My name is Aarohi Sen, and if someone asked me to describe that evening in one word, I would say—
unfair.
Not tragic.
Not dramatic.
Just unfair.
Because sometimes life doesn't explode like a storm. Sometimes it just quietly pushes you into a corner and watches what you do next.
That day had already been long before the evening even started.
College was supposed to feel exciting when you turn eighteen. People say it's the age when everything begins—friendships, freedom, romance, discovering who you are.
For me, it felt like standing in a room full of strangers who had already decided who I was.
The quiet girl.
The awkward one.
The one who never talks to boys.
The one who wears sarees instead of trendy clothes.
It wasn't like I chose to be that person. I just… was.
And that afternoon, the drama in college had finally pushed my patience to its limit.
I still remembered the laughter echoing in the corridor. Not loud enough to be called bullying, but sharp enough to make my ears burn.
"Does she think she's a teacher or something?"
"Who even wears sarees at eighteen?"
"And she's never even had a boyfriend."
The words weren't new. I had heard versions of them many times before. But that day, for some reason, they stayed with me like a splinter under my skin.
So instead of going straight home, I got off the bus two stops early.
I didn't even know why.
Maybe I just needed to breathe somewhere that wasn't filled with judgment.
That's how I ended up sitting at a small biryani shop opposite a departmental store.
The place was nothing special. Plastic chairs, metal tables, the smell of spices thick in the air. People came and went without paying attention to anyone else.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
To be invisible.
I adjusted the edge of my light blue saree and sat down heavily on the chair. My bag slipped slightly from my shoulder, and I dropped it on the table with more force than necessary.
I was still angry.
Not the loud kind of anger.
The quiet, burning kind that sits inside your chest like ice.
The shop owner placed a plate of biryani in front of me. Steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of fried onions and saffron.
Normally, I loved biryani.
But that day, even the smell couldn't soften my mood.
I picked up the spoon and pushed the rice around the plate without really eating.
Scooters passed on the road. A bus honked loudly. Someone nearby laughed.
Life was continuing like nothing had happened.
Which somehow made everything worse.
I rested my chin on my palm and stared blankly at the street.
Why did people always think quiet meant weak?
Why did they assume my life was boring just because I didn't date boys or post selfies every day?
I wasn't lonely.
At least… I didn't think I was.
But sometimes their words made me question things I had never cared about before.
I sighed quietly.
And that was when I felt it.
That strange feeling people get when someone is watching them.
At first, I ignored it.
But the sensation didn't disappear.
It stayed.
Curious and persistent.
Slowly, I lifted my eyes.
Across the road stood the departmental store. Bright white lights glowed behind its glass doors, and customers moved in and out carrying plastic bags.
And inside—
There was a boy standing behind the billing counter.
He was looking directly at me.
For a moment, my mind went completely blank.
Had he been staring at me the whole time?
My eyebrows narrowed slightly as confusion mixed with irritation.
Why was a random stranger watching me eat biryani like it was some kind of show?
But then something unexpected happened.
The boy smiled.
Not in a creepy way.
Not like the boys in college who thought every smile meant flirting.
It was different.
Soft.
Almost… shy.
Like someone who had just seen something beautiful and didn't know what else to do.
I blinked.
The reaction caught me off guard.
For some reason, I didn't immediately look away.
Instead, I studied him for a second longer.
He looked ordinary—simple shirt, slightly messy hair, sleeves folded halfway up his arms.
But his eyes were warm.
And they were still looking at me.
A strange silence stretched between us across the noisy road.
Who was he?
Why was he smiling at me like that?
Before I could decide whether to be annoyed or curious, my phone rang.
The sharp sound snapped me back to reality.
I glanced at the screen.
Baba.
Of course.
I answered immediately.
"Yes, Baba… I'm here," I said softly.
He told me he was nearby and would pick me up in a minute.
I hung up and stood from the chair. The metal legs scraped lightly against the ground as I pushed it back.
My father's bike arrived just as I reached the edge of the road.
He removed his helmet and looked at me with mild concern.
"Why are you here instead of home?" he asked.
"Just felt like eating biryani," I replied casually.
He didn't question it further.
I climbed onto the back seat of the bike and held onto the metal bar behind me.
The engine roared to life.
But just before we drove away, something made me turn my head.
Across the road, inside the departmental store—
The boy was still standing there.
Still watching.
Our eyes met again.
This time, I wasn't angry.
Just… puzzled.
I had never seen him before in my life.
Yet the way he had smiled felt strangely familiar, like a moment from a dream you almost remember after waking up.
Who was he?
Why did he look at me like that?
And why did it feel like this random moment meant something… even though it probably didn't?
The bike pulled into traffic, and the departmental store slowly disappeared behind us.
But the image of that boy standing behind the glass doors stayed quietly in my mind.
I didn't know his name.
I didn't know his story.
And I definitely didn't know that our lives had just crossed paths in a way neither of us would forget.
That evening was supposed to be ordinary.
Just a girl angry after college, eating biryani alone.
But sometimes the smallest moments become the beginning of something much bigger.
And that boy across the road—
He was the first crack in the ice I had built around my life.