She was tired.
Aditi had been watching it build for days—the dullness in her eyes, the dark circles growing darker, the way her voice had started sounding like it belonged to someone underwater.
He had noticed too. Though he pretended not to.
That afternoon, after their classes, they were all in the cafeteria.
She sat with Aditi, barely touching her food. Her tray looked untouched—just like her. Her hair was messily tied, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the glass of water and didn't drink.
He sat two tables away, angled just enough to glance her way without being obvious. His friends were talking, laughing, but he kept hearing silence from her corner. His gaze flicked to her more often than he'd like.
She looked like she was trying to hold herself together with invisible thread.
She got up after a while. Mumbled something to Aditi, who looked ready to argue but didn't.
She walked toward the stairs.
Aditi followed after her, tension carved into her expression.
And then it happened.
Halfway down the staircase from the canteen, her knees buckled. The world tilted. She stumbled, her body lurching dangerously forward—
And an approaching car honked sharply as it screeched to a stop just feet away.
She didn't fall.
Not completely.
But it was close. Too close.
Aditi grabbed her arm, breath ragged, eyes wide with panic. "That's it," she snapped, voice shaking. "You're going to the hostel. Now."
She didn't protest this time.
Maybe because she couldn't.
Aditi helped her up the stairs, one arm around her waist. Got her back into the room. Helped her lie down, pulled the blanket over her. Her body curled in on itself almost instantly, like it had been waiting for permission to stop.
And then Aditi left, reluctantly.
Back in class, he noticed she wasn't there.
Of course he noticed.
He told himself it was habit, nothing more. They'd been paired for practicals, after all. It made sense to look. That was it.
Still, he kept glancing at the door.
Still, she lingered—loud and invisible—in his head.
He hated that. He didn't like her. Couldn't possibly. Not in just two weeks.
And yet, she was everywhere in his mind, while she lay asleep, unaware.
But when Aditi came back to the hostel later that evening, her world shifted.
She found her burning up.
Skin flushed and hot, like fire under flesh. Her breathing was fast—too fast. Her body trembled. There were signs of vomiting, dried along the edge of the bed. Her lips were chapped, her skin pale under the fevered flush.
And the water bottle beside her? Still untouched.
Panic took over.
Aditi rushed her to the hospital.
Diagnosis: Severe dehydration. Febrile illness. Fluids lost, energy drained, immune system collapsing under the weight of pure stubbornness.
They hooked her up to an IV, started fluid replacement therapy, began running tests.
And all the while, Aditi sat beside her, her worry folding into quiet fury.
She should've rested.
She should've listened.
And across campus, in a classroom dimming with the evening light, a boy tapped his pen against the desk, wondering—just for a second—why she hadn't come back.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
But he would.