One week has gone by since the new semester started.
I had by now memorized all the sounds of this class already — the murmurs before roll call, the groan of the old ceiling fan, even the creak of PK's chair every time he turned to make a joke.
But recently, there was another voice in the mix.
Nikita.
She'd already befriended nearly everyone. Teachers appreciated her etiquette, boys admired her smile, and the girls appreciated the fact that she did not behave superiorly. She was perfect on the surface — too perfect.
I didn't approach her at first.
After all, I'd learned my lesson in the past — appearances are deceiving quicker than it takes to blink.
However, she never directly targeted me. She befriended my friends — PK, Krrish, even that pesky kid from the second bench who wouldn't leave me alone and ask for pens all the time. She positioned herself just far enough not to raise suspicions… but close enough to find out about me.
I caught on — of course, I did.
Her smiles during team work, her efforts to share laughter at jokes from my table, even her stealthy manner of joining conversations I was having.
I didn't respond.
Merely watched.
Then one day, PK took her over.
"Hey, Krishanu! Meet Nikita properly. She's actually cool once you speak."
She smiled, "Hi, finally we speak."
"Yeah," I said merely, nodding once.
That was all.
Nothing fishy. Just courteous smiles and exchanged greetings.
Days became weeks, and weeks became a month.
She didn't do anything strange. She wasn't needy, didn't flirt, didn't gossip about me. Maybe… I was mistaken about her. Maybe she was just really nice.
Eventually, we started talking more — lightly at first. About classes, exams, miscellaneous things. She was smart, witty when she needed to be, and surprisingly conversational.
It was another month before she confided in me entirely.
One of those subdued lunch breaks when the majority of the class was outside. She sat beside me and leaned in, quivering almost.
"Krishanu… may I share something intimate with you?"
I nodded.
She paused before speaking, "I had a boyfriend before. In my previous school. He cheated on me."
Her voice faltered, and her gaze fell to her lap.
I didn't utter a word. I just listened.
"He told me I wasn't enough," she whispered. "And when I discovered the truth, I promised myself I'd never trust anyone again."
Her words cut deeper than I anticipated.
I'd been there — betrayed, shamed, left asking myself what I'd done wrong. I could understand. For the first time, I looked not at Nikita, the transfer student, but at somebody who'd endured the same pain.
At least, I thought.
I didn't know it at the time, but I was being drawn in — not out of affection, but out of sympathy.
And sympathy can be a killer when it masquerades as love.
Two weeks went by, and she confessed to me.
"I like you," she said one afternoon, her voice firm but her eyes wavering.
I stopped breathing.
Not because I didn't see it coming — but because I felt nothing.
Maybe pity. Maybe guilt.
But not love.
Though, I couldn't say no to her.
She'd been hurt before, and I didn't want to be another name in her book of pain. So I nodded.
"Okay," I whispered.
She smiled — sincerely, perhaps — and hugged me gently. My heart didn't pound. My hands didn't tremble. It wasn't love. It was duty.
We were "together" from that day on.
But in reality, I kept my distance. I didn't call her every night, didn't text constantly, didn't act like those couples who thought love was a full-time job.
She didn't mind. Or maybe she pretended not to.
At that time, I didn't know I was being manipulated — that the sympathy I felt was exactly what she wanted.
I'd been cheated once. She'd been cheated once.
I thought our scars connected us.
But I was mistaken.
For while I was attempting to shelter a broken person,
she was diligently discovering means of shattering me once more.
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