Second period began, but Anvi was still there.
Same bench.
Same window.
Same boy pretending not to care.
Rutvik noticed before she even sat properly.
She arranged her books neatly again, same way as the morning. No complaint. No hesitation. As if the last bench had always been hers.
He kept glancing at her—too often to be accidental.
Anvi felt it.
That weight of someone’s eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but finally whispered without looking up,
“Is there something on my face?”
He smirked. Nah. Just… you don’t belong here.”
She paused her pen. “Neither do you. Yet here we are.”
That shut him up.
Throughout the day, teachers came and went. Periods blurred. Rutvik barely opened his books, but somehow—whenever a question came his way—he answered right.
Only because Anvi slid answers quietly toward him.
By fourth period, people noticed.
“Oye Rutvik,” one of his friends whispered loudly, “tu topper ke saath permanent shift ho gaya kya?”
Hmm aur lagta hai Malhotra ko sharma pasand aagai
Another laughed. “Careful, Sharma. Bad boy ka effect lag jaata hai.”
Anvi’s fingers tightened around her pen.
Rutvik turned slowly.
“Bas,” he said.
They froze.
“Class mein ho ya corridor mein,” he continued, voice flat, “limit mein rehna. Samjhe?”
The laughter died instantly.
No one argued.
Because everyone knew—Rutvik never warned twice.
Lunch break came.
Anvi sat at her usual quiet corner, opening her tiffin. Within minutes, the same boys appeared again—this time pretending it was “normal talk.”
“Ghar ka khana daily?”
“Marks share karogi?”
Before Anvi could even respond, a chair scraped loudly.
Rutvik pulled one out and sat beside her.
“Lunch over ho gaya tum logon ka,” he said, not looking at them.
“Ya aur insult sunni hai?”
They left. Quickly.
Anvi stared at her tiffin. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not doing it for show.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
“And why are you doing it?” she asked.
He met her eyes. “Because some things shouldn’t be touched.”
That made her uncomfortable.
And safe.
The last bell finally rang.
Students rushed out, relieved and loud. Outside the gate, bikes lined up, horns blaring.
Rutvik stood beside his black bike, helmet in hand. He didn’t start it immediately.
He waited.
Anvi walked out moments later—with her elder brother.
Tall. Calm. Dressed sharp. Phone in one hand, car keys in the other. The kind of man people automatically stepped aside for. A businessman—successful, composed.
Rutvik noticed the way Anvi’s posture softened near him.
Her brother opened the car door for her. Before getting in, Anvi turned.
Her eyes found Rutvik.
He was already looking.
For a second, the noise faded again.
He gave her a small nod. No smile. Just… acknowledgment.
She returned it.
The car drove off.
Rutvik put on his helmet, started his bike, and rode away—but slower than usual.
Because some days don’t end when the bell rings.
Some days start something that follows you all the way home.
Different worlds.
Same bench.
And a story that was no longer accidental. 🌸✨
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