CHAPTER 42
Too many distractions
POORVI
The blinking cursor on my laptop screen mocks me. It’s not moving forward, not turning into the neat paragraphs it’s supposed to. Just sitting there, flashing, like it knows I’ve wasted too much time already.
This assignment was due yesterday. Technically, I’ve been given an extension—one week, no more—but every time I try to focus, my mind wanders.
First, it was the incident. Everyone’s eyes on me, whispers curling in the air, some sympathetic, some sharp, all of them leaving invisible marks on my skin. Then it was… Vihaan.
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I even let myself think about it properly.
Last night. The way he kissed me like I was something precious. The way his touch made me forget every fear I’d been carrying. The way his forehead rested against mine when he whispered “I love you” like it was a vow.
No, no, no. Stop. Focus, Poorvi.
I shake my head, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes as if I can rub the memory away. But it’s there, stubborn and alive, replaying in pieces: his laugh against my skin, his gentleness, the way my name sounded in his voice when I gave in and let go.
And now here I am—staring at a half-written assignment that looks like it’s been chewed and spat out by a bored child. Because instead of research, instead of analysis, all my brain can seem to process is Vihaan.
I groan and flop back on the chair, glaring at the open document. “Useless,” I mutter to myself. “Absolutely useless.”
It’s not even just the distraction. I didn’t manage to get the reference book from the library, the one I’d been building my arguments on.
Without it, my citations are a mess. The thought of walking into that wing makes my stomach churn.
My feet freeze every time I try. It’s like invisible chains hold me back, reminding me of that day—of the voices, the stares, the humiliation.
I could ask someone from the staff to fetch it for me.
That option dangles in my mind like a rope waiting to be grabbed.
But then what? Everyone already knows. They’d see me avoiding that corridor, see me sending someone else to do what I should.
Weak. Entitled. I can practically hear the snide comments now.
Of course, she couldn’t face it. Of course, she hides behind others.
No. I won’t do that.
But that means… no book. No proper assignment. And a lecturer who’s already waiting for me to slip.
I run a frustrated hand through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots. Why can’t I just… be normal about this? Why can’t I just walk in, grab the damn book, and leave?
My thoughts flicker to Meher and Sitara.
Their faces when everything had unfolded—Meher’s sharp intake of breath, Sitara’s wide-eyed horror.
They’d reacted so differently, yet both had burned into my memory.
Meher had tried to mask her worry, slipping into that calm, composed voice she uses when she’s rattled but refuses to admit it.
It’s okay, Poorvi. Just breathe. You’re not alone.
And Sitara—she’d looked like she wanted to cry. It wasn't pity, I know that because I know she’s an empathetic person. Her emotions had crackled in the air, protective and furious, her arm slipping around me even as her voice shook. We’ll handle this. He doesn’t get to do this to you.
Both of them had stayed, had been anchors when I wanted to dissolve into the ground.
And yet, the shame still clings, stubborn as smoke in my lungs.
But a small smile still makes its way on my lips thinking how I have real people now, people who worry for me, who care for me, who don’t judge me or shame me for things that are really not in my control.
I sigh and glance back at my laptop. The cursor blinks, blinks, blinks. Ugh.
“Are you smiling because of me?”
I jerk so violently the chair nearly tips back. My hand flies to my chest as my heart somersaults. I spin around and there he is—Vihaan—leaning against the wall like he owns it, his arms crossed, a smug smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You—” I can barely breathe. “You scared me!”
He laughs, the sound low and easy, rolling through the room like he knows exactly the effect it has on me. He pushes off the wall, strolling toward me with that careless confidence that always makes me want to both kick him and kiss him.
“What are you doing, meri jaan?” he teases, slipping into that voice he uses only with me—soft, warm, threaded with mischief.
“I…” My throat feels tight, and I blurt out before I can stop myself, “I was not thinking about you, for starters!”
The words come out too loud, almost a yell, and my face flames instantly. Perfect. Just perfect.
He blinks once, then his smile deepens, slow and amused. “Okay… I’m hurt. Kind of.”
My stomach twists. “I—I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”
Before I can finish, he leans down and kisses me, quick and sure, like it’s the easiest solution in the world. My breath catches, and when he pulls back, my heart is hammering so wildly I’m convinced it’ll break out of my chest.
“I’m kidding, Poorvi,” he says lightly, settling onto the chair beside me as if nothing monumental just happened. Meanwhile, I’m left clutching invisible air, my skin burning where his lips touched.
His gaze flickers to my laptop screen. “Doing the assignment?”
I manage a stiff nod, though my mind is far, far from academia.
“You need any help?” he asks casually, turning to look at me.
The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be. I could ask him. He wouldn’t judge me—not once has he made me feel small or weak. But the words stick in my throat anyway, tangled with fear. If I admit I can’t even walk to the library, will he see me differently?
“Poorvi—” His voice cuts through my spiral. I blink and find him watching me, concern shadowing his eyes.
“I… I had to go to the library,” I whisper, the words barely leaving my mouth. My gaze drops to my hands, twisting in my lap. “But I… I can’t seem to step towards that wing entirely.”
He hums thoughtfully, not pushing, not prying, just letting the confession sit between us. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts—light breaking through the clouds. His mouth curves into that mischievous grin again.
“Get ready at 7 p.m.,” he says, standing as if it’s already decided. “We’re going on a date. Okay?”
“What?” I gasp, staring up at him like he’s lost his mind. “A date? Vihaan, I just told you—”
“Trust me, Poorvi.” He leans down, presses a quick kiss to my forehead, and then—just like that—he’s gone.
I sit frozen, my mouth wide open, words stuck somewhere between outrage and disbelief.
Did… did I say something to suggest that? I told him I needed the library, and somehow that translated to a date in his brain?
My heart is still thudding when I glance back at my laptop. The assignment glares up at me, unfinished, forgotten, while my thoughts spiral in entirely new directions.
How do I dress? Where is he even taking me? Why didn’t he give me a chance to argue?
“Oh no,” I groan, dropping my forehead onto the desk. “Now I won’t be able to focus at all.”
The cursor keeps blinking, smug as ever. And for once, I can’t even argue because it’s right. My mind is already elsewhere—at 7 p.m., on Vihaan, on the way his eyes looked when he asked me to trust him.
And no matter how hard I try, I know there’s no coming back to the assignment today.