Mishti Sharma had always been the kind of girl who laughed too easily and felt too much. Twenty years old, second-year English Honours, curly hair that never stayed in a braid, and a habit of talking with her hands when she got excited. People called her bubbly. She called herself a professional overthinker who hid it behind jokes. Underneath the easy smiles lived a quiet, stubborn heart that still carried one stupid, childish crush she had been trying to kill for years.

That crush had a name. Abhiman Singh Rajput.

He was twelve years older, her family’s old friend, the man who used to come home smelling of expensive cologne and rain, who once carried her on his shoulders when she was small, who was supposed to marry her elder sister someday according to the quiet understanding between two traditional families. He was cold, calculated, and the kind of man who never raised his voice because he never needed to. People said he had no heart. Mishti had spent years trying to believe them.

She had come to this college determined to forget him. New campus, new start. She would sit quietly, make friends, study hard, and finally stop measuring every man against the memory of his voice.

That plan lasted exactly until 9:40 a.m. on the first day.

The lecture hall was already half full when she walked in, slightly out of breath, peach kurti sticking lightly to her back from the Delhi humidity. She was scanning for an empty seat when a loud group in the middle rows waved her over.

“Aye, naya face! Idhar aa,” a tall boy with a lazy grin called out. That was Karthik — sharp jaw, messy hair, the kind of smile that made most girls look twice. Beside him sat two others: Rohan, who looked like he had never attended a serious class in his life, and Tania, who was already chewing gum and drawing something on the desk.

Mishti hesitated, then slid into the empty seat next to Karthik. He turned toward her immediately, eyes warm and openly interested.

“Karthik,” he said, offering a casual fist bump. “Aur yeh mera bakwaas gang hai. Tu kaunsi stream se hai?”

“English Honours. Mishti.”

“Cute name.” His smile widened just a little too much. “First day se hi acchi company mil gayi tujhe.”

She laughed, the sound light and automatic, but her attention kept drifting to the door. Students were still filing in. She kept telling herself it didn’t matter who the professor was. She was here to study. She was here to move on.

Then the door opened again and the entire room seemed to quieten by half a degree.

Abhiman Singh Rajput walked in.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a simple watch on one wrist, expression carved from stone. He looked exactly the same and somehow more dangerous under the fluorescent lights of a classroom. The same man who used to sit in her living room and politely refuse second helpings of dessert. The same man whose name still made her stomach drop even after all the years she had spent trying to forget him.

Mishti’s fingers tightened around her pen.

Karthik noticed her sudden stillness. “Kya hua? Professor dekh ke darr gayi kya?”

She forced a small smile and shook her head. “Nahi. Bas… pehchaan wale he.”

“Kaun hai?”

“Purana… family friend.” The words tasted bitter. “Bahut purana.”

Karthik raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead he leaned a little closer, voice dropping into something friendlier, almost protective. “Chill. Yeh log rigid hote hain pehle din. Baad mein normal ho jaayenge.”

She nodded, but her pulse was already racing. She deliberately kept her eyes on her notebook. No lingering looks. No soft smiles. She was not that twelve-year-old girl anymore. She would sit quietly, take notes, and survive this class without giving him a single reason to remember her face.

Abhiman placed his books on the podium and scanned the room once. His gaze passed over her without stopping. The indifference felt worse than anger.

He began the lecture in that low, precise voice she still heard in old memories. Desire, power, silence in literature. Every word landed cleanly. Mishti wrote without looking up, shoulders slightly hunched, pretending the man at the front was a stranger.

It might have worked if her new friends had not been who they were.

Ten minutes in, Rohan whispered something filthy about the professor’s strict face. Tania snorted. Karthik added a joke about how men who looked like that probably only smiled during tax season. The three of them started laughing under their breath, shoulders shaking. Mishti bit her lip, trying not to join in, but a small nervous giggle escaped anyway.

Abhiman’s chalk stopped mid-sentence.

He turned slowly.

“Jo log abhi has rahe the,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “bahar khade ho jaao. Abhi.”

The laughter died instantly. Karthik muttered a curse. Rohan and Tania stood up with dramatic sighs. Mishti stayed frozen, cheeks burning. She had barely made a sound, yet somehow she felt exposed.

Abhiman’s eyes flicked to her for the first time.

“Tum bhi,” he said flatly. “Bahar.”

She stood on unsteady legs and followed the others out. The corridor felt too bright. Karthik tried to joke again, but even he kept his voice low.

“Saala first day se hi mood kharab kar diya isne.”

Mishti didn’t answer. She kept her arms wrapped around her notebook, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the way her stomach had twisted the moment his voice had singled her out.

Fifteen minutes later the rest of the class began filing out. Karthik touched her elbow lightly.

“Chal, canteen chalte hain. Don’t take it seriously.”

She managed a small nod. “Tum log jaao. Main… bas ek minute.”

He looked like he wanted to stay, but finally left with the others, glancing back once.

The corridor emptied. Mishti remained where she was, heart beating too fast. She was about to leave when the classroom door opened again.

Abhiman stood there, expression unreadable.

“Andar aao.”

Two words. No warmth.

She stepped back inside. He closed the door with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than a slam. The room was suddenly too still. He walked to the front desk, leaned against it, and folded his arms. The black shirt stretched slightly across his shoulders. She hated that she noticed.

“Pehle din se hi concentration nahi hai?” His voice was soft, which somehow made it worse. “Main dekh raha tha. Tum notes nahi bana rahi thi. Tum has rahi thi. Aur tumhari nazar notebook pe nahi, har jagah ghum rahi thi.”

Mishti swallowed. “Abhiman Bhaii…Mein woh”

“Abhiman bhai mat bolna.” The correction came sharp and immediate. “Yahan main tumhara professor hoon. Sirf professor. Clear hai?”

The old familiar address died in her throat. She had almost said it without thinking — the name she used to call him at home, the name that still carried the ghost of childhood. Heat flooded her face.

“Clear hai… sir.”

He studied her for a long moment. The silence stretched. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her mouth, her throat, the nervous way her fingers clutched the notebook. Something dark and unreadable moved behind his eyes, then vanished.

“Main jaanta hoon hamari families ka connection hai,” he continued, voice lower now. “Lekin is classroom mein uska koi matlab nahi. Yahan tum ordinary student ho. Aur ordinary students se main expect karta hoon ki woh padhein, dhyan dein, aur bakwaas na karein. Agli baar agar main dekha ki tum concentration nahi de rahi, toh internal marks mein dikhai dega. Samajh gayi?”

Every word was controlled. Heartless. Exactly as everyone had always described him.

Mishti forced herself to meet his eyes. “Samajh gayi, sir.”

He held her gaze a second longer than necessary. The air between them felt thicker than it should have. She became painfully aware of how close he was standing, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his rolled sleeves showed the veins on his forearms. Old, forbidden heat stirred low in her stomach — the same heat she had spent years trying to starve.

She looked away first.

“Jaao,” he said finally, turning back to his books as if she had already taken up too much of his time. “Aur agle class mein time pe aana. Late aane ka koi excuse nahi chalega.”

“Ji, sir.”

She walked out on legs that felt unsteady. The corridor was empty. She pressed her back against the wall and closed her eyes, breathing carefully.

Karthik was waiting near the stairs, hands in his pockets. When he saw her face he frowned.

“Kya kaha usne?”

“Bas… padhai pe dhyan dene ko kaha.” She tried to smile. It came out shaky. “Normal professor wala lecture.”

Karthik studied her for a moment, then offered a softer smile. “Chal, coffee peete hain. Main treat karta hoon. First day se itna serious mat ho.”

She nodded and let him lead the way, but her mind stayed behind in that empty classroom — on the cold voice that had refused the old name, on the way he had looked at her like she was both a problem and something he could not quite look away from.

She had come here to forget him.

Instead, the first day had already reminded her body of every reason she never could.