The midterms arrived sooner than I anticipated.
Time passed like sand between my fingers — silent, unobtrusive, but still pulling everything with it. I had been instructing Anjali in science for weeks, and each day I could observe her getting better, step by step. I enjoyed seeing her learn, although I'd never say it aloud. It wasn't affection. At least, that's what I reassured myself. It was about control — about watching my guidance mold her, about remaining the one who was leading.
But somewhere during the marathon sessions at the library and the constant texts regarding formulas and concepts, something started to get fuzzy. I wasn't sure if I was assisting her or slowly constructing a copy of myself in her head.
The day prior to the exams starting, I presented her with a challenge.
If you can beat me at science," I said, smiling, "I'll concede you've surpassed your teacher."
She smiled, pushing her hair out of her face. "Oh? Well then you'll have to defeat me at maths. Deal?"
I was taken aback by her confidence. She wasn't teasing — as she had done earlier. There was a glint in her eye that challenged me nearly.
I nodded, keeping my smile behind my lips. "Deal.
It wasn't about the marks anymore. It was about momentum — about making her think about me, chase me, need me to stay ahead.
The exams started. For everyone else, it was stress and panic, but for me, it was another plan in motion. I'd spent hours predicting the papers, preparing my strategies. But with Anjali, it wasn't just about who scored higher. It was about who reached out first — who broke the unspoken distance.
Each time she smiled during a break, each time she inquired after how I did on a paper, I could sense that invisible line dividing us eroding. She didn't know it yet, but she was already crossing it.
Following the tests, we convened to discuss the papers at our common place of study. The aroma of old books blended with the subtle smell of the chai we had carried along. She seemed different that day — lighter, perhaps happier. Her typical calm had been replaced by something else, something I could not identify.
We discussed the science paper to start.
"You'll get full marks," she stated confidently.
I shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on how strict they check."
She smiled. "You're just faking being humble."
There was laughter between us now — effortless, real. But under it, I could feel the tension growing. Whenever our eyes met, one of us broke away too quickly. Whenever she smiled, I found myself staring too long.
She had set a line between us months before — tutor and student, nothing more. Yet, now, she was the one drawing it out without even being aware of it.
And I knew exactly what I was doing.
I began responding to her messages later and later. At times, I'd read and not respond whatsoever. During class, I'd chat with others when she was present. When she asked whether I was angry about something, I'd smile and respond, "No, just tired."
The truth was — I wanted her to miss me.
I wanted her to feel that restlessness, that empty space that only I could fill.
And it worked.
She texted me first. Small things — "Did you eat?" "Are you okay?" "You didn't come today."
I'd read them, wait a couple hours, then respond brief.
Her composure began to wear down. She wanted to discuss more, to know what was happening, but I was keeping her at bay.
It was nasty, perhaps. But it was also honest — I wanted her to approach me, not through what I told her, but through what she was feeling.
Results day.
The school hall was abuzz like a beehive. Shuffling papers, students yelling, teachers faking composure while their eyes scoured the top ranks.
I was at the top again — 100% in all subjects.
No error, no single mark missed.
The class was filled with whispers.
"I said he'd get back."
"Surely, he was playing weak."
"See, the king's back."
I tuned out all of it. The envy, the applause, the admiration — it was all shallow. There was just one name on my phone screen that mattered.
PK was ecstatic with his 84%. KK scored 87%. I congratulated them, truly proud. PK smiled, saying, "Don't think you're the only one who's improving, bro."
I grinned. "Yeah, yeah, show us 90 next time."
But in my mind, I was elsewhere. All I cared for was the result Anjali was going to have.
That night, after dinner, I sneaked out. The February cold wind struck my face, but I welcomed it — like it was telling me that I existed, moved, pursued something.
She was standing in the same place, too, the streetlight casting a warm glow softly behind her. She was clutching her result sheet, waving it the moment she spotted me.
"Guess what!" she exclaimed, grinning so broadly it was nearly blinding. "Ninety-seven percent! A hundred in science!"
I smiled. "Then I suppose I lost."
She blinked. "You don't look disappointed."
"I'm not," I replied. "You scoring 100 was the whole idea."
She stared at me, confused. "Then why test me then?"
"Because I wanted a reason to push you harder."
She fell silent, her eyes growing gentle as she gazed down at the paper. "You're odd, you know that?" she said, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
"Perhaps," I replied.
She still listened to me, though.
She laughed softly. "Alright, alright. Show me your marks then."
I gave her my sheet. Her eyes scanned the lines, and I could see the way her expression shifted with every perfect 100.
"Wait— you scored a perfect in everything?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
She let out a slow breath. "Then I didn't win after all."
I shook my head. "No. You did. You tied me in science. So that's a win. I said you could have anything you wanted."
Her hands closed into fists on the paper. "Anything?"
"Anything."
She breathed in. And then, before I had any idea what was happening, she spoke.
"I love you."
The words were quick, nearly blurted — but honest. They had weight, a shaking sincerity that made the air between us disintegrate.
For a moment, I couldn't catch my breath.
Other people had confessed before — carelessly, jokingly, out of experimentation or euphoria. But no one had ever said love.
No one had ever said it like that — like it wasn't a question, but a fact she had been keeping bottled up for months.
I just froze, the evening air feeling too thick. Her eyes did not waver. She stared directly at me — fearless, anticipatory, nearly tranquil.
I should have been victorious.
I should have grinned, perhaps taunted her, perhaps said what I had intended all along.
But I didn't.
Because for the first time in a long while, I felt something I had not felt since before it all went wrong — before Nikita, before Jaanvi, before the fights and the lies.
It wasn't guilt. It wasn't pride.
It was something quieter.
A feeling of warmth — dangerous and strange — that made me aware I wasn't as in control as I assumed.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Her words continued to repeat in my mind. "I love you." Not "I like you." Not "I have a crush."
Love.
I had spent years manipulating, planning, maneuvering each segment of the board.
But perhaps, for the first time, someone had made a move that I had not anticipated.
And this frightened me — more than any battle ever could.