A week passed like a shadow slipping past in silence.
Exams had ended, the air around St. Aurora High buzzed not with equations or deadlines anymore, but with laughter, stage props, and students running around with color charts and music lists. The energy was different now—lively, hopeful, and full of anticipation for Annual Day.
Adah, who had been trying to keep herself buried in books, finally let herself breathe. The pressure of exams was over. But the pressure on her chest every time Devansh so much as entered the corridor—that was still there.
It had been a full week since that day he had dragged her into that classroom.
A full week of silence.
Devansh hadn’t spoken to her since. Not a word. Not a smirk. Not a stolen comment. But his eyes—they hadn’t left her once. And that unnerved her more than his words ever could.
She felt his silence like a heat crawling on her skin.
So, when the announcements for Annual Day performances were made, Adah saw her escape—her distraction.
She walked straight up to the sign-up sheet and wrote her name under Classical & Contemporary Fusion Dance. Dancing was something she did for herself. Her feet always knew what her heart couldn’t say. She thought it would help her forget.
But fate had a twisted sense of humor.
The moment her name was inked in smooth blue strokes, a voice from behind her made her freeze.
“I’d like to sign up too.”
Devansh.
Her name was still drying on the page, and there he was, scribbling his right beneath hers, his letters bold and fast. Confident. Certain. Like he had always meant to be next to hers.
The teacher handling the sign-ups, Mr. Shah, smiled. “Perfect. We need a duet pair for Mrs. Rao’s fusion piece. Devansh, Adah—you’ll be paired.”
Adah opened her mouth, “Sir—”
“No excuses. We’re on a deadline. And you two? You’re perfect for this piece. Go to rehearsal. Mrs. Rao is waiting in the auditorium.”
And that was it.
No protest strong enough.
No excuse solid enough.
No escape wide enough.
---
The auditorium smelled like dust and polish, sunrays pouring in through long glass windows and painting golden lines across the wooden floor.
Mrs. Rao stood near the mirror, adjusting her dupatta. Her sharp eyes cut through the room like daggers.
“You’re late.”
Adah bowed her head. Devansh just slid his hands into his pockets.
“No time for attitude. We’re doing a semi-classical fusion to “Raabta – Agent Vinod”. A duet. You’ll act like you’re in love. Because that’s what the dance is about. Not just steps. Connection. Emotion. Chemistry. Got it?”
The music began—soft piano, the haunting start of Raabta echoing in the silence of the hall.
Mrs. Rao demonstrated first, her hands floating like silk, her movements graceful. She showed them the steps, the twirls, the moment when the girl would twirl into the guy's arms, his hands holding her waist. Close. Breathing the same breath.
Then, it was their turn.
Adah stood opposite him, her dupatta tucked securely, her hair in a simple ponytail. Devansh rolled up his sleeves, not saying a word, just watching her.
The music cued in again.
“Kuch toh hai tujhse raabta...”
Their steps began—slow, hesitant. Devansh followed her movements, surprisingly precise. Adah turned. He mirrored. Her hand reached out mid-air. He caught it.
It was when she spun—delicate, fluid—and twirled into his space that everything shifted.
His hand touched her waist.
And the world paused.
Not the whole of her waist, just the side. His fingers were tentative, almost afraid. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton. He could hear her breath—shallow, uneven.
So was his.
Mrs. Rao’s voice broke through. “Closer. Devansh, hold her properly. Don’t act like you’re afraid of her.”
He blinked. Swallowed. His hand tightened.
Adah nearly forgot the next step.
“Eye contact. Let the song breathe through your expressions. You’re in love, remember?” Mrs. Rao barked.
In love.
Adah’s cheeks flamed. She looked up. His eyes were already on her.
And for a moment—for the smallest fraction of a heartbeat—it didn’t feel like a rehearsal anymore.
It felt like the music had seeped into their bones. That the lyrics of Raabta—a song about connections written before time—was about them.
Her body moved on its own.
Her steps found his rhythm.
His hand didn’t shake anymore.
His other hand brushed her back lightly when he lifted her in a spin, her dupatta flying around them like a ribbon of storm and fire.
Their eyes locked.
Devansh whispered, not loud enough for Mrs. Rao, but enough for her to hear.
“You look like the song was written for you.”
She blinked.
And forgot her next move.
He caught her before she stumbled.
“Back to one!” Mrs. Rao clapped.
They broke apart. Barely breathing.
---
Hours passed.
Each rehearsal melted their awkwardness just a little more.
Adah still didn’t say much.
But her eyes—her hands—her breath—they all began responding to the rhythm of his.
Every time he touched her waist now, she didn’t stiffen.
Every time his hand curled gently over her wrist for a spin, she didn’t flinch.
She couldn’t lie to herself anymore.
She liked the way he held her.
Gentle. Protective. Like she was made of silk, and he was afraid to tear her apart.
But that was what scared her most.
Because if she gave into it—just a little—she feared she might never pull away.
---
The music faded, and with it, the weight of the moment settled in their chests.
Adah stepped back quickly, too quickly, as if distance could slow the wildfire inside her. Her skin still remembered the trail of Devansh’s fingers on her waist, the quiet way his breath had synced with hers, the way his eyes softened in the middle of a step, like he forgot this was just a dance.
Mrs. Rao clapped twice. “Take five. Don’t lose your limbs before the actual performance.”
Adah sighed in relief and walked to the side to grab her water bottle, sipping slowly, her pulse refusing to calm down.
She didn’t realize when Devansh walked up behind her, until she heard his voice—lower, quieter than usual. Unthreatening.
“You’re not bad at this,” he said, pausing beside her, keeping a respectable distance. “I mean… you might’ve stepped on my foot. Twice. But I’ll survive.”
Adah glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t step on your foot.”
“You didn’t?” His grin was lazy, teasing. “Then I guess I’m imagining the throbbing pain in my soul.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny.”
“I think I’m hilarious.”
She tried not to smile.
But he looked at her then—really looked—and her walls trembled.
“I miss this,” he said quietly. “You talking to me like this. Without flinching.”
Adah froze.
“I know I ruined it,” he added, staring down at the wooden floor, his voice almost too sincere. “But if I promised to behave—if I don’t drag you into classrooms or threaten random guys... could we maybe be friends? Just friends. Nothing more.”
His voice was gentle. Not the Devansh that towered over everyone with quiet arrogance. This was... the boy beneath the storm.
Adah looked up at him, uncertain. “Friends?”
He nodded. “Swear. No drama. No weird stares. Just... peace. Maybe even bad jokes if you’re lucky.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, debating.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to stay guarded. But standing there, under the soft auditorium lights, with his stupid grin and his soft, sincere eyes—
She caved.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Just friends.”
Devansh blinked, then—God—he smiled.
And it wasn’t the smirk she was used to. It was wide, real, the kind of smile that made her stomach flutter and her heart skip steps. His dimples showed. His eyes brightened like he hadn’t expected her to say yes.
And Adah… couldn’t look away.
She stared, heart thudding a little too fast, until Mrs. Rao’s voice thundered through the room again.
“Break’s over. Back to position, both of you.”
Adah jumped and turned her back, cheeks burning. Devansh chuckled under his breath as he followed her to the center of the stage again.
---
This time, when the music started, the tension was different.
It wasn’t about discomfort anymore.
It was about awareness.
Every time his hand touched her, it was like the universe leaned in a little closer. When he reached for her wrist to twirl her, their fingers brushed longer than necessary. When he placed his palm on her back, it wasn’t just for the step—it lingered. Soft. Warm.
His touch was deliberate, yet hesitant. Like he wanted to feel more, but didn’t want to scare her again.
And Adah… didn’t want to move away.
The slow segment of the song began again.
“Tere liye duniya chhod di hai…”
He stepped closer behind her, his hand lightly grazing her arm as she turned. She gasped—just a little—and met his eyes.
They weren’t rehearsing anymore.
Their breath synchronized.
Their steps matched.
When she dipped slightly and his hand steadied her at the waist, it was almost a caress.
Mrs. Rao’s voice cut through like a whip. “More chemistry. You’re supposed to be in love, not uncomfortable cousins at a wedding. Get closer, Devansh.”
Devansh looked down at Adah for permission.
She gave the smallest nod.
His hand moved up, gliding gently across her back to pull her closer.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath.
Adah swore she could feel her heartbeat echo against his.
“You both need to live the lyrics,” Mrs. Rao added. “Forget you’re on a stage. Think like lovers.”
Devansh’s voice was soft, teasing. “Permission to think like a lover?”
Adah glared. “Shut up and dance.”
But she was blushing. And he didn’t miss it.
The rest of the rehearsal blurred into slow steps and stolen glances. The moment their eyes met during a spin. The accidental brush of her hair against his cheek. The way her breath hitched every time his palm rested on her hip for a beat too long.
And the way his fingers lingered even after the music faded.
---
Mrs. Rao clapped sharply after their fifth run. “Better. Much better.”
She looked down at her notes. “You have five days. The performance is on Wednesday evening. But you two need serious polishing. This piece needs soul, not just steps.”
She pointed at them, stern. “I want you both here Saturday and Sunday too. Practical rehearsals. Don’t be late. No excuses.”
Adah nodded. Devansh simply said, “We’ll be here.”
As the teacher walked away, Devansh turned to Adah, one brow lifted.
“Friends go to weekend rehearsals together, right?”
Adah didn’t answer, but the corner of her lips curled into the smallest smile.
And that was enough.
__________________________________________________________
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