The one day he stayed

The studio was dim by the time they wrapped up for the day — late evening light casting long shadows on the half-done models and taped-up site plans. Most of the others had left, tired and noisy, dragging their feet toward chai stalls and shared autos.

Vanya stayed back, again.

Pretending to arrange the models.

Pretending not to care that he was still here, too.

He was sitting on the low platform near the window, sketchbook in hand, legs stretched, the collar of his t-shirt slipping just enough to reveal a hint of ink near his collarbone.

She kept stealing glances.

And so did he.

Every few minutes, she’d catch him looking. Not smiling. Not smirking.

Just watching.

And when she bent over the table to tape the base down, his eyes didn’t move.

It finally got to her.

She slammed the masking tape down, harder than she meant to, and turned to him.

“You need to stop.”

He looked up, surprised — not by the words, but by the fact that she actually said them.

“This…” she gestured vaguely, flustered, “whatever this is. The staring. Sitting close. You keep doing these things, Yuvi.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Her voice was firm. She wanted it to be.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t—” her voice faltered, “don’t make it harder. I don’t want confusion. I don’t want this to feel like—”

“Like what?” he asked gently.

“Like something it’s not,” she whispered.

Silence.

And then he stood. Walked toward her slowly. Not with swagger, not with flirtation — just calm certainty.

He stopped close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.

Then, without a word, he reached out — slow, intentional — and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Her heart stuttered.

His touch was feather-light.

His voice, when it came, was even softer.

“I’m not trying to confuse you,” he said. “I’m not here to mess anything up.”

She stared at him, eyes locked.

“I just…” he hesitated, like it mattered to say it right. “I just want to know you. The real you. Not the one who’s always smiling like she’s okay.”

Her breath caught.

“I just want to be your friend,” he added.

And somehow… that hit harder than anything flirtatious could have.

Because she had spent so long hiding behind smiles, behind Shrey’s doubts, behind her own confusion — that someone wanting to see her without all that felt scarier than any confession.

She didn’t say anything.

She just stood there — stunned and exposed.

And he stepped back, giving her space.

Not pushing. Not asking for anything.

Just waiting.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

She told herself it was just a conversation. Just a guy being nice. Just… curiosity. That’s all.

But then why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Vanya lay on her bed that night, the fan creaking rhythmically above her, her phone screen lighting up every few minutes with messages from her group chat — memes, plans, Shrey asking why she hadn’t called yet.

She didn’t reply.

Not because she was angry.

But because her mind was stuck… somewhere else.

“I just want to know you. The real you.”

That line looped in her head like a song she couldn’t turn off.

It wasn’t what he said — it was how he said it. Soft. Honest. No drama. No intention of flirting. No chasing. He wasn’t even trying to impress her.

He just looked at her like… he saw through her.

And that scared her more than anything.

Because she’d spent so much time perfecting that fake smile. The easy, bubbly one that told the world she was fine — even when she wasn’t.

Not even her closest friends questioned it anymore.

But he did.

Why him? she wondered.

They had barely spoken before the workshop. He had always been the guy on the edge — aloof, cool, all black clothes and fast bikes and friends who wore designer sunglasses indoors. Not her type. Not even close.

And yet…

He noticed the small things.

The moments when her hands trembled slightly while cutting model boards. The way her smile didn’t reach her eyes sometimes.

How did he see that?

She turned on her side, pulled the blanket up, and tried to shake it off.

But her mind drifted to that brief touch — his fingers brushing her hair away from her face.

It had been nothing.

But it had left goosebumps in its wake.

And then there was his gaze.

Not greedy. Not romantic. Just… patient.

Like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he could wait for her to figure it out.

Whatever it was.

She sighed and finally picked up her phone.

Shrey: “Are you mad at me or something? You didn’t call.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then slowly typed:

“Just tired. Long day.”

And yet, the tiredness wasn’t from work.

It was from feeling something she couldn’t name yet.

Something that shouldn’t matter.

But did.