It was an evening in February on a winter night — one of those still dusks when the wind is filled with the scent of cold iron and fried food coming from faraway stalls. I was going out to dinner with my family when I first spotted her.
Anjali.
I didn't know her name at the time. She was just a familiar face in a throng of strangers — a figure moving ahead of me, loosely wrapped scarf, hair blowing with the wind. It wasn't the sort of "love at first sight" that people speak of. It was more subtle than that. Something within me just… waited.
Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was recognition.
All I could think about was that for the first time in months, my mind had ceased to whirl around strategy, revenge, or stress.
She resided somewhere in town, several blocks away from where I lived. But that did not deter me. Over the next several days, I found myself driving past her street more frequently than required — purchasing items I did not need at stores I had never visited before. I was not stalking her, at least I did not think so. I was simply. watching.
She was a stranger, but she approached things differently — serene, detached, as if she had her own beat in a cacophonous world. I didn't know how to speak to her, what to say that would make sense, or how to start something without being absurd. Everything I came up with seemed silly.
But the question I just couldn't ignore: How do I get close enough to start?
---
When the new semester started, I was still dwelling on her. Then it came to me — absurd, dangerous, but easy enough to implement.
If life wasn't going to give me a meeting, I'd make one myself.
So one afternoon I took the same path she had taken. I lingered until she was near the stairs outside a small apartment building, and then — with all the flair of a playwright setting up an act — I "fell." The tumble wasn't significant, but it appeared real enough. I struck the pavement, gave a low groan, and cursed under my breath for added effect.
She spun around, wide eyes. "Are you all right?"
Perfect.
I groaned upward, faking hurt. "You— you were ahead of me, weren't you? I fell because of you!"
Her eyebrows furrowed. "What? How could that be my fault?"
"Your scarf nudged my face," I complained, half-groaning. "You caught me off guard."
She blinked, half-humored, half-confused, and then sighed. "You're unbelievable. Can you walk?
I nodded, pretending it hurt to move. She wavered but then assisted me into a standing position. And somehow, that was sufficient. In minutes, she'd driven me to a nearby clinic, insisting I must get my cuts cleaned.
I hinted the nurse using my hands to make heart saying I like her so please assist me a little she understand and noded. The nurse reported they were scratches and some deep cuts. I already knew that. But the sound of her voice, the tone in which she spoke — polite, annoyed, but truly concerned — was worth the scraped elbows.
When the nurse questioned how I fell, she became embarrassed. "It was my fault," she said.
I caught myself laughing but kept it to myself. The nurse gave me a thumb's up at last saying done, I also thanked her.
---
Outside the clinic, I finally got my first real opportunity to speak with her. My head was spinning. What's next? What do I say to keep this going?
So I did what came naturally — I played my role.
"Look," I told her, wiping dust from my sleeve, "since you made me fall, shouldn't you repay me?"
Her eyes opened wide. "Excuse me?"
"I don't mean money," I added hastily. "Just… a favor. You can do my math for me."
"Math?" she echoed, puzzled.
"I'm awful at it," I fibbed. "One thing you owe me at least."
She crossed her arms, studying me for a few seconds — probably debating whether I was insane or joking. Finally, she exhaled. "Fine. But only until your scores improve."
I grinned. "Deal."
Her name came up normally after that — Anjali Kashyap. She was going to be in 9th grade, just like me. I didn't mention to her that I already knew that. I'd done my research months prior, secretly collecting tiny facts: her school, her schedule, the library down the street from her house where she worked during the evenings. It wasn't obsession — it was calculation.
The following day, we were together at that library. I had reserved a two-hour time slot in advance, acting appreciative of her "assistance."
That first lesson, I hardly even glanced at the notebook. I just observed her doing questions, how she scowled when she focused, how she tittered when I did something wrong on purpose. She was not like Nikita — she did not attempt to impress or entice anyone. She was uncomplicated. Authentic.
I reminded myself that this was just another game, another diversion. That she was just a means to an end and to see how long I could keep up the charade. But every day that I saw her, something eroded that reasoning.
To spare time for her, I reduced my night play hours. I'd arrive at home at four, dash through chores, and be gone at 4:15. It would take nearly half an hour to reach there. By the time I returned at 6:30, the city had already begun to dip into darkness. The tiredness was different — lighter.
We didn't speak a lot beyond those study sessions. I never attempted to. Still, every little thing — her voice, her handwriting, how she pushed her glasses up — remained stuck in my head like a loop I couldn't escape.
---
Weeks went by. My friends joked at my new "tuition teacher," and I played along. What they didn't realize was that I wasn't manipulating her like I manipulated others. This was different. She didn't allow me to take over the game; she set the pace without even knowing.
When I spent time with her, my mind stilled. The world didn't seem like a battleground.
Perhaps that's why I kept returning. Not for revenge, not for power, not even for love. Just for the quiet that accompanied her — the sort I hadn't known in years.
Naturally, I didn't say so. Not yet.
For now, she was simply the girl who'd "caused" my crash — the one who unintentionally marched right into my scheme.
And perhaps… I'd already marched right into hers.
To be continued …