Fresher's Day at Zenith Engineering College was loud, chaotic, and filled with too much cologne. The auditorium buzzed like a bee trapped in a jar, full of laughter, awkward icebreakers, and that weird energy that comes with first impressions. Girls in pastel chudithars and boys in stiff formal shirts fidgeted in their plastic chairs, some trying too hard to be noticed, others pretending they didn't care. Everyone was waiting for the program to end and real college life to begin.
The stage looked like someone had tried too hard to make it festive. Balloons drooped from the ceiling like they were tired already, a bunch of fairy lights blinked off-beat, and the mic kept giving those weird screeches that made everyone wince. A wannabe stand-up comic was up there, cracking dry jokes that nobody was laughing at—except maybe one desperate senior trying to hype him up.
And in the middle of it all, Sri Mathi sat in the second row.
Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Completely detached.
She didn't laugh. Didn't smile. Didn't even glance around to make small talk like the others. She just looked straight at the stage, bored but composed. Like she was watching some school function she had no interest in.
She didn't need to do anything to stand out. She just did.
Her skin had that warm honey glow that caught the evening light. Her eyes were deep and calm, lined just enough to sharpen them, like she saw things most people missed. She wore a simple kurti, her hair in a low braid, jasmine flowers tucked in—not to attract attention, but because it reminded her of home. And somehow, even that little thing made her stand out more than all the makeup and styling around her.
She wasn't there to impress anyone. She came because attendance was compulsory.
But somewhere in her heart, she also knew—
Someone was watching her.
From the corridor. Just a few feet behind the door. Out of the spotlight, like always.
Arjun.
She hadn't seen him in two years.
Not since that birthday.
Not since the last day they got caught.
But even now, even in this sea of new faces, she knew. She didn't need proof. Her body just knew—like how you feel a shift in the air before it rains.
He was there.
He never blended in. Not even when he tried. He stood apart, not by choice, but by nature. His silence made people uncomfortable. His stillness made them uneasy. But to Sri Mathi, it felt familiar. It felt like a part of her childhood had walked back in quietly and taken a seat in the corner.
He didn't cheer. Didn't laugh. Didn't even pretend to enjoy the chaos. But he watched her. Like he always had.
And in that moment, the noise faded.
Her surroundings dulled out, like someone had muted the world. She didn't need to look back. She already knew how he'd be standing. One hand holding his bag strap. Eyes lowered. Not quite looking at her, but still... looking.
He hadn't changed.
Still quiet. Still distant. Still carrying pain in a way that didn't show up as scars but lived in his posture. In the way his shoulders curved in. The way his hands stayed deep in his pockets. The way he avoided eye contact with the world like it owed him nothing.
And it probably did owe him something.
She could never put into words what she knew about him. It wasn't like he had told her. He never did. But over the years, she had read it in his silences, in the way he flinched sometimes, in how he never smiled even as a child.
She didn't smile.
Didn't wave.
Just looked at him. For three seconds. Like muscle memory.
That was enough.
Some people don't need a "hello" to begin again.
The program dragged. There were skits, speeches, a dance that was probably last-minute rehearsed in the hostel corridor. Everyone clapped too much or too little. But Sri Mathi? She was barely present.
Her mind kept drifting.
She glanced back every now and then. Not too obviously. But enough to check.
Still there.
Still watching.
Her chest felt heavy. Not in a sad way. But in that familiar, old ache. The one she'd buried when she told herself to grow up. The ache that comes from knowing someone so deeply but never having the words to say it.
Back in school, he used to wait.
After class. Near the library. By the gate. He'd stand there like he had no other reason to exist except to make sure she walked out safely. He never said why. Never asked for anything. He just showed up.
Even when no one else did.
And now, after two years, in this giant campus, out of all the days and timings and places... he had come again. On her first day.
Still waiting.
The event finally ended. Everyone got up, buzzing with plans—selfies, group chats, café meetups. Sri Mathi stood, adjusting her bag slowly. She didn't rush out with the others. She walked toward the side corridor instead.
The one near the Management block.
He wasn't there.
She stood still, eyes scanning the corridor. It was empty now. The sunlight came through the high windows, casting golden lines across the floor. But the space where he had stood was already cold.
He was gone.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. Tight. As if she could hold onto something slipping.
She told herself it didn't matter.
But she knew better.
It mattered more than she'd ever admitted.
The sun was setting outside as she stepped into the open. The campus looked beautiful in that warm orange light. People were everywhere, laughing, posing, flirting, trying to capture the beginning of something.
But she didn't care.
Her feet led her toward the mechatronics block, almost without thinking. She wasn't searching. But she was hoping.
Just before the curve that led to the hostel gates, under the tall neem tree...
There he was.
Back against the trunk. Bag beside him. Looking down at nothing.
Her heart thudded quietly.
She didn't walk to him. She didn't call out.
She stood at a distance.
He didn't look up. Didn't move.
But she knew he knew.
And she knew he was there not just because he saw her.
He was there because he always would be.
A part of her wanted to speak. To say something casual, something simple like "Hi." But that wasn't how they worked. It never had been.
So she turned. Walked away. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough.
He didn't follow.
He never did.
But she felt the echo of him in every step.
Because sometimes, the quietest people leave the loudest echoes.
And sometimes, even silence feels like coming home.