Revelation

The cold war between Rishi and the girl had reached an intensity that even silence couldn't hide. Their classmates were no longer just curious—they were uncomfortable. Every classroom project, every accidental eye contact, felt like standing between two storms about to erupt. Yet neither Rishi nor the girl made an attempt to end the hostility. If anything, it seemed as though they were fueling it.

One cloudy afternoon, Rishi stayed back late after class. He walked out to the near-empty college parking lot, lost in thought. The day's events had drained him—another argument, another clash, another cold stare that lingered longer than it should have.

As he unlocked his bike, he looked up—and froze.

Across the lot, a girl stood next to her scooty, fixing her scarf. The way she moved, the way she held herself, and most importantly, the eyes—sharp, intense, and familiar. For a moment, time stalled. It was her. The same eyes that had haunted his memories. The same eyes he'd sketched again and again in his notebook.

"It's her… it has to be," Rishi whispered.

He didn't approach her. Not yet. He simply observed. But something in his gut told him—this wasn't a coincidence. He needed answers.

—

That night, he sat at his desk, flipping through the pages of his notebook. Every page had fragments of a memory—eyes, hands, the scarf, and once, a faint outline of a girl holding him as he bled. It was blurry. But now he was sure.

He picked up his phone and started searching. He remembered the night he was taken to the hospital—he recalled the name of the staff, the nurse, even the security guard who helped at the gate. It had been months, but Rishi's mind, sharpened by obsession, remembered every detail.

He found a nurse named Rekha who had been on duty that night. After a couple of phone calls and convincing words, he managed to speak to her.

"Yes, I remember you," she said over the phone. "You were unconscious. A girl brought you in. She was in a panic… refused to leave until we assured her you were stable."

"Did she say her name?"

"No. But she was wearing a pink scarf and had a bruise on her right hand. Looked like she'd fallen earlier."

Rishi's grip on the phone tightened. It matched. He remembered seeing a faint bruise that night.

He thanked the nurse and ended the call, his heartbeat pounding in his chest. The final confirmation came the next day, when he spotted the same girl adjusting her sleeve during class—a faint scar on her wrist, exactly where he remembered.

It was her.

—

Later that evening, Rishi sat on the terrace with Raj and Rajiv. They had noticed a strange quietness about him again—not his usual anger or detachment, but a strange storm brewing beneath the surface.

"I need to tell you something," he said finally.

Raj leaned forward. "Is this about the war girl?"

Rishi nodded. "It's her. The one who helped me. That night."

Rajiv sat up straighter. "You're sure?"

"More than sure."

They exchanged glances. Raj looked almost amused. "Wow. Life's got jokes."

Rajiv, however, looked concerned. "And now?"

Rishi looked away. "I don't know. She hates me. I treated her like garbage. She thinks I'm the villain."

"Because to her, you were," Rajiv said gently. "She didn't tell you she helped you. That means she never wanted anything in return."

"And I gave her pain in return."

Raj chuckled dryly. "Bro, you didn't just give her pain. You threw a full buffet of insults."

Rishi exhaled sharply. "What do I even do?"

"Fix it," Rajiv said. "But not with words. Not yet. You'll know when."

—

Meanwhile, Niharika—yes, the girl Rishi now knew as Niharika—was battling her own chaos.

She had always known it was Rishi. From the moment she saw him again in the parking lot that day, she had known. But seeing the kind of person he had become had stirred something inside her. Disappointment? Yes. But also something deeper.

She had cared that day—seeing him hurt, alone, vulnerable. She had carried him into the hospital with trembling arms. But now, watching him fuel hatred and pride—she doubted if that boy was still somewhere inside him.

She hadn't told anyone. Not even her closest friend. Not about the hospital. Not about the picture she still kept locked away in her phone. A single photo—of Rishi lying unconscious in the emergency room. It wasn't for memory's sake. It was proof. Proof that once, he needed saving—and she had answered.

She paced her room, her emotions swirling.

"He doesn't deserve an explanation," she muttered. "He made his opinion clear."

But her heart refused to be convinced.

—

The next day in college, Rishi stole a glance at her. She looked calm. Cold. Unbothered.

But something in her eyes had shifted. It wasn't just hate anymore.

It was pain.

He wanted to say something—but stopped himself. Rajiv's words echoed in his mind. "You'll know when."

Right now wasn't that time.

As the lecture ended and students filed out, Rishi stayed seated, his fingers tracing the edge of the bench.

He looked down at his notebook.

Then flipped to a fresh page.

And began to write.

No poetry. No sketches.

Just a name.

Niharika.

He underlined it once.

And for the first time in weeks, closed the notebook with a strange calm in his heart.

The war hadn't ended.

But he finally knew who he was fighting.

To be continued...