Anjali was the kind of girl who blended in, not because she had to — but because she wanted to. With her nose buried in books, a reserved expression always in place, and answers limited to "hmm," "yes," "no", she had unknowingly built walls around her. Most found her mysterious, some thought she was arrogant, but none really tried to understand the silence she wore like a shield.
Until he showed up.
Major Aryan Singh Rathore, Indian Army's Para SF Commando, trained to survive in the harshest terrains, to lead with a mind of steel and a heart full of buried scars. He had come to her university to meet his best friend's younger brother — a boy studying in the same department as Anjali.
He didn't expect anything unusual that day.
Just a short visit to Delhi — meet his best friend Aarav's younger brother Vivaan at the university, check how he's doing, and head back to his base in Leh.
No drama. No distractions.
But fate has a weird sense of humor.
While waiting near the university lawns, Aryan's eyes wandered around. Students rushed past, laughter echoed, bikes zoomed in and out.
And then —
He saw her.
She sat cross-legged on the corner bench under the gulmohar tree. Kurti over jeans, one hand resting on her sketchpad, the other dancing slightly with bangles that clinked as she moved. Earphones plugged in, eyes focused, completely lost in the world she was drawing.
Unbothered. Untouched. Quiet.
He didn't know why, but something about her stilled the chaos in his mind — the very chaos years in the Para SF had stitched into him.
"Who is she?" he mumbled to himself.
She looked up for a moment. Their eyes met.
She raised a brow, gave the blink-and-miss nod people give strangers — then returned to her sketch.
Aryan tilted his head, amused.
"Hmm. No smile?"