The university didn't waste time. By afternoon, an official announcement was made.
Karan was expelled and forced to transfer out of the university. His involvement in fabricating the voice note left him with no defence. His academic future was now uncertain, and no one was there to sympathize with him.
Taniya, Riya, and the rest of her gang were fully suspended, their university privileges stripped away. They could no longer participate in any university events, clubs, or projects. They had finally fallen.
The moment the professors left, a wave of whispers spread through the campus. Students gathered in small groups, discussing what had happened. But for Shumaila's group, this was just another chapter they needed to close.
"It's finally over," Akansha muttered, stirring her coffee as the group gathered around their usual cafeteria table.
"Feels weird," Aarav admitted. "I thought I'd be celebrating. But… I don't know, man. This whole thing was just a mess."
Siddarth scoffed. "We got justice. That's what matters."
"Yeah, but at what cost?" Komal sighed. "The group's not the same anymore. Hamza…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "You saw him that day. The way he reacted. I've never seen him like that."
"He deserved it," Siddarth said, leaning back. "He ruined Shumaila's life. He let the whole university degrade her. And now, suddenly, he's breaking apart?"
Sneha tapped her fingers against the table. "I don't know. I mean, we all saw it. That wasn't just guilt. That was someone who lost something he didn't realize he needed."
"I don't care," Shumaila finally spoke, her tone calm but distant. "It's over. We all need to start fresh."
Komal watched her carefully. "You really think it's that simple?"
Shumaila didn't answer. Because the truth was—
Hamza's reaction wasn't just guilt. It was something else.
Something she didn't know how to process.
Hamza sat alone in his dorm, staring at a blank sheet of paper.
For days, he had fought to understand why this hurt so much. Why Shumaila's hate crushed him. Why her cold eyes haunted him. Why watching her with Karan made his chest feel hollow.
And finally, he understood.
He loved her.
And he was too late.
His fingers trembled as he picked up his pen. If she wouldn't listen to him, if she refused to see him, then at the very least, he needed to get these feelings out.
So he wrote.
"Shumaila,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. Maybe it's better if you don't. But I need to write it, because keeping it inside is suffocating me.
For weeks, I thought I was just desperate for your forgiveness. I thought I just needed to clear my conscience. But it's more than that. It's always been more than that.
Your hate destroys me because I don't want to be someone you despise. Your silence torments me because I need to hear your voice, even if it's just to mock me. Your eyes—those cold, detached eyes—are nothing like the ones that once held fire, determination, and something else I never recognized before.
I hate myself for realizing it too late. For realizing that your absence feels worse than any punishment. That seeing you happy with someone else makes me want to claw my own heart out.
I love you.
And I hate myself for not knowing it sooner."
Shumaila ran through the empty park near the dorms, her breathing steady, her heart pounding.
She had gone jogging to clear her mind, but nothing worked. The moment she slowed down, her thoughts returned to the same place—
Hamza.
Annoyed with herself, she turned to head back. But suddenly, a hand gripped her wrist.
She whirled around, ready to snap—until she saw him.
Hamza stood before her, breathless, sweat lining his forehead. He looked like he had been running too, but his eyes—his eyes were raw, desperate.
"What—" Before she could finish, he pulled her along.
She barely had time to react as he led her into an empty dance studio inside the university building.
"Let go of me," she snapped, trying to walk past him.
But before she could, he caged her against the wall.
Their heavy breaths filled the silence. His forehead leaned against hers, their closeness suffocating.
"Shumaila," his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "Please. Just listen to me."
She clenched her fists. "I have nothing to say to you."
"Then don't say anything," he pleaded. "Just… let me talk."
She said nothing.
Taking her silence as permission, Hamza finally let it all out.
"I don't know when it started," he admitted. "I don't know when mocking you became my favorite part of the day. I don't know when I started noticing every expression you made, or when your words started affecting me more than anyone else's. I don't know when your absence became unbearable, or when I started craving your attention—even when it was filled with hate."
Shumaila swallowed, her chest rising and falling unevenly. "Hamza…"
He shut his eyes tightly, his forehead still resting against hers. "I love you. I think—I think I always have. And I know I don't deserve you. I know I ruined everything. But I just needed you to hear it. To know it."
She stood frozen, stunned, unable to process what she was hearing.
Hamza took a shaky breath, slowly wrapping his strong arms around her.
She stiffened, her hands instinctively pushing against his chest, but he tightened his grip.
"Please," he whispered. "Just let me hold you. Just for a second. And I swear, I'll let go."
She didn't know why, but her hands stopped pushing.
For the first time in weeks, she felt warmth instead of anger.
After what felt like eternity, Hamza slowly pulled back. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing lightly against her skin.
His eyes locked onto hers, filled with so much emotion it hurt to look at him.
And then, in a voice so soft it barely reached her ears—
"I miss you."
Her breath hitched.
Before she could react, Hamza leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead.
It was barely a touch. Just the softest brush of lips against skin.
And then, he stepped back, looking at her one last time—before turning and walking away.