Ayesha stabbed her fork into her Caesar sad like it had personally offended her.

  She wasn’t hungry, but she needed to do something with her hands. Her legs were crossed, posture perfect, chin lifted just slightly - the mask of control. She knew how to wear it. She’d built her whole freshman persona around it.

  But her hands trembled every time she touched the metal.

  Across from her, Zara chattered with Candace and Li, who were applying lip gloss between bites of grilled chicken wraps. Two guys from the crosse team had joined them uninvited, both smug and slouched, talking about an off-campus party like they’d invented alcohol.

  No one at the table mentioned that morning after Calculus css st week.

  But everyone knew.

  They were tiptoeing around it. The silence wasn't out of respect - it was theater. And the sympathy that finally did arrive?

  Fake. Flimsy. Fvored with something rotten.

  Candace leaned in just a little and offered a sugary smile. “Are you okay, babe? I heard what happened.”

  Li chimed in. “That was so out of pocket of her. I mean, who yells in a hallway like that? So cssless.”

  “She’s clearly insecure,” Candace added. “She was just projecting.”

  Ayesha managed a tight smile. “It’s fine.”

  “No, like, really,” Candace said, tapping her tray with a manicured finger. “You handled it like a queen. You walked away, and that’s what people remember.”

  Li nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. You’re still you.”

  And there it was.

  Still you.

  Pretty. Popur. Present.

  But underneath it?

  You lost.

  Ayesha’s teeth clenched.

  She could feel eyes drifting over to their table and then sliding past - to the one on the far side of the room.

  Where the real show was happening.

  She didn’t need to look. She could feel it. Like a light on her skin.

  Laughter. Shouted jokes. LaTasha howling. Tyrel spping the table. Cami smirking like she was in on a private joke with the universe. Jorge tossing fries across the tray like confetti. Ravi nearly spat out his drink.

  And in the center?

  Bharath.

  Marisol was practically in his p.

  Sarah had her hand on his thigh.

  Ayesha finally looked.

  He was glowing.

  Not metaphorically. Not in some exaggeration.

  He glowed.

  The way people do when they’ve been chosen. Wanted. Anchored.

  A crowd buzzed around their table like moths to heat.

  Some students circled. Others sat nearby and leaned subtly closer. A few tried - pathetically - to look casual while stealing gnces.

  They’re orbiting him like he’s the sun.

  Ayesha’s sad suddenly felt dry in her mouth.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” Candace was saying, eyes darting toward Marisol. “I mean, she’s not even that pretty. Not in a ‘put-together’ way.”

  Zara shrugged. “You don’t have to be put-together when you’ve got him holding your waist like that.”

  Ayesha stiffened.

  Zara turned to her, voice light. “He really did level up, huh?”

  “He’s the same guy,” Ayesha snapped, sharper than intended. “He didn’t change.”

  Zara blinked. “No, you’re right. He didn’t. But maybe that’s what’s making it worse.”

  Ayesha’s jaw clenched.

  Zara leaned in, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “It’s just wild. The whole thing. I mean, Sarah and Marisol? Together? And him? In the middle?”

  Candace whispered, “Do you think they… like… all three of them?”

  “Obviously,” Li said, scandalized and intrigued.

  Zara tilted her head. “I mean, have you seen how they look at him? They’re not pretending. That’s not an act.”

  There was a pause.

  And then Zara added something that almost made Ayesha drop her fork.

  “I wonder what it’s like… sharing a man.”

  Ayesha turned sharply. “What?”

  Zara met her gaze with a shrug. “I’m just saying. I never thought about it before. But the way they do it… it doesn’t look pathetic. It looks kind of… intense. Equal. Like a team.”

  Candace looked baffled. “You’d share your boyfriend?”

  “Depends on the guy,” Zara said, gaze drifting back to Bharath’s table. “And the girls.”

  The conversation moved on, meandering into shallow territory about sorority mixers and new nail salons, but Ayesha was no longer listening.

  Her ears were ringing.

  Her stomach twisted.

  Zara - the girl who had once scoffed at Bharath for being “too Indian, too awkward, too uncool” - was now watching him like he was a possibility.

  A desirable one.

  And Ayesha?

  Ayesha was sitting with people who didn’t really care about her. Who saw her pain as an interesting twist to gossip over after dinner. Who only stayed close because she was still beautiful and could be leveraged socially.

  They weren’t friends.

  Not the way Marisol and Sarah were with each other.

  Not the way Jorge and Ravi ughed like brothers.

  Not the way Sarah kissed Marisol’s shoulder as she leaned across to grab a cookie from Bharath’s tray.

  Ayesha stared down at her half-finished lunch.

  When was the st time I ughed without calcuting it?

  When was the st time I told someone the truth and wasn’t scared they’d use it against me?

  When was the st time I felt… seen?

  The answer flickered in her memory like a dying light.

  August. A cab ride. Him.

  She remembered Bharath’s warm voice telling her she was brave for coming here. That she had a spark about her. That she could light up any room.

  And she’d ughed. And then thrown it away for a few pstic chairs at a prettier table.

  Now she was sitting with girls who didn’t really know her - and across the hall was the guy she’d written off, being held by two women who worshipped him.

  She swallowed hard.

  “Bathroom,” she muttered, grabbing her tray and walking away before anyone could stop her.

  Behind her, Zara’s voice trailed after, amused and still far too curious.

  “Honestly… he’s kind of magnetic, right?”