The first rain of August had turned Delhi’s air soft and heavy, the kind that smelled of wet leaves, petrol, and chai boiling at roadside stalls. Water slid down the red-bricked façade of Ramanujan College in shimmering sheets, dripping from carved balconies onto puddled courtyards. Umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers along the pathways as students hurried between buildings, their laughter rising above the hiss of rain.

Meera Ghosh stepped out of the auto-rickshaw with her canvas tote hugged to her chest, her sandals skimming over the slick pavement. She paused at the gates and drew a slow breath. This was the moment she had imagined all summer: her first day as a Literature student, away from home, away from the quiet lanes of her East Delhi neighbourhood.

She adjusted the dupatta of her pale blue kurti, feeling the dampness curl her hair into tighter dark-brown spirals. Natural lighter strands caught the grey light like threads of bronze; she tucked them behind her ear and scanned the courtyard. Students streamed past in a blur of wet clothes and paper folders.

No one paid her any special attention, which suited her just fine. Meera didn’t dislike people, but she disliked being inspected—smiles she couldn’t read, questions she didn’t want to answer. She had promised her parents she would keep her head down, focus on studies, make them proud. That was enough.

A bell rang somewhere, echoing under the archways. She glanced at the crumpled orientation sheet in her hand, trying to locate Room 202. The hallway smelled of chalk and damp paper. She turned left, then right, only to find herself staring at a locked door.

“Lost?” a voice asked, warm and amused.

She turned. A tall boy leaned casually against the corridor wall, rain-dark hair falling over his forehead, a camera slung diagonally across his chest. His white shirt clung to his shoulders where the rain had caught him. There was no smirk, no swagger—just a curious half-smile.

“I’m looking for the Literature orientation,” Meera said, steady but polite.

“You’ve walked right past it.” He stepped away from the wall. “Come on. It’s this way.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat—strangers in new cities always set off a flicker of caution—then followed him down a side corridor. He moved easily through the crowd, students greeting him as they passed.

“You’re a senior?” she asked.

“Final year,” he said over his shoulder. “Ayan Mehra. I’m with the photography club. What’s your name?”

“Meera. Meera Ghosh.”

“Nice to meet you, Meera Ghosh.” He slowed his pace so she could walk beside him. “First day jitters?”

“Not really. Just… new place.” She lifted a shoulder.

He glanced at her with that same quiet smile. “You’ll like it here. The library’s a rabbit hole. I practically lived there my first year.”

They reached a wide wooden door buzzing with voices. He held it open for her. Inside, rows of benches filled with first-years, papers fluttering in the damp breeze from ceiling fans.

“Here you are,” he said. “Safe and sound.”

“Thanks,” she said, and slipped past him into the room, finding a seat near the window. She took out her notebook, feeling the familiar steadiness of lined paper beneath her fingers. Outside, rain streaked the glass.

When she looked up again, Ayan had already vanished into the corridor.

Hours later, after the orientation ended, she found herself in the college canteen, the smell of fried samosas and cardamom tea wrapping around her like a blanket. She ordered a steel tumbler of chai and opened a paperback she’d tucked into her bag—Emily Dickinson’s collected poems, her comfort read.

She had just turned a page when someone’s shadow fell across the counter.

“First-years don’t usually brave the canteen alone on Day One,” the same warm voice said.

Meera glanced up. Ayan stood there, camera still slung across him, hair drying into loose waves.

“I like quiet corners,” she said simply.

“Good choice.” He ordered a coffee, then added, “If you need help finding your classes tomorrow or want company for chai, I’m around.”

She gave a small, polite smile. “Thank you.”

No promises. No invitation. She closed her book, lifted her tumbler, and walked toward an empty table by the window. Outside, the rain poured steadily, a curtain of silver threads. Behind her, Ayan watched her go—not with frustration but with a look of mild curiosity, like someone who’d spotted the beginning of a story he wanted to read slowly, page by page.

Meera settled into her seat, notebook open beside her. She had kept her vow to her parents: no distractions, just studies. But as she sipped her tea, she caught herself thinking of a stranger’s quiet smile, and how his voice had sounded—steady, like ink on paper; soft, like rain on stone. She smiled, because she had met such a genuine senior in her college when she thought ragging will be their introduction. Just polite admiration for his behavior.

But someone had found her to be his focus that day. Intriguing like a book, that you wish to keep reading.