Her silence. His storm.
The alarm buzzed at exactly 5:30 a.m., but Adah had already been awake.
She lay still under her thin blanket, watching the ceiling in the faint peach light that bled through the curtains. There was a familiar weight in her chest — not anxiety, not excitement — just a quiet, expectant ache. First days always felt like that. Suspended between something old and something unknown.
A knock tapped gently at her door. Her mother’s voice followed. “Adah, wake up. You’ll be late."
She responded with a soft, “Coming,” and sat up. Her room was modest — not many posters, no fairy lights or overflowing makeup drawers. Just books. A few plants. A calendar marked with exam dates, and a single photograph tucked inside her mirror — her family, arms linked at her cousin’s wedding. Everyone was smiling. Even her.
The cold floor greeted her feet as she padded toward the small bathroom. As steam fogged the mirror during her shower, she traced a nervous smile into the glass. It faded quickly. She dressed in her neatly ironed uniform — a white shirt, navy skirt that fell just below her knees, a striped tie, and black shoes. Her hair, long and black and usually open, was tied into a low ponytail. No kajal. No gloss. She didn’t need distractions.
“Beta, eat something,” her father said when she stepped into the kitchen.
“Just a glass of milk, Papa.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. Her mother pressed a warm hand to her cheek. “At least have a paratha. It’s your first day at the new school.”
Adah smiled faintly and sat down, the warmth of the food grounding her. But her mind was elsewhere.
St. Aurora High. The most elite school in South Mumbai. The kind of place where people wore designer watches at sixteen and showed up in chauffeur-driven sedans. She had earned her place with marks and merit. But that didn’t make her feel like she belonged.
Her father adjusted the sleeves of his shirt — already dressed for the electronics store he managed. Her mother packed lunch in a metal tiffin, the way she had since primary school. The rituals comforted her. They made her feel like herself — even when she was about to step into a world completely different from hers.
By 7:10 a.m., she was outside the school gates.
And it felt like walking into another galaxy.
The campus was enormous — modern glass buildings wrapped around heritage blocks, lush lawns, and paved paths with students strolling like they had all the time in the world. The crest of the Rathore family—golden, sharp, proud—was embedded right at the entrance: Fortis in Arduis. Strength in adversity.
She had read somewhere that the school was owned by the Rathores — one of the oldest and wealthiest business families in India. She didn’t know who they were, except that they practically ran half the city.
She walked slowly, her bag pressed to her back. Eyes flicked toward her — curious, indifferent, amused. Her uniform was the same as theirs, but it fit her differently. Like she hadn't yet learned how to wear it with arrogance.
Her class was on the second floor. 11-A.
She found an empty bench in the second row and sat quietly, her eyes on the timetable she’d written out by hand. A few girls walked past her, whispering. A boy leaned in and murmured something to his friend, both laughing under their breath.
She ignored them.
Outside the class, a group of students stood laughing — louder, bolder. Boys in tailored uniforms, girls with shiny hair and manicured nails. One of the boys had a basketball tucked under his arm. Another was balancing his phone on a textbook. In the center, leaning casually against the doorframe, was someone who didn’t seem to need to try.
Devansh Rathore.
He hadn’t planned to come to school that early. But boredom had struck at 7 a.m. and now he was here, scrolling through group chats and smirking at memes sent by his cousin Aryan. He didn’t notice her at first. Not really.
Until he did.
He turned to enter class, and then stopped mid-step.
His eyes landed on her. On the new girl in the second row, who was sitting with her back straight, her hands neatly folded on the desk, and a notebook already open in front of her.
She wasn’t looking at anyone. She wasn’t trying to be seen.
But Devansh saw her anyway.
There was something about the way she blinked — slow, focused — like she was listening to a conversation inside her own head. Her eyes were wide, not with innocence, but something more detached. Careful. Quiet. Like she was used to being alone.
She looked up briefly — and their eyes met.
It lasted two seconds. Maybe three.
Then she looked away.
But he felt it.
The pull.
That odd, slow-dragging sensation in his chest, like gravity had just shifted and decided to anchor itself to someone else. It was unfamiliar. And Devansh hated unfamiliar things.
He stepped into class slowly. His group followed behind, talking as always. He heard Kiara ask, “New girl?” and Anika whispered something sharp — something Devansh didn’t register.
He took the seat right behind her.
Adah stiffened.
She hadn’t expected that.
“Hey,” he said casually.
She turned a little but didn’t smile. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
She looked up. Her voice was soft, polite. “Adah.”
He liked the way it sounded. Like taking a breath.
“I’m Devansh.”
She nodded, clearly already aware. Of course she was. Everyone knew him here.
He tilted his head. “First day?”
She nodded again.
“You’re in this class for the rest of the year?”
“I guess that’s how schools work.”
There was no sarcasm in her voice, but he caught the dry edge. It amused him.
“I haven’t seen you before.”
“I transferred.”
Another short answer. Controlled.
He leaned forward slightly. “Do you talk like this to everyone or just me?”
This time, she met his gaze fully. Her eyes were dark, unreadable.
“To everyone. Especially people who ask too many questions before 8 a.m.”
Devansh smiled. A real one. Wide and disbelieving.
He wasn’t used to this.
He was used to girls who flipped their hair and asked about his weekend trips to Dubai, or whether the rumors about his Rolls Royce were true. He wasn’t used to someone looking at him like he was just another boy asking too many questions too early in the morning.
“Alright,” he said, holding up his hands. “No more questions.”
She turned back to her notebook. And that was it.
But Devansh kept watching.
The way she tapped her pen before writing. The way her lashes fluttered when she focused. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when the teacher asked a hard question.
He noticed everything.
And he hated that he was noticing it.
By lunch, he knew that he was fucked. She didn’t talk much. Didn’t eat from the cafeteria. Didn’t sit with anyone. She just found a quiet corner near the far wall and read a book.
“Who is she?” he asked Yash while dunking fries into mayo.
“Adah something. Scholarship kid. Smart, I think. Heard she got ninety-nine in boards or something.”
Devansh didn’t respond. But he kept watching.
That day, he didn’t understand it. Didn’t know that in the quiet, ordinary girl who refused to meet his gaze for more than three seconds, he had already found something dangerous.
He only knew that her silence irritated him.
Because for the first time, someone had walked into his world…
…and hadn’t looked at him like he was made of gold.
She didn’t want anything from him.
And that made him want everything from her.
____________________________________________________________
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