The intercom crackled to life one sleepy Monday morning, just as students were dragging themselves into the college foyer after a long weekend.
"Attention all students," came the familiar voice of the cultural head. "Final-year dramatics and the Literary Society will be hosting the Inter-College Literature Fest next week. All departments must nominate two presenters — a male and a female — to host the main event. Names must be submitted by this evening."
The announcement caused a ripple across the English Lit corridor. Excitement. Whispered names. A few hopeful looks.
Ruhi wasn't interested. She had enough on her plate already. Projects, assignments, and one too many unexpected eye contacts with Rudra Sharma. She just wanted to keep her head down and pass the semester without drama.
But fate doesn't usually ask for permission.
By noon, their class representative stood at the front of the room, reading the finalized names.
"For the English department," she said, "we've nominated Ruhi Sharma and—"
Ruhi sat up. "Wait, what?!"
"—Rudra Sharma."
Ruhi blinked, speechless. Simran, sitting beside her, gasped and whispered, "OMG! You and him? Hosting? Together?"
Ruhi turned to glare at the CR. "I didn't volunteer."
"But everyone voted. You were the obvious choice," the girl replied, smiling. "Calm, smart, and you don't stutter under pressure."
Ruhi looked like she might explode. She glanced behind her. Rudra leaned back in his chair, smiling like a cat who'd just heard his name announced for the throne.
He mouthed, "Lucky me."
Ruhi rolled her eyes, but her heartbeat was already playing a new rhythm.
The next afternoon, Ruhi waited nervously at the college auditorium for the first rehearsal.
The auditorium was huge — velvet red curtains drawn halfway, stage lights flickering to life as a technician fixed wiring above. Rows of empty seats faced the stage, like silent judges waiting for a performance.
She stood on stage with her script in hand, dressed in a pale yellow kurta and jeans, her hair braided over one shoulder.
"You're early," came a voice from behind.
She turned. Rudra, of course. Wearing a casual black tee and joggers, a clipboard in hand — probably pretending to be professional.
"I didn't know we were doing full rehearsals," she said.
He smirked. "We're co-hosts now. Might as well make it believable."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he walked past her and stepped up onto the stage.
They stood side by side under the spotlight.
He cleared his throat. "Want to run the script?"
She nodded, slightly wary.
They began. He read his lines — surprisingly well — and she responded. The words flowed. Their voices, though opposite in tone, matched strangely well. There was something rhythmic about it.
Halfway through, he glanced sideways. "You're good at this."
Ruhi hesitated. "You're not so bad yourself... surprisingly."
He chuckled. "Is that a compliment?"
"Take it while it lasts."
As they moved through the final section, she stumbled over a line and laughed.
"Wait, sorry. I keep saying 'Poetry and prose' instead of 'poetry in performance.'"
Rudra leaned in, close enough that she could smell his cologne — something clean, woody, expensive.
"It's okay. I'll save you. Like a good co-host."
She gave him a sideways glare. "Save yourself first."
They laughed.
And for a moment, the auditorium didn't feel so big. Or empty.
Outside, Simran waited with Aarav under the banyan tree.
"You think they'll murder each other on stage?" Aarav asked.
Simran laughed. "Honestly? I think they might kiss before that happens."
Aarav raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"
Simran shrugged. "Call it roommate intuition."
He smiled. "Fair. And what does roommate intuition say about me?"
She looked at him playfully. "That you pretend to be dumb to avoid showing how smart you actually are."
He blinked. "...Ouch."
"I'm not wrong," she added, smirking.
"You're dangerously observant," he said, stepping closer.
They held each other's gaze a little longer than necessary before Simran turned away suddenly, cheeks pink.
"Okay, we're late. Let's go."
Aarav smiled to himself, following her.
That night, Ruhi sat by the window, the Delhi breeze playing with her loose strands of hair. Simran was already asleep, curled up with her headphones in.
Ruhi opened her diary.
"Rehearsal was strange. Why is he so... comfortable? Why is it easier to speak when he's beside me? This is not good. I don't want this.""But he makes me laugh. And when he listens, it feels like I matter.""I think I'm losing this battle. Quietly. Silently. Willingly."
She closed the diary and pressed it to her chest.
Outside, the night lights of Delhi flickered like distant stars.
Meanwhile, Rudra lay on his bed, scrolling through voice notes on his phone. One of them was from their rehearsal. He played it.
Her voice came through.
Clear. Confident. Calm.
He smiled to himself, eyes closed.
Then he looked at a framed photo of his family — his strict father in a three-piece suit, his mother in a silk saree, expression distant even in stillness.
They wouldn't like her.
They wouldn't approve.
But his heart didn't seem to care.
In the shadows of the stage, under the eyes of the college crowd, something had quietly begun. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But real.
To be continued...