Chapter 6 – Forced Project Partners
Teacher pairs them for semester project.
The rain from the previous evening had washed the campus clean.
But it hadn't washed away the tension.
Meera walked into Room 104 with a strange mix of calm and restlessness sitting in her chest. The argument hadn't been explosive. There had been no shouting, no dramatic exit.
But something had shifted.
They had crossed into dangerous territory — honesty.
And honesty left marks.
She took her usual middle-row seat this time. Not the window.
She didn't want to think about windows.
Or rain.
Or the way he had said You matter.
The professor entered with a stack of files.
"Attention," he said firmly. "Your semester evaluation will include a major project. It will carry significant weight. Choose your partners wisely."
A low wave of whispers spread through the classroom.
Meera stiffened.
Partner.
She wasn't in his section.
That meant—
She wouldn't be paired with him.
A small, quiet disappointment crept in before she could stop it.
The professor adjusted his glasses.
"Since this is your first semester, I will assign partners randomly. No arguments."
Groans erupted.
Meera's stomach tightened unexpectedly.
Random?
What if—
No. That would be ridiculous.
He wasn't even in this section.
Roll numbers were called.
Pairs were announced one by one.
Her pulse began rising with every name.
"Meera Sen…"
Her breath paused.
"…paired with Aarav Malhotra."
The classroom fell silent.
A few confused murmurs followed.
"Sir," someone raised a hand, "Aarav is in Section B."
The professor nodded calmly.
"Yes. This project is cross-sectional. You will work with students from the other section."
A ripple of reactions filled the room.
Meera felt frozen.
Across the corridor, in Room 108, similar announcements were being made.
And somewhere in that classroom, his name had just been paired with hers.
Fate didn't misfile paperwork.
It rewrote it.
Fifteen minutes later, both sections were asked to gather in the seminar hall to receive project guidelines.
Meera stood near the back, clutching her notebook.
Students from both sections mingled awkwardly.
Then she saw him.
Near the entrance.
Scanning the room.
Looking for—
Her eyes met his.
There was a brief flicker of surprise.
Then something else.
Resignation? Amusement? Acceptance?
He walked toward her slowly.
"Looks like fate filed correctly this time," he said quietly.
Her lips curved faintly despite herself.
"Or the professor has a strange sense of humor."
"Possibly."
A small silence lingered.
Not tense.
But aware.
"So," he continued, "forced partners."
"Seems like it."
"Still want to?"
The question wasn't casual.
It carried the weight of yesterday's misunderstanding.
She held his gaze.
"Yes."
No hesitation this time.
A subtle shift in his posture followed — almost relief.
"Good."
The professor began explaining the project:
Market Behavior Analysis – Real-world data collection, interviews, case study, and final presentation in pairs.
"This project," the professor emphasized, "requires coordination. Meet frequently. Communicate clearly. I will not tolerate last-minute excuses."
Meera felt the irony pressing lightly against her chest.
Communicate clearly.
After yesterday?
Interesting.
That afternoon, they sat under the same tree where they had first discussed fate.
Not by plan.
It just happened.
"So," she began, opening her notebook, "we need a topic."
He nodded. "Retail pricing strategy?"
"Too common."
"Consumer psychology?"
"Overdone."
A pause.
"What about small local businesses?" she suggested. "How they survive against large chains."
He considered it.
"That's good."
"It's different."
"It's practical."
Their ideas flowed easily again.
As if yesterday hadn't happened.
But something had changed.
There was less teasing.
More awareness.
More caution.
At one point, she noticed he wasn't interrupting her at all.
"You can disagree," she said suddenly.
"I know."
"Then why aren't you?"
He looked at her calmly.
"I'm listening."
"You always listen."
"That's not a bad thing."
She hesitated.
"No. It's not."
A light breeze passed between them.
"You were upset yesterday," he said quietly.
She blinked at the sudden shift.
"You're bringing it up again?"
"I don't like unfinished conversations."
Her heartbeat quickened.
"What about it?"
"I don't want this project to feel awkward."
"It won't."
"Are you sure?"
She studied him.
For someone who claimed not to rush into things, he cared deeply about clarity.
"Yes," she said softly. "I overreacted."
"You felt something," he corrected gently.
"And you didn't?"
A pause.
His gaze shifted briefly toward the ground.
"Maybe."
Her breath caught.
"But I don't let feelings dictate reactions," he added.
She tilted her head slightly.
"And that's better?"
"It's safer."
The word lingered.
Safer.
"Safe doesn't mean right," she murmured.
He looked at her.
There it was again.
That silent tension.
Not anger.
Not distance.
Something deeper.
"We're just partners," he said quietly.
The sentence felt heavier than it should have.
"Just?" she repeated.
"For now."
Her heart skipped.
"For now?"
A faint almost-smile touched his lips.
"Let's survive the project first."
She exhaled slowly.
"Fine."
They continued planning.
Interview questions.
Data collection timelines.
Presentation structure.
At some point, they both leaned in closer to read the same page.
Their shoulders brushed lightly.
Neither moved away this time.
Later that evening, as they walked toward the gate together, a group of students passed by.
One of them whispered loudly enough to be heard:
"New couple alert."
Meera stiffened.
Aarav's expression remained unreadable.
She glanced at him.
He didn't react.
Didn't deny.
Didn't confirm.
Just walked.
"Does that bother you?" she asked softly.
"No."
"You don't care what people assume?"
"I care about what's real."
The answer made her chest tighten.
"And what's real?" she asked before thinking.
He slowed slightly.
Then looked at her.
"That we work well together."
Her heart dipped slightly at the simplicity.
But maybe that was enough for now.
At the gate, they paused.
"So tomorrow?" he asked.
"Library."
"Five?"
"Five."
A small silence stretched between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
He nodded.
"See you, Meera."
"See you."
He walked away.
But this time, she didn't feel misplaced.
She felt… chosen.
Not by romance.
Not by confession.
But by circumstance that kept pulling them back together.
Forced partners.
By a teacher.
By timing.
By something neither of them fully understood.
And as she boarded her bus, watching the sky slowly darken again, she realized something:
Some connections don't begin with love.
They begin with proximity.
With shared assignments.
With arguments.
With misunderstandings.
And sometimes—
Being forced together is exactly what two hesitant hearts need.