The corridor smelled of wet socks and samosa grease. Monday's rain had followed everyone inside; sneakers squeaked like angry mice on the lino. Priya was balancing her bio file in one hand and a dripping umbrella in the other when she heard her name float above the crowd.
"…the new girl? Bro, she's already sitting with Aarav Mehta. You know how that ends."
"Yeah, spreadsheet king and drama queen season finale by Diwali."
Laughter cracked like a whip. Priya's ears burned. She told herself the flush was anger, not embarrassment, but her steps slowed anyway.
Through the lattice of schoolbags, she spotted the speakers: Arjun Mehra with dimples, collar popped, and Tara Mehta suprisely has no relation to Aarav, but plenty of opinions. Tara's gaze slid to Priya, lingered half a second too long, then flicked away. The message was clear: we're watching.
Aarav appeared beside her as if someone had copy-pasted him from the physics lab. "Ignore them," he muttered, eyes on his timetable. "They recycle gossip faster than the BMC recycles plastic."
"Easy for you," Priya said. "Your reputation's laminated. Mine's still wet cement."
He almost smiled because she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, but the bell rang, and the moment dissolved into the scramble for first period.
The library section was third period, and it's free. The ceiling fans groaned like old uncles asked to dance. Their group-project crew had shrunk to four: Aarav, Priya, Jhanvi (who spoke only in bullet points), and Rishi (who spoke only in memes). The topic glared from Aarav's laptop: "Urban Heat Islands: Mapping Mumbai's Micro-climates."
Jhanvi tapped her pen. "We need ward-wise temperature data. Rishi, stop doodling dabbing unicorns."
"It's a visual metaphor," Rishi protested.
Priya slid a folded map across the table. "I cycled past Byculla, Dadar, and Matunga yesterday. We can log land-use types like concrete, tarpaulin,and garden. It's cheap but first-hand."
Aarav's eyebrows rose. "You cycled in that rain?"
"Drizzle. And I had a helmet. Not everyone needs a chauffeur."
He coloured at the jab; his family driver idled outside the gate every afternoon. "I never asked for that," he said quietly.
Silence pooled. Priya felt the splash of guilt. "Sorry. That was"
"True," he finished. "Let's just code the zones."
They bent over the spreadsheet, shoulders almost touching. Priya smelled detergent and something metallic,maybe the iron railing he'd leaned against earlier. She snuck a glance: the same strand of hair that always fell across his forehead, stubborn as a cowlick could be. Without thinking, she reached to tuck it behind his ear. Halfway there, she froze, fingers hovering like a stupid butterfly. Aarav looked up. The air between them shrank. Jhanvi cleared her throat with surgical precision.
"Temperature logger arrives tomorrow," she said. "Can we not do soap-opera close-ups?"
Priya retracted her hand and shoved it under the table. Aarav typed faster than necessary, and his cheeks glowing like he'd main-lit his own face.
The last lecture got canceled, and the teacher stuck in flooded tracks,so the batch was herded onto the school buses early. Monsoon had upgraded from drizzle to tantrum; rain slammed the corrugated bus roof like it wanted refunds. Seats filled fast; partners were chosen by survival instinct. Priya hovered, bag clutched to chest, when Aarav patted the vinyl beside him.
"It's just a seat," he said. "Not a marriage proposal."
She sat, hyper-aware of the inch of air between their arms. The bus lurched into a pothole; water splashed the windows. Inside, conversations shrank to whispers of "Did you see her story?" and "He scored 97, but still, Papa wants Allen coaching."
Priya stared at the foggy glass. "Your parents expect ninety-nine, right?"
Aarav rubbed a circle in the condensation. "Ninety-five is the baseline. Every mark below is deducted from their retirement plan."
She laughed before she could stop herself. "That's messed up."
"Tell them." He traced another circle. "Dad says engineering is family tradition. Grandfather built bridges, father builds start-ups, I build… PowerPoints."
Priya snorted. "My mom's a dentist. She wanted me to 'experience India' before we head back to Muscat. No roadmap, just vibes. Drives her nuts when I ask what's next."
"Must be nice," he said, voice flat.
"No, it's terrifying." She hugged her knees and shoes squeaking against the metal rail. "At least your ceiling is visible. Mine keeps moving."
Aarav considered that. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto his collar; a dark bloom spread. Without script or permission, he said, "I write songs. Trashy ones. Never showed anyone."
Priya felt the confession land like a warm coin in her palm. "Why trashy?"
"Because they're not about grades or heat islands. They're about… wanting out. That's not syllabus-approved."
She turned with her knees bumping into his. "Maybe the city needs a soundtrack, not another spreadsheet."
His eyes did something complicated, like hope flicking on, then dimming. "Syllabus pays the bills."
"Bills can wait. We're sixteen."
"Seventeen," he corrected.
"Ancient," she grinned.
The bus braked; her shoulder knocked his. They stayed like that, pressed together, neither shifting away until the doors hissed open at Lotus Valley gates.
That night, the rain took a breather, leaving puddles that mirrored sodium streetlights. Priya sat on the dining table, phone glowing like a trapped firefly. Her mother clattered utensils in the kitchen, humming an old Malayalam tune. On screen was the group chat that was now renamed "Heat Island Heroes" by Rishi. New message from Jhanvi:
Screenshot. 09:47 pm.
Aarav's Spotify playlist was private till an hour ago but now it floated in the chat. Song titles in bold:
1. Concrete Aquarium
2. 95 and Falling
3. Out of Syllabus
4. Lotus Eater
Below, Tara had typed: "Guess our boy's got FEELINGS. Who's the muse, huh?"
Priya's stomach caved in. She scrolled up; forty-three messages already, emojis multiplying like bacteria. Someone had superimposed heart-eyes on Aarav's display pic. Someone else wrote: "Project partners by day, Bollywood by night."
Her thumbs hovered, useless. Defending him would fan flames; silence felt like betrayal. She tapped into the chat:
"Guys, maybe he just likes music?"
Typing bubbles burst. Arjun: "Look who's online "
Tara: "Relax, Pri. We're appreciating art."
Rishi: "Leak of the week. Next: memes."
Priya's phone vibrated with personal message, Aarav:
"Did you see?"
She swallowed. "Yes. I'm sorry."
Three dots. Gone. Returned.
"Did YOU share it?"
Her heart slammed. "No!"
Dots vanished. No reply again.
She called. Rang out. Called again, and it went straight to voicemail.
Tuesday morning, the sky looked hungover, and it clouds the color of damp ash. Priya spotted Aarav near the cycle stand, helmet dangling. She jogged over, shoes splashing.
"I didn't leak it," she said before hello.
He didn't meet her eyes. "Only four people on that bus knew. Jhanvi, Rishi, you, me."
"And half the school can guess passwords," she shot back. "Or maybe your privacy settings suck."
His jaw tightened. "Thanks for the technical support."
"I'm trying to help."
"Help?" He exhaled a brittle laugh. "Yesterday you called my life laminated. Today it's public. Congratulations."
Priya felt the word slap hotter than the humid air. Around them, students streamed past, earbuds in, gossip receptors wide open. Somewhere, a phone camera clicked.
She stepped closer, with voice low. "Believe what you want, Aarav, but I know what it's like to have pieces of you passed around like free samples. I didn't do it."
His eyes flicked to hers ,anger cracked just enough for doubt to seep through. He opened his mouth, but the first bell shrilled. Priya turned away first, shoulders squared, and walked into the building without looking back.
Behind her, Aarav remained beside the cycles, rain starting again, thin and needling. He opened their chat, thumb over the keyboard, but no words arrived. The screen auto-locked on his reflection and his eyes red at the rims, hair plastered flat, a boy who'd mistaken confession for safety.
Inside, Priya climbed the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, she realised her phone was still in her hand with knuckles white. She wanted to hurl it, to hear it smash like cheap bangles. Instead, she tightened her grip until the case creaked. A hairline fracture spidered across the glass small, jagged, and irreversible.
She stared at it, breathing hard, and knew nothing between them would be unbroken again.