Chapter 1: The Confession in the Spotlight

The performance ended, and the auditorium burst into thunderous applause.

As the echo of claps mingled with the restless shuffling of chairs, I felt the excitement in the air, the scent of talcum powder and cheap jasmine perfume—half the girls in my batch wore the same one. From the back row, the canteen boys whistled, adding their own filmy tadka to the celebration. Even the strict college staff aunty, always on the prowl for rule-breakers, stood in a corner, grinning in approval.

A rich boy from a business family, who had been chasing me since orientation, swaggered onto the stage holding a massive bouquet of red roses:

"Ananya, I like you. Be my girlfriend."

He said it with the confidence of a movie hero, his accent polished by years at a South Mumbai convent. His friends hooted, and even the lighting operator forgot to dim the stage lights—so all eyes stayed fixed on us.

Immediately, the crowd started chanting.

"Say yes, say yes..."

A couple of juniors, faces painted with college spirit, elbowed each other, already making reels for Instagram, hoping this moment would go viral. The voices bounced off the walls, making the whole auditorium feel smaller, almost suffocating.

I glanced toward the very back of the hall, where someone watched the heartfelt confession on stage with complete indifference.

He sat with his arms folded, slouched just enough to look out of place, his face unreadable, eyes fixed on me as if nothing in this world could faze him. The noise seemed to roll off him, leaving a hush that only the two of us could feel.

Our eyes met. He tugged at the corner of his lips, stood up, and turned to leave.

Even from that distance, I noticed the way his mouth moved—like he was swallowing a hundred words he’d never speak. The string of small LED lights above the exit flickered as he stepped out, as if fate itself was pausing to watch our story.

"No, I won’t. My boyfriend would get jealous if he saw."

My words cut through the hall. The chanting stilled, replaced by an awkward silence that only a bold Indian girl could command. I didn’t even glance at the bouquet, lifted my dress, and stepped off the stage.

My palms grew clammy under the stage lights, and I suddenly wished for the comfort of my old, battered school bag instead of all these eyes on me. Still, my face stayed calm—the way Ma had taught me to walk with pride no matter what. My sandals tapped a steady beat, and as I passed the front row, I caught a whiff of the roses—too sweet, too heavy, not meant for me.

For a moment, everyone’s eyes followed my every move.

I could feel their stares, the burning curiosity, the silent calculations that would ripple through every chai break for the next week. Someone whispered my name, another giggled, but I kept my chin up, refusing to let anyone see my nerves.

I gathered up my dress and rushed forward, grabbing Rohan’s arm in one swift motion.

My bangles clinked as I clutched him, a little too tight. I could smell cement dust on his shirt—familiar, grounding. The crowd’s murmurs faded behind us like distant thunder.

Rohan’s body stiffened, but he didn’t turn around.

He flinched as if my touch had burned him, but didn’t shake me off. The worn-out strap of his bag hung from his shoulder, frayed from too many shifts at the site.

"I haven’t changed clothes yet. If your classmates see us, they’ll laugh at you."

His voice came out rough, almost embarrassed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. I saw a group of girls from my class peeking out from behind a pillar, eyes wide.

I clung to his hand, feeling wronged, and mumbled softly:

"Dekho na, I got ready just for you—won’t even look once?"

My voice trembled just a bit, like a little girl sulking for her father’s attention. I pouted, eyes downcast, the way girls do in old Bollywood films when asking for forgiveness or love. A few passersby slowed down, sensing the drama brewing.

A long silence.

Even the air grew heavier, scented with anticipation and a hint of Rohan’s sweat. The door to the auditorium creaked somewhere, echoing our hesitation.

Rohan slowly turned around. He was wearing faded cargo pants, stained with cement.

His hair stuck up in odd directions, dusted with fine particles. A faded red gamcha peeked from his pocket. He met my gaze, his eyes tired but shining with something fierce.

The classmates all shot surprised glances at us, clearly not expecting the campus queen to have such a boyfriend.

I could almost hear their thoughts: “Why her?” “Does she really love him?” “How can she walk around with someone like that?” The snide smiles, the subtle rolling of eyes—every shade of judgment an Indian college could muster.

His back was straight, and his voice tinged with helplessness:

"Let go. My hands are dirty."

He wiped his palms against his cargo pants, as if trying to rub away years of hard work, but the stains remained. The hands of a labourer, not a lover—at least, that’s what the world would think.

These hands were covered in calluses, rough to the touch, completely at odds with his handsome face.

For a moment, I remembered the first time he held my hand—awkward, gentle, careful not to break my bangles. The contradiction made my heart ache.

I looked up at him and smiled:

"No, you’re not dirty at all."

I gave him the same smile I’d practiced in the mirror, the one that could melt even the strictest tuition teacher’s heart. My eyes sparkled with defiance, as if daring anyone to judge us.

I shook his arm, acting cute. "I performed so well, and you’re not even going to hug me?"

I puffed my cheeks out, adding a playful tone, just to see if he’d soften. A couple of aunties nearby whispered, smiling knowingly—young love, after all.

"Stop creating a scene."

He said it through gritted teeth, but I caught the way his ears turned red, betraying his true feelings. One of his friends from the site, passing by, grinned and gave him a thumbs-up: "Bhai, full filmy scene ho gaya!"

Suddenly, I jumped up, threw my arms around his neck, and clung to him with my whole body, my long legs naturally wrapping around his waist.

I paused, heartbeat thumping, before deciding—enough of acting coy. If he wouldn’t move, neither would I. My dupatta fluttered in the air, and someone in the crowd whistled. Rohan’s eyes widened, and he stumbled a bit, but his grip on me was strong and protective, as if this was all he’d ever wanted but never dared to ask.

Rohan froze for a moment, but instinctively reached out to cover the hem of my skirt, carrying me quickly out of the venue.

He moved fast, shielding me from prying eyes, muttering under his breath, “Pagal ho gayi hai kya?” But I saw the way his lips twitched, fighting back a smile.

Hmph, a man whose words never match his heart.

My cheeks flushed as we rushed down the corridor, the echoes of our laughter and the distant beating of someone’s dholak from another function hall following us out. Even after we were outside, my heart fluttered with something dangerously close to happiness.

Rohan didn’t put me down until we reached the hostel building.

We dodged the watchman, who gave us a suspicious glare, and climbed the stairs two at a time, my anklet chiming with every step. By the time we reached my floor, I was a little out of breath, but grinning.

Then, out of nowhere, he said,

"Why did you do that?"

His voice was low, almost hurt, like he couldn’t understand why I’d chosen him in front of everyone. The corridor light flickered, casting shadows on his face.

The Ananya from before wouldn’t even let him come to college to see her, let alone hug him in public.

I remembered overhearing girls say, “She’s so stuck up, na? Never lets her boyfriend near campus.” It was true. The old Ananya would have pretended not to know him if their worlds collided.

"Aren’t you my boyfriend?"

I said it softly, almost challenging him. For a second, I thought I saw something break in his eyes—a wall he’d built for himself.

Rohan stared at me, his eyes reflecting a look I couldn’t decipher. After a while, he smiled and said,

"Since you’re my girlfriend, then come with me somewhere."

He took my hand, rough and warm, and for a fleeting moment, I believed everything could change.

I stared at Rohan’s retreating back, my mind racing—had I just chosen the wrong hero, or was this the start of something bigger?