The professor had been speaking for nearly ten minutes.
Sagnik had written almost nothing.
His notebook was open.
His pen was in his hand.
He was looking at the board.
Technically.
His attention was somewhere else.
Inside his bag.
He could feel the weight of the sketchbook even though it was buried beneath his notes.
It was ridiculous.
It was just a sketchbook.
Old pages.
Old drawings.
Nothing that should make him this careful.
And yet—
when Aanya had asked to see it earlier, something inside him had immediately tightened.
He hadn't let it show.
At least, he didn't think he had.
He had simply smiled.
Said maybe later.
Like it wasn't important.
Like there wasn't a reason he had hesitated.
He looked down at his notebook.
The professor continued speaking.
Sagnik finally wrote something.
Then stopped.
He had spent years keeping certain things to himself.
Not because anyone had asked him to.
Because some things were easier when they remained his.
Unspoken.
Unseen.
Safe.
The sketchbook belonged to that category.
Perhaps more than anything else did.
He had never really thought about someone else opening it.
Not properly.
Not while he was standing there.
Especially not her.
Aanya.
He glanced sideways.
She was writing.
Her hair had fallen slightly over one side of her face.
She pushed it back absently and continued taking notes.
Completely unaware.
Sagnik looked away again.
His fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
It wasn't that he was ashamed of what was inside.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that she might understand.
Some things could remain ambiguous as long as they stayed inside his head.
On paper, they became harder to deny.
A line could be explained away.
A page could be dismissed.
A drawing could be old.
A thought could be temporary.
But a collection of them—
that was different.
He exhaled quietly.
He shouldn't be thinking about this during class.
He forced his attention back toward the board.
For a few minutes, it worked.
Then Aanya leaned slightly toward him.
"Sagnik."
He turned.
She whispered,
"What did he just say?"
He looked at the board.
Then at her notebook.
Then back at her.
"You weren't listening?"
She gave him an unimpressed look.
"I was."
"You clearly weren't."
"I was listening emotionally."
He almost smiled.
"That doesn't count."
"Tell me."
He quietly repeated what the professor had said.
She nodded and began writing again.
Just like that.
The moment passed.
Sagnik watched her for half a second longer than he should have.
Then returned to his notes.
His bag remained beside his chair.
The sketchbook remained inside it.
Safe.
For now.
And the absurd thing was—
he knew that eventually she'd ask again.
He knew he'd have to decide what to do when she did.
He just wasn't ready for that yet.
Not because there was anything wrong with the pages.
But because some things were easier to carry alone.