The next morning didn't reset anything.
If anything, it sharpened it.
Sagnik realized this the moment he saw her.
She was already in the corridor, sunlight slanting in from the tall windows, bag slung over one shoulder, hair still slightly undone—as if she'd rushed, or hadn't slept well either. For a fraction of a second, instinct took over. His chest tightened. His feet almost carried him toward her the way they always had.
Almost.
Then the knot pulled tight again.
"Aanya," he said, voice neutral, careful.
Not warm. Not distant enough to be cruel. Just… altered.
She noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
They walked side by side toward the lab, but the space between them felt engineered—precise, intentional. He didn't brush her hand when they walked too close. Didn't slow down to match her pace. Didn't lean in when she spoke.
He answered when spoken to. Nothing more.
Aanya tried once, casually. "You left early yesterday."
"Mm," he said. Noncommittal.
She glanced at him then—really looked. Her expression didn't harden. It softened instead, the way it did when she sensed something fragile but chose not to step on it.
That made it worse.
They reached the staircase landing. Other students passed them, voices loud, laughter careless. Sagnik focused on the rhythm of his steps, on not looking at her mouth, on not remembering the way she'd kissed him like she was discovering something rather than claiming it.
"Aren't you going to ask?" she said gently.
"Ask what?" His tone came out sharper than intended.
She stopped walking.
That made him stop too.
"What's wrong?" she asked, patiently. No accusation. No demand. Just a question placed carefully between them. "You've been… different. Since yesterday."
He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening. The words crowded his throat—too many, too charged. If he spoke now, something irreversible would slip out.
"It's nothing," he said.
She didn't buy it. But she didn't push immediately either. She waited. Let the silence stretch. Let him sit in it.
Then, softly, "Did I do something?"
That nearly broke him.
He turned to her then, finally. "No."
She studied his face, searching—not prying. As if she were mapping a fault line.
"Is it about the senior?" she asked, cautiously. "From yesterday?"
The question landed clean and precise.
And Sagnik froze.
For a second, his mind went blank—no practiced deflection, no irritation to hide behind. Just the sudden, exposed truth of it, standing too close to the surface.
He didn't answer.
Didn't deny it. Didn't confirm it. Didn't even shrug.
He just stood there, silent, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, like a deer caught in headlights—aware of the danger, unable to move.
Aanya blinked.
Once. Twice.
Understanding didn't arrive dramatically. It crept in slowly, rearranging her expression—not hurt, not triumph. Just realization.
"Oh," she said.
Not a question. Not an exclamation.
Just a quiet syllable.
She didn't smile. Didn't tease. Didn't reassure him immediately, the way she might have before. That, somehow, unsettled him more than anything else.
"If that's the reason," she continued, voice even, "you don't have to be upset."
He exhaled through his nose, a short, humorless breath. "I'm not upset."
She met his eyes. Held them. "You are."
Silence again.
Students streamed past them, the world stubbornly normal while something between them tilted off its axis.
"I told you," she said after a moment, "he just wanted notes."
"I know," he replied too quickly.
She tilted her head slightly. "Then why does it feel like you're pushing me away?"
That question landed where everything hurt.
He didn't have an answer that wouldn't ruin them. So he chose the only option he had left.
Distance.
"I have lab," he said, stepping back. Not away—just enough. "We're getting late."
And before she could respond, before patience could turn into something else, he walked past her and down the stairs.
He didn't look back.
But he felt it—the way she stayed there, watching. The way something unnamed now stood between them, charged and humming, waiting for one of them to touch it first.
And Sagnik knew, with a sinking certainty, that this wasn't avoidance anymore.
It was the beginning of something he was already losing control over.