Riya's POV
I hadn't meant to overhear.
I was walking, late enough that the corridors felt like secrets. The boys' wing was quiet, lights dimmed, windows cracked open to let the August heat breathe.
That's when I heard him.
Mudit.
His voice was low, almost like he was talking to the ceiling. Or maybe to himself.
"She looked at me like I was a poem," he said.
I stopped.
Not because I was nosy.
Because something in his voice made me feel like I wasn't trespassing—I was witnessing.
"She's too beautiful," he added, softer this time.
"Not in the way people say it. Not in the way that makes you want to stare.
In the way that makes you forget what you were angry about."
I felt my breath catch.
Too beautiful.
I'd heard that phrase before.
From boys who meant it like a compliment wrapped in expectation.
From girls who said it like a warning.
But this—this sounded like surrender.
"She's going to ruin me," he murmured.
Then a pause.
"But I think I want her to."
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stood there, hidden behind the half-open door of the stairwell, heart suddenly louder than my footsteps.
Was he talking about me?
I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or walk in and ask him what kind of ruin he meant.
But I didn't.
I just listened.
He rubbed his eyebrow—again. That same absent-minded gesture I'd seen earlier when he was leaning against the railing, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like armor.
And I thought,
He's cute.
Not in the way people say it when they mean symmetrical features or good hair.
In the way someone becomes beautiful when they don't know they're being watched.
I left quietly, steps soft against the tile.
But the words stayed.
"She's too beautiful."
I didn't know what kind of beauty he saw in me.
But I knew I'd carry that sentence like a secret folded into my pocket.
And maybe—just maybe—I'd let myself believe it.