The one day he stayed

The studio was louder than usual — tools clinking, groups chatting, someone playing music faintly from a speaker tucked into their bag. It was one of those chaotic workdays where everyone buzzed with half-finished models and upcoming submission anxiety.

Vanya sat cross-legged on the studio floor, sanding the edges of a baseboard. Her fingers moved on instinct. She wasn’t paying attention to the work.

She was paying attention to not looking up.

Because she knew he was there.

She had walked in and seen him already — leather jacket slung over the back of a chair, hair a little messier than usual, sitting sideways on a stool with his long legs stretched out, talking lazily with one of the girls from the other group.

He didn’t look at her when she walked in.

But she knew he knew she was there.

Now, as she worked beside Atharva, pretending to listen to his banter about juries and sleepless nights, her mind was sharp with awareness.

She felt it again.

The weight of a gaze.

She glanced up, subtle.

And there he was.

Talking to someone else, smiling at a joke… but his eyes? On her.

Not boldly. Not like he was trying to make a statement.

Just watching. Like he couldn’t help it.

She quickly looked away, brushing her hair behind her ear to hide the flush rising in her cheeks.

“He’s staring again,” Atharva whispered with a grin, nudging her.

“What? Who?”

Atharva gave her a knowing look. “Don’t act clueless. That biker boy. The one who barely speaks.”

“I don’t care,” she muttered, eyes on her wood panel.

“Sure you don’t,” he teased.

And maybe she really didn’t want to.

But her hands had started to tremble slightly as she sanded, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that every time she moved — tucked her hair, shifted her weight, reached for something — he was memorizing it like a sketch.

Later, during a group pin-up discussion, he stood two rows behind her. She felt his presence like static. Every time someone spoke near her, she turned — and his eyes were already there.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift.

He just looked at her like she was something quietly fascinating.

And she?

She looked everywhere but back.

It rained that afternoon.

Not heavy, just that soft, drizzly kind of rain that makes the world feel quieter — like it’s listening in on your thoughts.

Vanya stayed back in the studio, cleaning up scrap wood and packing away the glue bottles. The group had dispersed after pin-up; most were off to the canteen or out escaping the weather.

She liked these moments — when the room was hers. When she didn’t have to pretend to smile or laugh at Shrey’s overbearing texts. She had five unread ones right now.

She ignored them.

A chair scraped behind her.

She turned, startled, and froze.

Yuvi.

He was leaning against the doorway, hands deep in his pockets, hair a little wet from the rain. His usual cool, unbothered self. But his gaze? Still quietly sharp.

“I forgot my helmet,” he said simply, voice low.

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes drifted to the scattered model pieces near her.

“You stayed back again,” he said, walking in.

She shrugged. “Someone’s gotta clean this mess.”

He glanced at her fingers — faint cuts, glue stuck in the creases, sawdust on her sleeves. Then he looked at her face. Really looked.

“You okay?” he asked.

She blinked.

No one had asked her that in days. Not Shrey, not even her best friends. They asked what she was doing. Where she was. But not how she was.

She hesitated, then smiled — the same practiced smile she used on faculty, relatives, and when Shrey picked a fight.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He didn’t believe it.

Didn’t press either.

Just nodded.

But before turning to leave, he said softly, “You don’t have to say ‘okay’ if it’s not.”

And just like that — gone.

She stood frozen in the quiet hum of the empty studio, heart thudding.

It was nothing big.

Just words.

But they landed deeper than most things screamed at her.