9

Samir's POV:

I messed up.

It wasn't that I said something careless-I didn't say anything at all. And maybe that was the problem. My friends had made thoughtless, cruel comments about Aditi, and I just stood there, silent. I didn't join in, but I didn't defend her either but actually I did but not in the part she overheard. And that silence, more than anything, had spoken volumes. The look in her eyes after she overheard it-it wasn't anger. It was something sharper, colder, like she'd closed a door I didn't even realize I'd been standing at.

I couldn't stop replaying it in my head, the way her expression had shifted, her tone turning clipped and distant. It wasn't what I'd meant at all, but how could I explain that to her when I wasn't sure if I even understood it myself?

Aditi was... different. She wasn't like the others I'd worked with before. She had this energy; this quiet confidence that made people take notice without her ever trying. It was easy to see why she was so popular-top grades, effortless charm, and the kind of poise that made everything she did seem flawless.

I'd been wary of her at first. Our first meeting in the cafeteria had been a disaster-two strong personalities colliding in the worst way. I thought she was arrogant, and I was certain she thought the same about me. But working with her for the event? That had been... surprising.

She was sharp, quick to spot details others missed. And more than that, she was real. She didn't fawn over me like some of the juniors did, and she didn't hold back her opinions just because I was a senior. I liked that about her.

Maybe I liked her, too.

It wasn't something I'd planned. It wasn't even something I'd realized until the misunderstanding happened. But now, sitting here with nothing but my thoughts for company, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd ruined something important.

I didn't know what it was about her that got under my skin. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, like she had nothing to prove to anyone but herself. Or maybe it was the way she didn't hesitate to call me out when I was wrong. She was so different from the picture-perfect image everyone else tried to maintain.

But now, all of that seemed out of reach.

She didn't look at me the same way anymore. When we crossed paths in the corridor, her eyes passed over me like I wasn't even there. The polite smiles she used to give me during practice were gone, replaced by a cool, detached expression that made me feel like I was just another face in the crowd.

And it hurts.

I didn't know why it hurts, but it did.

Part of me wanted to go up to her and apologize, to explain that whatever she thought I'd meant, it wasn't what I intended. But the other part of me-the part that had seen the wall she'd built-knew it wouldn't make a difference.

Aditi wasn't the kind of person to forgive easily. And honestly, I wasn't sure I deserved her forgiveness.

The thing was, I couldn't stop thinking about her.

It wasn't just guilt. It was something deeper, something I couldn't quite name. I found myself noticing little things I hadn't paid attention to before-the way she tied her hair when she was focused, the way her voice softened when she was talking to her friends, the way she carried herself like she knew exactly who she was and where she was going.

I envied that about her.

Maybe that was why I'd been drawn to her in the first place. She had this certainty about her, this unwavering sense of purpose that made me feel unsteady in comparison. While I drifted through my last year of school, caught between expectations and vague plans for the future, Aditi seemed to know exactly what she wanted-and how to get there.

And yet, I've ruined it. Whatever tentative connection we'd formed during the event had shattered in an instant, all because I hadn't spoken up when it mattered.

I replayed the moment over and over in my mind, dissecting it like a puzzle I couldn't solve. My friends had been joking-thoughtless, cruel words thrown out without a second thought. I hadn't joined in, but I hadn't stopped them either.

"She all looks and no substance," one of them said, laughing.

And then the comment that had lingered, the one I knew she have overheard.

" she did nothing but tagged along looking cute."

I could still see the way her steps faltered as she walked past, her back straight, her head held high like she was looking at me with a lot in her mind.

I'd wanted to say something, to call out my friend for being an idiot, to tell Aditi that it wasn't true. But the words caught in my throat. I'd stayed silent, and in that silence, I'd said everything she needed to hear.

Now, every time I saw her, I felt the weight of that silence between us.

She didn't give me the chance to explain, not that I blamed her. She didn't avoid me outright, but the distance she maintained was deliberate, calculated. When we passed each other in the corridors, her gaze slid right past me, like I was invisible.

It was maddening.

I wanted to grab her by the arm, to stop her and tell her that I wasn't the person she thought I was. That I respected her, admired her even. That I regretted every second of that stupid conversation and the part I'd played in it, however small.

But I didn't.

Something about the way she carried herself now-the subtle edge in her tone, the cool indifference in her gaze-stopped me every time. She'd drawn a line, and I wasn't sure I had the right to cross it.

I couldn't help but think back to the event, to the moments when things between us had felt easy, even natural. We'd been a good team, better than I'd expected. She'd challenged me, kept me on my toes, and I'd liked that . The time we had dinner together and the moments I was happy to go shopping with her.

More than that, I liked her.

I hadn't realized it at the time, of course. It was only later, after the misunderstanding, that I started to piece it together. The way my heart beat a little faster when she smiled, the way I found myself looking for her in a crowd, the way her laughter had a way of cutting through the noise and making everything else feel irrelevant.

But now, all of that is gone.

She didn't smile at me anymore. She didn't laugh when I was around. And the thought of never seeing that side of her again felt heavier than I wanted to admit.

Graduation was looming, and with it, the end of my time here. In a few months, I'd be gone, off to study abroad like my father wanted though I'm not really interested, leaving this chapter of my life behind.

But I couldn't leave without saying something to her.

I didn't know what, exactly. An apology, maybe. Or an explanation. Or just a thank you-for showing me what it meant to really care about something, for reminding me that people like her existed, people who were themselves.

I wasn't sure she'd listen. I wasn't sure she'd care. But I had to try.

Because no matter how much I told myself she was just a junior, just another face in the crowd, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was more than that. That she was someone worth knowing, worth understanding.

And maybe, just maybe, someone worth liking.

For now, though, all I could do was watch her from a distance, hoping for a chance to make things right.

If that chance never came, I'd have no one to blame but myself.