The alarm rang before the sun even bothered to climb above the rooftops.
Yeshwanth groaned, rubbed his face, then smiled for no reason he could name. Maybe it was the faint smell of filter coffee from the kitchen… or maybe it was her—the new girl, Jeevika.
He sat at the edge of his bed, heart already restless. The morning light slipped through his curtains like thin ribbons, painting the wall in gold. His phone buzzed—Arjun's message:
"Bro, early bus today. Don't be late, lover boy ."
Yeshwanth shook his head, chuckling. He hadn't even talked properly with Jeevika yesterday. Just a few words, a few smiles. But those smiles had stayed in his mind all night.
His mother's voice echoed from the kitchen, "Yeshwanth! You'll miss breakfast again?"
"I'll eat on the way, Amma!" he replied, rushing into his shirt, still half-buttoned.
Outside, the street was damp from last night's drizzle. The smell of wet soil clung to the air. Every little thing—the chirping sparrows, the distant honk of the bus—felt brighter, sharper. He replayed her voice in his head, that soft "hi" she'd said yesterday. It felt like the start of something new, something fragile.
Some feelings come softly, like dawn—but not all dawns bring warmth.
He didn't know why that line slipped into his thoughts. He pushed it away and walked faster toward the bus stop, heart quietly racing.
The college bus roared into view, already half-filled. The driver waved impatiently. Yeshwanth hopped on, eyes scanning instinctively for one face.
Today the bus was more crowded than usual; another route's bus had broken down. Students squeezed into every corner, balancing bags and laughter.
And there she was.
Jeevika stood near the middle, her ponytail brushing her shoulder as she looked for a seat. The sunlight caught her silver earrings, and for a second, everything around her blurred.
Beside Yeshwanth, Arjun nudged him. "Bro, destiny is literally standing right there."
Keerthi, sitting across the aisle, grinned. "Yeshwanth's seat has a vacancy, Jeevika! Go on!"
She smiled politely. "Are you sure?"
"Of course," Yeshwanth said before his brain could second-guess his mouth.
She sat beside him, carefully placing her tote bag on her lap. The faint scent of jasmine shampoo reached him, subtle and warm. Arjun whispered, "You've been waiting for this moment since the semester began."
Yeshwanth gave him a glare that could melt steel. "Shut up, macha."
Jeevika chuckled softly. "You two fight like brothers."
"We kind of are," he said, embarrassed. "I'm Yeshwanth, by the way."
"I know," she said. "You're the senior everyone calls the calm one. I didn't expect that."
"Calm?" Arjun snorted. "He panics when Wi-Fi drops."
They laughed, and the bus rolled on. The morning light slid through the window bars, cutting golden lines across their faces. For a while, they talked about classes, movies, and the pain of morning attendance.
Then, in a small pause, Jeevika's eyes drifted across the aisle—toward a senior wearing a gold-framed watch, tapping on his iPhone. Her expression softened for a second, curiosity flashing through her gaze before she caught herself and looked away.
Yeshwanth noticed. Something in his chest pricked, but he quickly buried it.
Don't overthink, man. You just met her.
"So," he asked, trying to sound casual, "you from around here?"
She smiled faintly. "Not exactly. My family lives in Anna Nagar. Dad runs a company. People say we're… prestigious or whatever."
"Wow," he said. "Then I'm the boring middle-class hero of this anime."
She laughed, that clear, careful laugh that didn't reach her eyes.
The bus jolted, brushing her shoulder against his arm. He froze. She didn't move away.
When they finally reached campus, she turned to him. "It was nice talking to you, senior."
"Same here," he said. "Can I… maybe follow you on Insta?"
She hesitated, then smiled. "Sure. But I barely use it."
He took that as a yes. And just like that, they were friends.
The library was quiet that afternoon, except for the whirr of ceiling fans and the soft thud of books being set down. Yeshwanth found Jeevika at a table near the window, her hair falling over her notebook as she scribbled something.
He walked up awkwardly. "Need company?"
She looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Only if you can code faster than I can panic."
He laughed and sat down, pulling out his laptop. "Show me."
For the next hour, they shared notes and whispered about syntax errors. At one point, she leaned close to read his handwriting and said, "You write like a teacher. Neat and disciplined."
"Too disciplined for a free spirit like you?" he teased.
She giggled. "Maybe."
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen under the table, typing something quickly before locking it again. When she looked back up, her smile was bright—too bright.
"So, Yeshwanth," she said, pretending to stretch, "what does your family do?"
"Dad works at a government office. Mom's a teacher."
"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "Stable life."
He grinned. "Guess so. What about you?"
"Dad's in business. We don't talk about it much at home. Too many expectations."
She said it lightly, but her tone carried a weight that didn't match her expression.
He wanted to ask more, but she quickly changed the subject. "Do you believe in luck?"
"Sometimes."
"Then maybe we met because of luck," she said with that practiced half-smile.
His chest tightened. He wanted to believe that.
When they finished, she packed her bag. "Thanks for helping, senior. You're sweet."
"Anytime."
As she walked away, sunlight framed her figure through the library window.
Yeshwanth didn't see her check her phone again, fingers typing fast, a faint blush rising on her face.
That night, Yeshwanth couldn't sleep. The fan hummed, the world was quiet, and yet his heart felt restless. He tossed, turned, then drifted into a dream so vivid it felt like memory.
He stood in a mist-filled field. The old banyan tree from his school days stood there, its roots curling like veins of time. The air shimmered with soft blue light.
And then he saw her—Nila.
She looked the same as always: calm, patient eyes, hair fluttering in an unseen breeze. She smiled sadly.
"Yeshwanth," she said softly. "You're chasing light in a mirror."
He blinked. "Nila? What are you talking about?"
She stepped closer, the mist swirling around her ankles. "You're seeing a reflection, not the source. Mirages fade when the heart grows thirsty."
He frowned. "You mean Jeevika? She's… she's different. She understands me."
"Does she?" Nila's tone was gentle, not mocking. "Or do you just want her to?"
"I'm not imagining it," he said, voice trembling slightly. "She makes me feel alive."
Nila smiled, that familiar ache behind it. "Then I hope she keeps you alive, too."
Before he could reply, the mist thickened. Her silhouette faded, leaving him alone beneath the ghostly tree.
He woke up sweating, heart pounding. The clock read 3:07 a.m. The room was silent, moonlight spilling across his desk. He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
"Just a dream," he whispered. "Nila always worries too much."
But deep inside, something in his chest trembled.
Scene 5 — The Hidden Message
The next evening, Yeshwanth sat at his desk, the room dim except for the glow of his phone screen. He typed slowly:
"Goodnight, Jeevika . Today was nice."
The typing dots appeared… then her reply:
"Goodnight, senior . Sleep early, tomorrow's class at 8!"
His heart warmed. He smiled, set the phone aside, leaned back in his chair.
Then, a few seconds later, his phone buzzed again—a new message, from the same contact.
He frowned. Opened it.
"Haha you're too much can't wait for our date tomorrow "
For a second, he thought it was meant for him. But then the next line appeared:
"Don't let that library guy see us again"
The world stopped.
His heartbeat slowed, every thud echoing like thunder inside his skull.
He read it again, just to be sure.
The words didn't change.
His hand trembled. He didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing until the fan's hum grew unbearably loud. Slowly, he locked the phone and placed it face-down on the desk.
Outside, a motorcycle passed, its tail light vanishing into the dark street. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
He looked at the ceiling, blank and gray.
His lips moved without sound.
So… this is what a mirage feels like.
The phone buzzed again—another message, hurried this time:
"Sorry! Wrong person please ignore that!"
He stared at the screen, an empty laugh escaping his throat. The message might have been innocent to anyone else, but to him it was the sound of glass cracking.
He didn't reply.
He sat there, still and hollow, the glow from the phone painting his face in cold blue light. Outside, the night stretched endless, indifferent.
And for the first time since he met her, the sweetness in his chest began to fade—replaced by something colder, sharper.
Maybe Nila was right.
Maybe dawn didn't always bring warmth.
Later, lying on his bed, he thought about everything—the laughter on the bus, the soft way she said his name, the dream, the message.
He closed his eyes and saw her again, smiling, sunlight flickering across her hair. Only this time, the scene felt distant, like a memory played on a cracked screen.
He whispered into the dark,
"Jeevika… who are you really?"
No answer came, only the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, and the faint echo of Nila's voice lingering somewhere in the back of his mind:
"Mirages fade when the heart grows thirsty."
Yeshwanth didn't know yet, but this was only the beginning—the sweet mirage before the storm.