Marisol sat cross-legged on her bed, fresh out of a hot shower, her damp hair pulled into a zy bun, donning her favorite tank top and shorts. Her ptop glowed beside her, pying a muted rerun of FRIENDS, but her attention wasn’t on the screen. It hadn’t been for the past twenty minutes.

  Across the room, Mia y sprawled on the floor on a faux fur rug, her glossy teen magazine tossed aside, her chin propped up in her hand. “So…” she said, smirking. “Are we just gonna pretend you’re not obsessing?”

  “I’m not obsessing,” Marisol said, too quickly.

  Mia raised a perfectly shaped brow. “Girl, you said the word ‘gym’ three times in two minutes. That’s a new record.”

  Marisol groaned and flopped backward onto her pillow. “It’s not even about the gym.”

  “So it’s about him.”

  A beat. Then, softer, “Maybe.”

  Mia sat up. “Okay. Spill. Who is this mystery nerd turning you into a soap opera?”

  Marisol smiled despite herself. “His name’s Bharath. He’s from India. CS major. Smart as hell. But not, like, obnoxious-smart.”

  “Okay,” Mia said, intrigued. “Go on.”

  “He’s just… different, Mia. He’s kind. Like, genuinely kind. And focused. You should see him in css. He doesn’t just know the material, he gets it. And then he helps the rest of us without making it feel like he’s helping. It’s like... he makes you feel smart even when you’re completely lost.”

  Mia narrowed her eyes pyfully. “That’s hot. In a weirdly tutor-y way.”

  “It is!” Marisol sat up now, animated. “And it’s not just the brain stuff. Like, he’s been going to the gym every morning with Jorge. He’s not even out of shape. He just wants to improve. Quietly. Without announcing it to the world.”

  Mia grinned. “So you’re into gym rats now?”

  “No! I mean… he's not even trying to get jacked to impress anyone. He just… shows up. Every day. No fuss. And it’s kinda…” She hesitated, cheeks pink. “Sexy.”

  Mia burst out ughing. “Oh my god. My sister’s got it bad.”

  Marisol rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. “It’s not just that. He listens. Like, really listens. He doesn’t treat me like I owe him anything for being around me. And trust me, I’ve seen that look before. That transactional look. But Bharath? He doesn’t expect anything. Even when it’s obvious he… you know.”

  Mia nodded, catching on. “He wants you.”

  “Yeah. I can see it in his eyes sometimes,” Marisol said, quieter now. “But he never crosses a line. Never assumes.”

  “That’s rare.”

  “Right?” Marisol’s voice was hushed now, almost reverent. “It’s like… he respects the space between us. Even though we’re always together, in css, at lunch, study sessions… He still thinks I’m just being friendly. Like he’s convinced someone like me wouldn’t really be interested in someone like him.”

  Mia tilted her head. “And are you?”

  Marisol looked down at her hands. “That’s the thing. I don’t know how to expin it. He’s not the guy I thought I’d be drawn to. He’s quiet. He’s awkward. He tucks in his T-shirts sometimes. He actually does homework before it’s due. But…”

  “But?”

  “But when I’m with him, I feel... steady. Seen. I feel like I don’t have to perform. Like I can just be.”

  Mia was silent for a long moment. Then: “You know what that sounds like?”

  “What?”

  “Someone who makes you feel safe and curious. And that’s a dangerous combo.”

  Marisol ughed. “That’s terrifying.”

  “Also,” Mia added slyly, “I’ve never seen you smile this much while talking about anyone. Not even when you had that weird Freddie Prince Jr. phase.”

  “That was not a phase. And you were also obsessed.”

  “True,” Mia admitted. “But you didn’t giggle like this.”

  “I’m not giggling.”

  “You are totally giggling.”

  Marisol threw a pillow at her, but her face was warm, her heart even warmer. She flopped back onto her bed again, staring at the ceiling now.

  After a while, Mia said softly, “You think he’s the real deal?”

  “I think…” Marisol hesitated, then whispered, “I think I want to find out.”

  Elsewhere on campus… Ayesha Patel was winning.

  By every visible or intangible metric used to measure popurity, she was thriving.

  By Friday afternoon, her name had already become shorthand for untouchable beauty and smooth social dominance. Not just among the Desi crowd, but across the campus green. Freshmen whispered about her. Uppercssmen noticed her. Even professors seemed to pause a second longer when she raised her hand, which she did just often enough to show she was sharp, but never enough to seem try-hard.

  Gorgeous. Stylish. Effortlessly social. She walked through Georgia Tech like the sidewalks had been id just for her.

  There was always someone beside her. Usually the beautiful and elegant Zara, snapping gum and spouting the test gossip like an over caffeinated news anchor. But the rest of her orbit rotated constantly. A tall engineering sophomore from UGA who drove a BMW. A smirking poli-sci major with a slick haircut and suspiciously manicured eyebrows. A film studies TA who quoted Fight Club like it was scripture.

  Ayesha flitted from group to group with the ease of someone who had never learned to second-guess her welcome.

  ISA meetings. Psychology club socials. Campus mixers. Thursday night bonfires. Friday evening football games. Her face was in every poroid, her ughter in every dorm’s retelling of “who was at that party.” She had become a feature of Tech. Like the library steps or the greasy smell of Chick-fil-A.

  And yet…

  Sometimes, just sometimes, when the quad buzzed with energy, and the breeze tossed her hair just right, and her friends circled her like moths to fme… her eyes would flicker.

  Not at the cameras. Not at the compliments.

  At him. Bharath.

  She never spoke to him again. Not since that morning in Calculus, when she’d ughed too loudly, said things she didn’t quite mean, and watched Marisol throw down that casual little dagger of a comment in response.

  He hadn’t looked back since.

  And that, more than anything, lodged in her ribs like a splinter.

  She watched him from afar sometimes. Pretended not to. But she did.

  She watched the way he leaned over to help cssmates. Not to show off, not to gain anything… just to help. She watched how people slowly began sitting nearer to him in lecture halls, like he was becoming magnetic without trying. Watched how he walked with Marisol beside him, books in one hand, coffee in the other, ughing like he was home.

  Marisol.

  God, that girl.

  Too pretty. Too sure of herself. And yet somehow real. There was a rawness to her Ayesha couldn’t fake… couldn’t even mimic. The way she brushed off the stares. The way she smiled without effort. The way she never needed to own a room because she was the room.

  And Bharath looked at her like she was sunlight.

  Ayesha remembered when he used to look at her like that.

  It had only been a few minutes. That cab ride from the airport, that polite conversation about flights and majors and what they were most nervous about. But she’d seen it. That spark of admiration. That hope. That possibility.

  And maybe… she’d liked it more than she realized at the time.

  Zara had teased her once, not long after the Calculus lecture. They’d been lounging on the grass near the fountain, picking at fruit sad and watching some frat boys py frisbee shirtless.

  “You sure he’s not your type?” Zara asked, chewing on a grape.

  Ayesha ughed. Light. Breezy. “Please. I’ve moved way past that cab ride.”

  But even then, the way her eyes darted toward the CS building told a different story.

  Because the truth was: She wasn’t sure anymore.

  He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t fshy. He didn’t own a car or a leather jacket or even good shoes.

  But he had something else.

  Something she hadn’t noticed at first, or hadn’t valued.

  A quiet gravity. A kindness that didn’t seek attention. A focus that wasn’t performative. And something about the way he looked at Marisol made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t expin.

  It wasn’t just jealousy. Not exactly.

  It was… confusion.

  Why wasn’t he trying to win her over again?

  Everyone else did. Guys always circled back. Always tried one more time. Always acted like her disinterest was a challenge to overcome.

  But Bharath?

  He’d vanished. Not literally… she saw him all the time. But emotionally? Socially?

  He had disappeared from her attention like smoke.

  And the worst part?

  He didn’t even seem angry. Or hurt. Or bitter.

  He was just… living.

  Without her.

  Ayesha twirled her water bottle between her fingers, sitting alone on the stone bench near the library steps. Zara had run off to meet someone. The buzz of campus life swirled around her. Laughter, footsteps, the occasional honk from the street, but none of it touched her. Because across the green, just outside the dining hall, Marisol was ughing.

  And Bharath was standing next to her, holding a book like he always did, nodding, listening, smiling like he belonged.

  And Ayesha, the girl who had everything, suddenly felt like she had missed something important.

  Something that wasn’t interested in coming back. Not even for a second look.

  And that?

  That stung.

  She capped her water bottle too tightly, stood, and walked off with perfect posture and a face set to “unbothered.”

  But inside?

  Something small, something real, had cracked.

  And she didn’t know how to fix it. But watching him smile at someone else? That was starting to feel like the wound that wouldn't heal.