These days, I've come to understand how your heart could ache for someone—not out of pity or sympathy, but from a love so intense it unravels you. Slowly, deliberately, until the unravelling feels like pleasure. Even if it's, at its core, an ache.

Sundays come and go, and Romil barely speaks when he visits, like he's honouring the weight of what happened in the classroom with his silence.

The last time he came over, we sat quietly, buried in books, working on our projects for the viva voce. He left afterward with a full stomach, having polished off the methi ke parathe he's officially declared his favourite.

We didn't exchange I love yous or anything remotely poetic. But in those hours of shared quiet, I felt closer to him than I had in weeks.

The viva goes well. The examiners praise me in front of the teachers, and my face burns hot, turning me into the shyest version of myself—a human tomato.

Romil's already seated in the library when I walk in, nose buried in a Computer Science textbook, a pen tucked between his fingers. He looks like he hasn't moved in hours, but I know he probably just got here.

I drape my blazer over the backrest of the chair across from him and let my bag drop onto the seat with a heavy thunk, drawing his attention for just a second. 'How'd it go?' he asks without looking up.

'Great. Yours?'

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. 'Great.'

Sliding into the chair beside him, I eye the stack of books he's practically hidden behind. 'Studying already?' I pick up the one closest to me and flip through it half-heartedly.

'Least scored subject,' he mutters, still focused on his page.

'But we just finished the viva,' I groan and sulk, pouting at the stack of book between us.

I catch his smile slowly spreading beneath the slope of his nose, a quiet giveaway before he sets his pen into the crease of the book and looks up at me. There's a beautiful ease to it, the kind of smile that lights up his eyes with an unspoken joke.

'Are you suggesting we go to the back aisle?' he asks, his voice warm.

There's something about the way he speaks when he's smiling like that, when his words carry the weight of a laugh he hasn't fully let go of. It makes my chest feel strangely light, like I've been let in on something just ours. It's crazy, really, how not-annoyed I am to be the target of his teasing—how much I love being the reason for that grin, for the cackle hidden in his voice.

I can't help smiling back.

'Yes, I am,' I say.

His brow quirks, his grin widening. 'And then we do what?'

'Then,' I say, smirking, 'we laugh at how ridiculous you look when you study!' I burst out laughing, thoroughly entertained by my own genius.

He chuckles and shakes his head. 'You take post-hours library way too casually,' he teases, laughing with me. 'But don't forget, this is still a library with or without Mrs Aparna.'

I narrow my eyes, pointing an accusing finger at him. 'Don't change the topic. Let me show you how you study!'

I flip open the textbook to a random page, placing it carefully on the table, and grab a pen. Then I dive into the book, pretending to study with the kind of intensity that makes my eyes cross.

He stares at me for a beat, then bursts out laughing. 'Hey! Stop doing your best impression of me!'

'Make me,' I say, feeling bolder than usual.

I get up from my seat and walk backward, exaggerating the joy I'm feeling at being alone with him in the whole library.

'And when you're with your friends, you walk past me like this,' I shout, gesturing dramatically.

Romil watches me with an expression that's equal parts admiration and amusement, as if he can't quite decide whether to laugh or be impressed by my audacity.

I shove my hands into my skirt pockets, set my jaw like I'm serious, and let my eyes go a little half-lidded—like Billie Eilish, or Romil Jain, depending on who you're more familiar with. I drag my feet dramatically, though I'm not really dragging them at all. The classic Romil Jain style.

When I get past his table, I glance at him with a smirk, then look straight ahead, walking like I didn't just rizz him up in his own way.

Once I'm done, I turn back and rush to him, eager to ask how it was. I see it again—the amused glint in his eyes, the smile that makes me feel giddy with the fact that I caused it. I do a happy dance inside.

Then, something takes over me. I bend down to his eye level where he's sitting and plant a soft kiss on his cheek, feeling like a princess.

His smile dissolves, and for a moment, I'm not sure if I'm leading him or if it's the other way around. But somehow, we're kissing, our legs moving on their own, carrying us to the narrow aisle between Philosophy and Classics.

He picks me up by my legs, and I wrap them around his hips, kissing him like time has stopped and this moment is our only salvation. Engrossed in the kiss, our mouths move together—kissing, tasting, savouring—until I feel my back pressed against the cool aisle. My head rests in the support of his hands.

I take a breath, my gaze meeting his, and in his eyes, I see a promise—to stay together, to be like this, like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of a notebook. Forever.

'I love you,' he whispers, lifting me slightly, adjusting his grip on my thighs.

'I love you more,' I reply.

He looks into my eyes for a beat, then shakes his head. And then, with all seriousness, he says, 'No, I love you more.'

Before I can come up with a smart repartee, his hands snake under my skirt, fingers tracing the inside of my thigh, while his other hand cushions my head.

'I am okay,' I say.

'Hmm?' he hums, lifting his head from where he was nuzzling.

'My head.' I gasp when his fingers trail closer to my panty. 'It's okay,' I moan.

He frees his hand from behind my head and starts working his way around the buttons of my shirt. Seeing him struggle, I help him get rid of it. As soon as I am out of it, he proceeds to unclasp my lavender bra with the small lavender leaves print on it.

When it finally falls away, I catch him looking at me with such tenderness that I swear I melt right there in his arms. My legs land on the floor, knees bending like they are made of rubber. He holds me before I fall too hard.

'You're so perfect,' he whispers in my ears, sending a shiver down my spine.

I clutch his shoulders, holding on too tight.

'Kiss me,' I say. 'Love me,' I demand.

He trails a series of soft kisses down my temple, to my neck, my sternum, and then to my navel—each kiss feeling like he's slowly unravelling parts of me I didn't even know were there to be exposed. He worships my breasts, cupping and squeezing before kissing and sucking, making me moan his name—loudly.

That's when he stops.

He's on his knees, hands on my waist, but suddenly, his hands still, the magic they were working fading away. He stands up.

'What happened?' I ask, confused. Cold.

He pauses, and in that moment, I feel more naked than I ever have before. I instinctively cover myself, still staring at him as he grabs my shirt from the floor, throws it quickly at me before dashing for the door without a word.