The sun rose all bright and shiny. As usual, the hostel buzzed with the shouting, running, screaming, and talking of the girls getting ready in their respective rooms. Some are using the common bathroom and waiting for their queue, and some are just buzzing around. In their room, Heer and Ishani were getting ready for their college. Ishani had worn her jeans and top, while Heer had worn a pink floral kurta with matching pants.

"Heer, tu jeans kyu nahi pehnti hai? Tere upper aachi lagegi."

"I look like a potato in those; you know how I am fat."

"Just up haa... You are not; you have the figure that most girls crave. Kabhi apni kamar dekhi hai? Haaye, mujhe ladka banne par majboor kar deti hai."

"Chiii."

As they talked and headed towards the classroom, Heer felt a little anxious about attending Harshwardhan's class today. Something that wasn't normal, something that his eyes were doing to her, something that she may have never felt before.

The classroom buzzed with restless energy at the moment. Heer sat in her usual seat near the back, adjusting her kurta as if it could shield her from the world. Ishani was already gossiping animatedly about the new professor, giggling with two girls in the front row.

"Did you hear? He's not just handsome. He's thirty-five! More than a decade older than us!" one whispered, eyes wide.
"Uff, imagine marrying someone that mature, that powerful..." The other sighed dreamily.

Heer stiffened. Thirty-five? Her fingers froze around her pen. She was in her mid-twenties. More than ten years separated them. Suddenly, the idea of his eyes resting on her—even for that fleeting moment yesterday—felt almost ridiculous. Heat pricked her cheeks, not from excitement but from the cruel sting of her insecurities. Why would a man like that ever notice a girl like me? But why the hell am I even thinking that his eyes were lingering on me? No, no, this is bad; this is wrong.

The sound of footsteps silenced the chatter.

Professor Harshwardhan Raichand entered, commanding the room without effort. His blazer was darker today, his sleeves rolled neatly, his expression unreadable. The air shifted as it had the day before; students sat straighter, hearts thudding faster.

From his place at the front, Harshwardhan allowed his gaze to sweep across the hall. He didn't need to, but it was instinct. Eyes landed where they wished, and again—inevitably—they found her.

The girl in the pink floral kurti. Sitting still, almost trying to fold herself smaller, as if blending into the wooden bench. Yet, there was something... striking. Not in the way his fiancée Malika was—glamorous, sharp-edged, and practised. He had seen her photos yesterday that her team, not even her, had shared with him. Off-shoulder bodycon dress, covering just the necessary things, and that's it. But he didn't feel anything. Normally, if a fiancee shares these kinds of pictures, he should have felt, you know, hard to resist, but those photos, or any of her photos, never made him feel a craving for her. But they absolutely made him rethink his choice of marrying her. But she, the girl in that class, was different. Yesterday, her words had stirred a chord. Today, it was her silence that spoke louder than the whispers around her.

Why does she feel... familiar? He wondered, an unfamiliar tug at the edges of his composure.

"Miss Mishra," his voice cut through the air suddenly.

Heer's heart stopped. She looked up slowly, clutching her notebook as if it were a shield.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like you to elaborate on yesterday's point. About how insecurities shape the mind. Can you give me a personal example? His eyes were calm, though a flicker of curiosity betrayed his composure.

Her lips parted. Eyes widened. A personal example? Before the entire class? Her palms went damp. She could feel dozens of eyes boring into her, some mocking, some curious. Ishani looked at Heer, who was flickering her eyes. She knew that in these two days, Harshwardhan had made Heer do what she had been avoiding ever since she had stepped into this college.

"I... I think..." Her voice trembled, then steadied.

"I think insecurities... make you question if you're worthy of being noticed. If you're worth... being seen at all. And when someone does notice, instead of feeling happy, you mock yourself. You wonder—why would they? And even if they are noticing you, are they appreciating you for something, or are you the topic of that table in very negative terms? Especially if they're... someone far above you, someone who is more good-looking than you, someone who has more power and authority, maybe. Insecurities are different for every person. Some feel insecure about their looks, some about their failure, some about their emotional attachments, and some about themselves as a whole. They play a very crucial role in shaping one's mind, as... as they overpower you with every minor thought, and you basically start overthinking every little thing in your life... I guess... that's it... Sir."

The words spilt before she could stop them, raw and unfiltered.

The class was silent. A few students exchanged knowing smirks, but Harshwardhan didn't move. His gaze held hers, and for the briefest of moments, Heer felt it—that she wasn't invisible, that she was being seen. Truly seen. Maybe in a good way, and maybe not in a mocking way.

But then her insecurities clawed back, cruel and mocking. He's thirty-five, Heer. Handsome. Powerful. Out of your league in every way. He's probably just testing you, nothing more. Her mind, for the first ever time, was distracted by those eyes, those light brown orbs, seeing her every time.

She quickly lowered her gaze, biting her lip, ashamed of how much truth had slipped out.

Harshwardhan, however, remained thoughtful. There was no tremor of pretense in her words. No practiced performance. Only honesty—the kind he hadn't heard in years. And for reasons he didn't yet wish to name, it intrigued him more than any polished charm. She was simple; her words were honest, but...they contained something...pain. Pain of never being noticed, pain of always being the topic of the table in bad ways, pain of always being mocked, and pain of always being ignored.

"Thank you, Miss Mishra," he said finally, his tone softer than before. "That was... real."

She nodded quickly, trying to hide the way her chest ached, torn between the thrill of being noticed and the sting of knowing she never could be more than a fleeting glance in his world. She rubbed her palms together and scratched her fingers to soothe the pain and anxiousness when Ishani held her palm softly and gave her a soft nod. She smiled softly, relieved that her best friend has understood what she has just confessed. Harshwardhan started his chapter, line by line, word by word. His eyes moved everywhere, catching some eyes that were lusting after him and some eyes that were genuinely listening to him, and then came the eyes that were looking at him with emptiness and concentration. Her dark brown eyes. As the class moved on, Harshwardhan continued, his voice smooth and commanding—but every now and then, his eyes flickered back, unbidden, to the girl who didn't yet know how deeply she had unsettled him.

"Alright class, 2nd half of the day, let's do an activity. I need you guys to pick one friend of yours, and that should not be your regular bench partner or best friend. Pick any of your college friends and make a pair. We will understand one-on-one psychology today. Okay?"

He walked outside the class, not before glancing over his shoulders to Heer, who was now writing something in her notebook.

The lunch happened, and the time came for the lecture again. The classroom buzzed with anticipation as Professor Harshwardhan Raichand closed his folder and leaned casually against the desk. His light brown eyes swept across the rows of students.

"Today, we'll do a one-on-one activity," he announced, his deep voice commanding attention. "Pair yourselves with someone who is not your friend and not your bench mate. You'll have fifteen minutes to prepare. I'll step out and return once you're ready."

Excitement rippled through the class. The chance to interact, to show off, to maybe impress Professor Greek God—as half the girls had already nicknamed him—was enough to spark chaos.

Heer sat quietly, clutching her pen. Group activities had always been her least favorite. She knew how it would end.

"Fifteen minutes," Harshwardhan repeated, glancing at his watch. "Begin."

And with that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Pairs formed quickly. Students called names, laughed, and dragged chairs together. Ishani gave Heer a helpless look, but before she could move, one of the more popular girls from another bench grabbed her arm.

"Come, Sharma! You're with me."

Heer's chest tightened. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through her notebook aimlessly, waiting... hoping. But one by one, everyone found their partners. Laughter filled the air. Groups leaned close, already chatting about the activity.

And she remained. Alone. Just sitting there, without anyone. Ishani saw her, and she felt bad about how she has been ignored... AGAIN.

The seconds stretched, her throat aching with that familiar sting of humiliation. She could feel the whispers, the giggles. She kept her eyes on her notebook, pretending to write, though her vision blurred. She kept scratching her pages, teeth sharply biting her lips as if to avoid pain and tears to this world.

The door opened.

Harshwardhan stepped back in, his presence silencing the class instantly. He scanned the room, noting the clusters of pairs—and then, his eyes fell on her.

Heer, sitting alone, head bowed, her shoulders pulled tightly as if they could shield her from the cruel world.

"Why is she sitting alone?" His voice cut sharp, slicing through the uneasy silence. His eyes scanned the room, where he saw shameless giggles and mocking smiles.

One of the boys cleared his throat.

"Sir, the strength of the class is forty-one. Odd number. So... someone had to be left."

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter followed. Hushed automatically by the eyes that were watching those evil souls.

And then it came. A voice, sugar-laced and venomous. The most beautiful girl in their batch, Tara—known for her arrogance—smirked.

"Anyways, sir, no one would have picked her. She is just useless. Who would want to be paired with a bhenji-type ladki? God knows how she even got into this place with us."

Heer froze. The words pierced sharper than knives, humiliation burning her skin. She willed herself not to cry, not here, not now. Her grip on her pen tightened until her knuckles turned white. Though she was used to this kind of humiliation, today, it was more heart-clenching for her; it was in front of him. What if he also mocks her like others?

But Harshwardhan had heard. Every word.

In one swift movement, he strode toward the girl. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, burned with cold fury.

"Stand up," he ordered.

The girl faltered, rising nervously.

"Repeat what you just said," Harshwardhan demanded, his voice a dangerous calm that made the entire class hold its breath. Heer watched the scene unfolding opposite her.

"I-I just—"

"Loudly." His tone hardened. "So the entire class can hear how shallow your judgement is."

Her face flushed. "Sir, I didn't mean—"

"Enough." His words cracked like thunder.

"If you think intellect and worth are measured by appearances, then you are in the wrong place. This institution doesn't need students who mock others to feel superior. It needs minds that can think, respect, and rise."

Silence. No one dared to breathe. No one dared to look into his eyes except for two girls, Ishani and Heer. With one watching him with pride, the other watching him with thankfulness.

His gaze swept the room, sharp as glass.

"Let this be very clear. In my class, there will be no humiliation, no discrimination. The next time I hear such words, you will not be standing here—you will be out of my lecture hall."

Tara sank back into her seat, eyes downcast, her arrogance stripped away.

Harshwardhan turned then, his eyes softening as they landed on Heer. She sat frozen, her lashes wet, her face pale with the weight of being seen—truly seen.

"Miss Mishra," he said, his voice gentler now. "Since your classmates couldn't value what you bring... you will pair with me."

Gasps echoed around the room. Ishani's eyes went wide, her hands flying to her mouth in barely contained excitement. Envy burnt in others' gazes, their whispers hissing like snakes.

But Heer couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her heart thudded painfully, her mind screaming, 'Why me?' Why would someone like him—so perfect, so untouchable—choose me?

And yet, when she lifted her eyes, she found his gaze steady, unwavering. For that one moment, the humiliation faded, replaced by something far more dangerous: the feeling of being protected. Of being chosen.

By him.

The room buzzed with restless whispers as the students shifted back into their pairs. But this time, no one cared about their own activity. All eyes were stealing glances at the professor and the girl no one had wanted—now sitting side by side.

Heer's pulse raced. Her hands trembled as she adjusted her kurti, desperately trying to appear calm. She could feel the burning stares of her classmates, the envy thick in the air. And then there was him.

Harshwardhan Raichand.

Sitting right beside her, his presence was a storm wrapped in control. His scent—musk and something faintly woody—clung to the air, making it harder to breathe. She dared not look directly at him, terrified of what she might find in his eyes.

"Relax, Miss Mishra," he said softly, leaning just enough for only her to hear. "It's just an activity, not an interrogation."

Her heart skipped. Even his low chuckle carried authority. She nodded quickly, gripping her pen like a lifeline.

"The task is simple," he continued, his gaze fixed on her face with quiet curiosity, though making an announcement to the whole class as well. His head now turning to face the class,

"We're supposed to understand one another through observation. Write them in your notebooks, observe how the other person is talking to you, and then we will compile the answers together and see the outcome. So..."

He paused, tilting his head slightly, now looking at her.

"Tell me something about yourself. Something you wouldn't put on paper."

Her throat tightened. She could already hear the mocking voices in her head: What could you possibly say that would interest a man like him?

Still, she whispered, "I... like silence."

"Silence?"

She nodded, her gaze fixed on her notebook.

"It makes me feel safe. People... they make too much noise. Judgments, words, opinions. Silence doesn't hurt."

Harshwardhan studied her, his brows knitting slightly. The simplicity of her confession struck him harder than any polished answer could have.

"And yet," he said, his tone thoughtful, "you spoke yesterday. In front of everyone. That wasn't silence."

Her lashes fluttered. For a moment, she met his gaze—warm brown crashing into light amber—and quickly looked away.

"That was... different. I only spoke because I didn't want to feel invisible."

Invisible. The word lingered between them.

For reasons he couldn't explain, it unsettled him. Here sat a girl whose classmates ignored her, mocked her even—and yet she held a depth that most of them couldn't dream of.

He leaned back slightly, his voice softer. "You aren't invisible, Miss Mishra. Not anymore."

Her breath caught. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately lowered her gaze, biting down on her lip. Why would he say that? Why would he... mean it?

There was a pause, the air between them charged. And then, softly, she asked,

"Sir... Do you ever feel invisible? Even when the whole world is looking at you?"

The question caught him off guard. His chest tightened unexpectedly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No student had ever dared to ask him something so personal, so piercing.

For a man who commanded boardrooms, government councils, and even fear in the underworld, the question landed heavier than it should have.

He held her gaze longer this time, his voice quieter when he finally answered, "More often than you think."

Her breath hitched, stunned by the honesty in his tone. She hadn't expected him to answer at all.

And yet, in that single exchange, an invisible thread had tied them—two souls who knew what it was to be unseen, despite the noise around them.

Around them, the class buzzed with half-hearted attempts at the activity. But for Heer, the world had narrowed to this moment—the weight of his words, the sincerity in his eyes.

And for Harshwardhan, the line he had drawn so carefully as a professor blurred for just an instant. Against his own logic, he felt it again—the pull.

A simple girl in a plain kurti, speaking of silence and invisibility, had managed to leave him more curious than anyone else in the room.

"Time's up," he announced suddenly, his voice regaining its firm authority as he stood. The spell broke, students shuffling and straightening in their seats.

But as he walked back to the front, his gaze flickered once more toward her. And when Heer dared to look up, she caught it—just for a heartbeat.

A glance. A promise. A storm waiting to unravel.

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