate, Sana, already had a friend circle—an achievement in the first 48 hours that should've earned her a medal. Aanya didn't have medals; she had anxiety and a phone screen she pretended to care about too deeply.She finally chose the far-left table—close enough to sunlight to avoid depression, far enough from humans to avoid conversation. She sat, opened her lunchbox (because hostel mess was terrifying), and tried to look Normal™.
That lasted eight seconds.
"Hi," someone said, voice low, almost careless.
Aanya looked up. Oh God. Orientation Boy. The one with the messy hair and quiet stare. The one who had casually waved at her on day one, causing her brain to shut down momentarily.
He pointed at the seat across from her. "Free?"
Aanya nodded, trying very hard not to drop her spoon and dignity together. He sat.
Up close, he looked different—not movie-star different, just unexpectedly human. Dark circles under eyes, shirt slightly wrinkled, a silver pen clipped to his collar like those toppers from 12th who never mentally graduated.
"I'm Kabir," he said."I know," she almost said, before stopping herself just in time. "Aanya."
Kabir glanced at her lunchbox. "Home-made?"
"Mess trauma," she confessed.
He laughed, deep and brief. "Same. First day I tried the dal, I realised God gives signs."
Aanya laughed louder than required. Humor + validation = dopamine. But then his voice shifted slightly, thoughtful.
"You're from Delhi, right? Orientation list."
Aanya blinked. So he had noticed her before. Her brain started a slow meltdown—half swoon, half suspicious audit.
"Yeah. You?"
"Jaipur," he said. "First time living away from home. I'm not built for hostel politics. Someone stole my too"That's a war crime."
"Exactly."
Aanya felt herself relax—not completely, but enough to put her spoon down without catastrophic anxiety. Kabir ate quietly. He didn't try to impress or interrogate or dominate the conversation. It was weirdly comforting.
Then Sana appeared, all confidence and lip gloss. She froze when she saw Kabir. "Oh, hi…am I interrupting?"
"No," Aanya said too fast. "Kabir just sat."
Sana smiled like someone who had watched five seasons of college romance dramas and knew exactly what the script implied. She lingered for a second, then left with a wink that could power an entire gossip ecosystem.
Kabir raised an eyebrow. "Roommate?"
"Unfortunately."
He smirked, but his expression soon changed—eyes drifting somewhere behind her. When Aanya turned, she saw a group of seniors staring. Not bullying, not mocking—just observing, like people who enjoyed knowing things before everyone else did.
Kabir's shoulders stiffened. "Ignore them," he muttered.
"You know them?" Aanya asked.
"Not really. My cousin warned me—some seniors like collecting personal data. Relationship status, trauma history, GPA—everything."
"Sounds like LinkedIn but evil."
Kabir snorted, then grew quiet. The cafeteria noise suddenly felt sharper—metal trays clashing, laughter bursting, someone shouting "Bro mess ka paratha rubber ka hai!" Life outside Aanya's bubble was chaotic, funny, and loud, but Kabir seemed detached from it—as if he existed one layer removed from reality.
"You okay?" she asked.
Kabir looked surprised. "Yeah. Just…crowds. They make me feel like I'm glitching."
That was unexpectedly relatable. Aanya didn't say it, but her brain whispered, same, but with extra buffering.
She offered him one of her rotis without thinking. Kabir blinked. "You're sharing food on day three? That's like level-five friendship in Indian culture."
Aanya felt her ears heat. "It's just roti."
"Nothing is 'just roti,'" he declared solemnly. "It's emotional."
They ate like that—small jokes, small silences, small bites. No dramatic sparks, no violins—just the slow build of comfort. And maybe comfort was underrated. After high school, everything felt like a performance—grades, appearance, communication. College brought a different performance: identity.
When they finished, Kabir checked the time. "I have class in five minutes. If I don't go, the professor will think I dropped out. Honestly, I might, but not today."
He stood, swung his bag over his shoulder.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked casually, as if it didn't mean anything. As if it didn't already begin rewriting Aanya's week.
"Sure," she said, equally casual, equally fake.
He gave a small wave and left.
And then, twelve seconds later, Aanya's political science senior sat in Kabir's empty seat like a detective who smelled scandal.
"So," the senior said. "That was interesting."
Aanya blinked. "What?"
"We've been in this college two years. Kabir has been here three days. And he spoke more to you in fifteen minutes than he has to anyone else. Including professors."
Aanya stared. "Maybe he's just polite."
Senior shook her head. "Polite is 'excuse me, can I sit here?' What he did was…investment."
Aanya felt her face burn. "We're just talking."
"Sure. But in this campus, talking is how it starts." Senior stood, adding, "Careful though. Kabir has history."
Aanya opened her mouth to ask what kind of history, but senior was already walking away.
Campus life was weird—one minute you're trying not to die of social awkwardness, the next you're in a conspiracy subplot you never asked for.
She packed her lunchbox slowly. The cafeteria felt smaller and larger at the same time. And somewhere in the middle of her confusion, curiosity quietly bloomed.
Maybe week three would be better than week two. And maybe Kabir wasn't the only one glitching.