Chapter 4: Regret and Reunion

**Three.**

After that, I lost contact with the Stephen's senior.

Even though it was just a fleeting online romance,

Her presence lingered, like the sweet aftertaste of jalebi on my tongue. Sometimes, her voice echoed in my head when I solved tricky problems or heard someone mention St. Stephen’s. I wondered if she missed me too.

when I started college and passed by the gates of St. Stephen's,

The old red-brick archway loomed against the blue Delhi sky, flanked by a row of stately neem trees. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant clang of a cycle rickshaw bell. I stood still, letting the city swirl around me, lost in my own little bubble of nostalgia.

I couldn't help but stop and stare.

A lump rose in my throat. Just for a second, I imagined walking inside, blending into the crowd of students, my dreams tangling with theirs. But it wasn’t meant to be.

My friend Kunal asked what was up.

He appeared at my side, carrying two cups of steaming chai and a mischievous grin. "Kya hua, bhai? Yeh gate ko dekhke statue ban gaya?"

Seeing the regret and longing in my eyes, I sighed, "Once, I almost went to St. Stephen's."

My voice was soft, half-lost in the traffic noise and the calls of vendors nearby. It felt like a confession, an admission of the road not taken.

"..."

He was speechless and dragged me towards the library.

Kunal rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and hooked his arm around my shoulder. "Arrey, drama mat kar. Library chal, warna koi seat nahi milegi!" He half-dragged me across the lawn.

"Honestly, every IIT Delhi student says that when they pass by here. Come on, or there won't be any seats left in the library."

Me: "..."

I had to laugh. It was true—a rite of passage for every IITian to sigh wistfully at St. Stephen’s. What a humblebrag, indeed.

So true and refreshingly honest—what a humblebrag.

We shared a chuckle, and some of the heaviness lifted from my heart.

Sure enough, when we got to the library, there were no seats left.

The reading hall was packed, the air thick with the scent of old books and sweat. Fans whirred uselessly overhead as students guarded their desks like tigers protecting their territory.

Kunal wailed:

"Are these people monsters? They got into IIT Delhi and they're still this competitive?"

He threw his hands up dramatically, making a few seniors look over and chuckle. "Yeh toh hadh hai, yaar!"

Every seat was taken. There were a few left in the reading area, but after hearing all sorts of languages and accents, we decided the "silent reading" area was more precious.

The hum of voices was like a mini-India—snippets of Tamil, Bengali, Punjabi, Hindi, and English blending together in an academic cacophony. Kunal grimaced. "Bas, let's stick to the quiet side."

"Hey, I see a seat over there!" Kunal patted me excitedly, then rushed over to negotiate with someone.

A few seconds later, he waved at me.

"Rohan, come here, there's a seat!"

He had already charmed his way into someone’s good graces, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

I walked over and caught their conversation:

"No need to be polite. Are you freshers?"

"Yes," Kunal grinned, sounding delighted.

Across from him sat a delicate-looking girl. I quietly sat down and noticed the seat across from me was empty but had books on it.

Her dupatta was draped neatly over her shoulder, and she wore the tired but proud smile of a senior student. I glanced at the stack of books—a neat row of reference guides, one battered by years of use.

"You should call me 'senior.' I'm a few years ahead of you—I'm a postgrad now."

"Wow, really? Can't tell—impressive."

While I was wondering if someone else was coming, Kunal had already added her on WhatsApp.

I watched him type away, always quick to make friends, while I busied myself arranging my books.

After we all sat down, the area went quiet again. I lowered my head to read.

After a while, I felt the light dim in front of me and caught a pleasant scent. A slender figure pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.

She glided into the seat with the silent grace of someone used to moving unnoticed through crowded spaces. A faint whiff of sandalwood drifted over, mixing with the scent of old paper.

Then came a hushed conversation:

"Did your guide call you in again?"

"Mm, there was an error in some data. I had to recalculate."

The first voice was the girl who gave us the seat. The second voice was unfamiliar, but especially pleasant.

It was soft, measured, and full of a quiet confidence that made me sit up straighter.

I glanced up and saw a pretty girl with glasses sitting across from me—long, straight black hair, dusky skin, thick lashes, and especially beautiful eyes, like something out of a Bollywood poster.

For a split second, I wondered if she was someone famous. Her eyes were sharp but carried a hint of melancholy, like the heroines in old Hindi films.

She seemed to sense my gaze and looked up. The moment our eyes met, I saw her face clearly—so beautiful it took my breath away.

I quickly looked down, cheeks flushing, hoping she hadn’t noticed my awkward staring.

But this Bollywood-like girl just glanced at me coolly. Then, when she saw the professional textbook in front of me, a hint of surprise flashed in her eyes.

She asked, "Polymer Materials and Engineering? Is that your major?"

Her English was crisp, but she threw in a little head tilt that was pure Delhi.

Huh? She actually spoke to me.

I nodded.

I studied science in school, and thanks to the 'Stephen's Reject' senior, my grades were always good. So after getting into IIT Delhi, I chose this major directly.

Maybe it was my imagination, but the girl across from me smiled slightly. "Not bad."

Her lips curved in a subtle smile, almost approving—like a teacher pleased with a favourite student.

I was puzzled, and the senior next to her kindly added, "What a coincidence, we're in the same major."

Wow, what a coincidence—a direct senior!

It felt like fate, the way only Indian college stories can feel. I grinned awkwardly, feeling both nervous and lucky.

"Hello, senior," I greeted politely.

The girl across from me just said, "Mm," and adjusted her dupatta over her shoulder, her gaze flicking away in a dismissive gesture that felt very familiar. Her attitude was even colder now, her body language drawing a line between us.

"Don't mind her. Our Meera is always like this," the other senior said.

I smiled and didn't take it to heart.

Some girls just had that air about them—aloof, mysterious, maybe even a little intimidating. I let it go, busying myself with my notes.