Three days after the Saturday dinner, Ayra sat in the back row of the large literature lecture hall at Sterling College. The room was half-full. Afternoon light slanted through the high windows and fell across the rows of seats in long, dusty bars. Dr. Mehra’s voice moved steadily through a discussion of postcolonial narratives and the politics of silence, but Ayra’s notebook remained mostly blank. Her pen rested between her fingers, unmoving. She kept replaying the way Yash had looked at her when he said goodnight three evenings ago—that brief, unreadable glance that always left her stomach tight and her thoughts scattered for hours afterward.

She was still wearing the same soft lavender kurti from the weekend, freshly washed and pressed. It clung lightly to her full breasts when she leaned forward over the desk. Her long black hair was tied in a loose braid that rested over one shoulder, the end of it brushing the notebook page whenever she shifted. She crossed her legs under the desk and pressed her thighs together without thinking, a small, unconscious attempt to ease the low, persistent ache that had lived between them since Saturday night.