The campus felt louder the morning after the presentation.
Not in soundAnvika had learned to separate noise from pressurebut in attention. It pressed in from all sides, the way humidity did before rain. Conversations stalled when she passed. Eyes lingered, recalibrating. She moved through it without hurry, spine straight, breath even.
Being noticed had never frightened her.
Being misunderstood had.
She reached the café near the east wing and ordered black coffee, no sugar. The barista smiled a little too knowingly. Anvika accepted the cup without comment and stepped aside, choosing a table by the window. Outside, students crossed the quad in clusters, laughter sharp against the morning air.
She took one sip, then paused.
Aadvaith hadn't arrived yet.
That shouldn't have mattered. They hadn't planned to meet. There was no arrangement, no expectation. And yether attention registered the absence before her mind could dismiss it.
She didn't look at the door again.
When he entered, it was without ceremony. No scanning. No searching. He ordered tea, nodded once in thanks, and turnedas if pulled by something steady and quietuntil his gaze met hers.
He didn't smile.
Neither did she.
He crossed the room and stopped beside her table. "May I?"
She inclined her head. "You didn't need to ask."
He sat, setting his cup down carefully. Steam rose between them, briefly obscuring his face before dissipating.
"You left early yesterday," he said.
"I needed space."
He accepted that. "I noticed."
"I know."
They sat for a moment, the table small, the space between them precise. Anvika watched the way he held his cupboth hands, grounded, unhurried. She wondered, not for the first time, how much effort that calm required.
"You don't like being chosen publicly," she said.
He looked at her. "I don't like being assigned meaning."
She nodded. "People are doing that now."
"Yes."
"With us."
"Yes."
She took another sip of coffee, eyes on the window. "It doesn't bother me."
"It shouldn't," he said. "You didn't invite it."
"Neither did you."
His gaze softened, just slightly. "That matters."
They fell quiet again. The café filled and emptied around them, time passing without insistence.
Anvika broke the silence. "Do you feel it?"
"What?"
"The shift," she said. "The way things lean now."
He considered. "I feel responsibility."
She turned to face him fully. "That's not the same."
"No," he agreed. "But it's related."
"Why responsibility?" she asked.
"Because when something becomes visible," he said, "it becomes vulnerable."
She studied him. "You think you're responsible for protecting it."
"I think," he corrected, "I'm responsible for not mishandling it."
Her expression softenednot into agreement, but into understanding. "You're afraid of taking more than you can give."
"Yes."
"And of giving more than you should," she added.
He met her gaze. "Exactly."
She exhaled slowly. "You don't need to carry that alone."
"I know," he said. "But I won't offload it either."
"That's fair."
A group of students passed their table, voices bright, careless. One of them glanced over, whispered something. Anvika didn't react.
Aadvaith noticed anyway.
"You don't flinch," he said quietly.
"I don't perform," she replied.
He nodded once. "Good."
They finished their drinks in companionable silence. When they stood, their movements aligned naturally, chairs sliding back in unison.
Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds, light catching on glass and stone. The quad buzzed with movement, the day fully awake.
They walked together without naming it, steps falling into rhythm.
"You don't belong to anyone's narrative," Aadvaith said as they crossed the lawn.
She glanced at him. "Neither do you."
"Yes," he said. "But people will try."
"Let them," she replied. "Narratives fall apart when they're not fed."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
They reached the fork where paths divergedhers toward the research wing, his toward the faculty offices. They slowed, neither eager to leave.
"You don't owe me explanations," Anvika said.
"I know."
"And you don't owe them to anyone else," she added.
"I know," he repeated, quieter.
She studied him then, really studied him. The steadiness. The restraint. The weight he carried without complaint.
"You've been chosen before," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he replied.
"And it cost you."
"Yes."
Her voice gentled. "That won't happen here."
He looked at her, something like relief flickering briefly before settling back into calm. "Because you won't let it."
"No," she said. "Because we won't."
The word we sat between themcarefully placed, unforced.
He inclined his head. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not demanding certainty."
She shrugged lightly. "Certainty is a luxury. Consistency is what matters."
He watched her for a moment longer than necessary. "You're right."
They stood there, the campus moving around them, the day continuing as if nothing extraordinary had been said.
When they parted, it wasn't with promises or plans. Just an understandingquiet, deliberate.
As Anvika walked toward the research wing, she felt the attention again. The looks. The whispers. The assumptions.
They didn't touch her.
She carried something steadier nownot reliance, not expectation.
Choice.
Behind her, Aadvaith watched her go, then turned toward his own path. The weight in his chest had shiftednot heavier, not lighter.
Balanced.
He had been chosen before, yes. By circumstances. By expectations. By other people's needs.
This time was different.
This time, he was choosing too.
And for the first time in a long while, the weight felt like something he could carrybecause it was shared, and because it had never been demanded.
Only offered.
Only accepted.