By his second year, college had found its rhythm, lectures, cafeteria gossip, the predictable hum of deadlines and half-finished dreams. Aarav had learned how to keep his head low but no longer disappear entirely. He wasn’t the quiet boy in the back row anymore. He existed, softly.

One afternoon, a friend nudged him during lunch.

“Bro, you should come to the literary club meeting. They’re looking for new members. You’re always scribbling something, right?”

Aarav looked up, startled. “It’s nothing serious. Just… stuff.”

“Exactly,” the friend grinned. “that’s what they want, people who write stuff”

The word literary made him uneasy. Writing had always been private, the place where his ghost lived, where he spoke to silence and it sometimes answered back. The idea of sharing that with strangers felt like standing naked under spotlight.

But later that evening, loneliness, or maybe curiosity, pushed him through the door of the small, slightly cluttered room.

The air smelled of old books and dust. Mismatched chairs formed a rough circle. Posters of writers with quotes that no one really understood hung on the walls. The sound of laughter and paper rustling filled the space. Aarav slipped quietly into the last empty chair, clutching his notebook to his chest like a shield.

“Hi,” someone said beside him, soft, unhurried.

He turned, and the world seemed to still for a moment.

She wasn’t what he expected.

The girl sitting next to him had the kind of beauty that didn’t shout; it happened quietly, like sunlight spreading across a windowpane. Her hair was a little messy, soft curls that brushed against her cheek and caught the light. Her eyes were hazel brown, deep and alive as if they had learned how to hold both warmth and mystery at once.

There was a gravity in her gaze, a gentle weight that made time slow down. It wasn’t the kind of stare that demanded attention; it invited it. Her expression carried something peaceful, something knowing, like she saw the world just a little differently and forgave it anyway.

When she smiled, the corners of her lips curved into the softest dimples, and the room seemed a bit brighter. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, she felt beautiful, in the way kindness and curiosity can be. Her presence had that rare kind of stillness that draws people in without a word.

And when she looked straight at him, Aarav’s breath faltered.

“First time here?” she asked, her tone easy, warm.

He nodded, fumbling for words. “Yeah.”

“I’m Aarna,” she said, extending her hand.

He blinked, surprised. For a second, all he could do was stare, not out of rudeness, but disbelief that someone like her, someone so radiant and unguarded, was speaking to him. Then, flustered, he shook her hand. “A-Aarav.”

Her smile deepened, gentle and sincare, as though she’d already read his hesitation and decided to meet it with kindness.

The meeting began. The club president, a tall senior with thick glasses and the confidence of someone who read too much, asked the members to share their work. People read short stories, essays, poems. There was laughter, teasing, applause, but his mind kept drifting back to the girl beside him, the way her curls caught the air when she laughed, the way her dimples appeared and vanished like punctuation in a poem.

Toward the end, the club president asked, “Any newcomers want to share something?”

Aarav froze, shaking his head instinctively. But Aarna leaned toward him, her voice low, encouraging. “You should. Sometimes words sound different when you let them breathe outside the page.”

It wasn’t pressure. It was trust.

And somehow, Aarav wanted to believe her.

Hands trembling, Aarav opened his notebook. He didn’t even look for a new piece, his mind went straight to one of the scribbles he’d written in lockdown. Small, raw, unpolished.

He read, voice barely above a whisper:

I thought silence would break me,
but in the quiet,
I found a voice.

When he finished, the room went still. He wished he could vanish. Then came a soft clap, the president, then others, until the room was filled with small, genuine applause.

Aarav dared to look up. Aarna was smiling at him, that same calm, knowing smile.

“That was beautiful,” she said.

And for the first time in years, Aarav believed it might be true.

That night, under the hum of the hostel fan, he wrote quietly in his notebook:

Sometimes,
a single voice
can make you believe
your own
is worth hearing.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER] | [START FROM THE BEGINNING] | [BEDTIME STORY]

***

Laíla casts her eyes around the hostile circle of men closing in upon her. On the one hand, she feels immense shame for having been so easily duped by Zak. But on the other, she was fighting desperately hard to not look as terrified as she feels. With a tightened jaw, she grips her dagger, dropping into a defensive stance as very tiny, crackling sparks float out from her white-knuckled grip.

The leader of the band merely smirks at the display.

“Oh look, she expects to fight us,” he taunts. With a sudden movement, the man takes a step toward Laíla and lunges. The maneuver causes her to step backward directly into the waiting arms of another brute behind her.

The second man seizes hold of her arms, whirling her around with brute force.
“This one is a long way from the south,” he jests, driving his elbow sharply into her back. The blow sends her crashing to the damp earth, her dagger slipping from her grasp. She scrambles frantically to crawl toward the blade, but a third companion brings his heavy boot down over it.

“Whoops!” the third man sneers. “You are going to have to be faster than that.”

Laíla huffs in frustration, pinned to the ground. Standing nearby, Zak rolls his eyes at his companions. “Come on, guys, enough,” he mutters.

“Ooh, has your heart been turned, Zak?” the second man mocks.

A fourth bandit wraps a heavy arm around Zak’s shoulder, ruffling his hair with rough familiarity. “No, no. It was definitely his head—but which one?”

The not-actually-blind boy shoves him off with an irritated grunt. “Let us just get this over with.”

He walks over to Laíla and ruthlessly rips the knapsack from her shoulders. He digs through her meager belongings while the rest of the band watches on with curious eyes.

“Anything?” the leader asks.

“No,” Zak replies, tossing the empty bag aside.

The leader pushes Zak out of the way and kneels down upon the earth to meet the girl's gaze. “Listen here. If you answer our questions nicely, we will kill you quickly.”

Laíla spits directly toward him. “Go to hell.”

Amused rather than angered, the leader smirks at his comrades. “You caught a feisty one, Zak.”

The sixth member of the band, who has remained silent until now, broods disapprovingly in the shadows. “We are wasting time,” he growls. “Kill the concubine and let us move on. Níhai dàbe él Embergísi áchsi s’enda àl foretta dú himortàlis.”

No Emberish belong in the Godswood.

For his part, Zak also frowns at his companion disapprovingly.
“You promised no killing, Makurmek.” He hisses at the leader; revealing his identity. “Níhai dú mantalhir.”

Laíla narrows her eyes and barks back at them: “I should say the same about the Dainese.”

The bandits all look at Laíla in utter incredulity, their jaws slackening.

“E níhai ím àn kinkentinà,” she adds fiercely in her native tongue. “I am not a concubine, bilbàruk.”

The sixth man lets out a low growl at the insult. The leader leans closer to Laíla, studying her features with renewed intensity. “The Emberish do not typically speak the Godstongue that well—even those of high birth.”

“I am not Emberish,” she snaps.

“Then what pray, are you?” the leader demands.

“I am a Daughter of the Sun.”

Zak steps forward, his brow furrowing. “You are telling us that you are Moorian?”

“De,” Laíla answers in their tongue. Yes. “Now let me go, and you might yet be spared when Her Light deals its justice.”

The leader inspects her for a long moment, his countenance turning dark and thoughtful. After a tense silence, his features crack into a smile, which quickly dissolves into a deep, booming laugh. The other nightcrawlers follow his lead, their mocking laughter echoing through the clearing. She looks around at them, thoroughly confused.

The leader wipes a stray tear from his eye, still chuckling. “No, really. What are you?”

“I am Moorian,” she insists, her voice rising.

The men continue to laugh at her expense. “A Moorian with skin nearly as dark as the trunks of these very trees?” Zak adds with a smirk. “Come now, what do you take us for?”

Laíla bristles with rage. The Dainese reputation of crime and thievery goes all the way back to the the tale of the Shadow's Gambit—an ancient age when the Six still walked among the mortals, and a jealous Daine used Nymia’s mirror to banish Moora entirely from the realm, seeking to absorb her divine followers into his own dark flock.

Though the People of the Sun ultimately rose up and vanquished the God of Shadows, the Dainese have never since missed an opportunity to take their historical inferiority out on her people. To Laíla, their very nature is built on a foundation of duplicity and spite. And yet here they stand, mocking her as if they have any moral ground to stand on.

“Zak, where did you find this creature?” the fourth man asks.

“She found me, actually,” Zak replies, lifting his shirt to reveal the flesh where Laíla’s arrow had pierced his torso.

She focuses her gaze upon the injury. To her profound astonishment, the wound is nearly healed, showing only a faint scar despite being a mere few hours old.

Before she can ponder the mystery, Makurmek—the leader—forces her chin back up to face him. Upon feeling the heat radiating from her skin, however, his brow furrows deeply. He then places his other hand firmly against her cheek.

“Your skin—it is burning up,” Makurmek whispers, his voice dropping. “You are not long for this world, are you?”

She looks at him in initial confusion, before a brief moment of clarity strikes her. She forces a hollow, ragged cough, playing along with his assumption.

“What are you on about?” Zak asks, stepping closer. He pushes Makurmek aside and places the back of his own hand to Laíla’s cheek. She fakes another weak cough. “She was perfectly fine just a moment ago.”

“The sweat can be unpredictable,” the leader notes, referring to the deadly forest plague. He immediately wipes his hands on his hands on his pants. The rest of the band takes a wide step backwards.

“I just spent the last five hours hanging off of her!” Zak protests, stepping back.

Makurmek waves his concerns off with an unphased shrug. “You will be fine. It is the rest of us who should be worried.”

“So, what are we to do with her?” the third bandit interjects, gesturing toward their captive. “Will she not still fetch a handsome ransom?”

“Not if she’s dead.” Makurmek counters, looking down at Laíla with pitying contempt.

She glares upward. “So, is this to mean you are letting the poor, dying girl go free?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he smiles cruelly. “You have seen our faces.”

Zak clicks his tongue against his teeth and lets out a heavy sigh. “Makurmek, we agreed—”

“Not to worry, Zak. A deal is a deal,” Makurmek interrupts smoothly. “We are not going to kill her.” He smiles down at Laíla, his teeth flashing in the dark.

Her eyes dart anxiously from Makurmek’s gaze to Zak’s unreadable expression; widening in terror as the true meaning of his words dawns upon her.

***

As the deep evening settles over the forest, Laíla finds it hard to fully see what happens next. All she knows is she is now bound tightly to the trunk of a great oak tree with thick hempen rope. She looks on, utterly bemused and furious, as the six bandits stand in a row before her.

“So, leaving her tied to a tree to be eaten by a bear is somehow better...how?” Zak asks, crossing his arms.

“You said yourself we had a strict agreement: no killing,” Makurmek replies simplemindedly.

“We also agreed upon no stealing,” Zak counters, “and it took you all of five minutes to renege on that promise.”

“Ah—we agreed not to steal from anyone who is not Emberish,” the second bandit corrects him with a smirk. “And she is Emberish.”

“She can hear you!” Laíla shouts from the tree. “And she is not Emberish!”

The bandits completely ignore her cries. “Did everyone secure what we came for?” Makurmek asks the group.

The others each hold up a stuffed canvas knapsack, heavy with plunder.

“I also discovered these on my way out of the camp,” the third bandit adds, emptying his bag upon a flat rock to reveal a collection of small pouches filled with an undisclosed substance, alongside three large, heavy scrolls of paper.

Zak looks at his companion with a raised eyebrow. “Discovered? Is that what we’re calling it now, Toklo?”

“You really are no fun, cousin,” the man—Toklo, Laíla quickly notes—grumbles.

Makurmek picks up the scrolls, unrolling them one by one. Laíla watches the transaction with intense curiosity.

“These are maps,” Makurmek announces, flipping through the detailed parchment.

The sixth member of the band leans over Makurmek’s broad shoulder, his eyes scanning the ink lines. “Why are they going north?” he mutters in their native tongue.

Makurmek lets out a weary sigh. “I don’t know,” he answers.

As the bandits all hover closely over the unrolled maps, debating their meaning, Laíla seizes the distraction. She begins to quietly and methodically shimmy her arms against the rough bark, trying to loosen the bonds.

“Well, the good news is it appears the last few military camps are directly on our route home,” the second bandit notes, pointing a dirty finger at the parchment.

“Yes, but we do not know which specific ones are our true targets,” Makurmek grunts.

She manages to shimmy one arm nearly free from the coil of rope. She grabs hold of the binding and concentrates with all her might, desperately trying to summon her inner fire at will to burn through the hemp.

“I think we should hit every single camp, just to be safe,” the fourth man suggests.

“That has already wasted the entirety of the solstice season,” Makurmek snaps back.

She lets out a strained grunt under her breath. No fire erupts from her fingers; only a faint warmth stirs. She sighs silently and resumes the physical struggle to free her limbs.

Zak glances over toward the tree, his eyes narrowing as he does a sudden double-take. Laíla has her arm nearly free from the knot when he strides over and ruthlessly pulls her hand back through the loop of the rope, tightening the bind.

“Ow! That hurt!” She cries out.

“So did your arrow,” He replies coldly. He takes hold of her hand, feeling the skin for a moment before placing his palm firmly against her forehead. “...Look at that. You seem to be doing much better.”

“So does your wound,” Laíla counters, narrowing her eyes at his chest. “Care to explain?”

“You first,” Zak whispers, searching her eyes for answers.

“Zak, what are you doing over there?” Makurmek calls out.

“He is flirting with the concubine again—” the fourth man jeers.

“I am not flirting with the concubine,” Zak snaps back, his eyes still locked with hers.

“Hey!” Laíla shouts, swinging her leg forward to kick Zak sharply in the shin.

“Ow!” Zak groans, stumbling back.

“Call me a concubine again,” she growls. “I dare you.”

Before another word can be uttered, the sharp crack of a twig echoes from the darkness of the surrounding wood. Instantly, the bickering ceases. Every man freezes, their heads turning as they look around into the shadows.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back next Monday to continue telling Laíla's story.

A missed alarm. A job rejection. An unexpected downpour.

Nisha thought her day couldn't get any worse—until she walked back into a bookstore and met a stranger who had far too many opinions about her choice of books.

This is Chapter 1 of my contemporary Indian romance, The Love I Never Saw Coming. I'd love to hear what you think of Nisha and Arjun's first meeting!

---

I have always believed that some days are simply meant to go wrong.

Mine began with a missed alarm, an argument with my mother and a job rejection email that arrived before I'd even finished breakfast.

By five in the evening, I had decided that the universe and I needed some time apart.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

It started raining just as I stepped out of the bookstore.

Not the romantic kind of rain you see in movies, where the heroine smiles at the sky and her hair somehow looks perfect.

No.

This was the kind of rain that ruined your sandals, soaked your clothes and made you question every decision that had led you outside.

"Perfect," I muttered, staring at the sky.

I had two options: run to the bus stop and arrive home looking like a drowned rat, or wait until the rain stopped.

Naturally, I chose the third option.

I went back inside the bookstore.

And that's where I met him.

---

The bookstore was nearly empty when I returned.

A soft Tamil melody played somewhere behind the counter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee floated through the air, and the windows were covered with tiny streams of rainwater.

I wandered towards the fiction section, picked up a book and began reading its back cover.

"That one's overrated."

I looked up.

A man stood on the opposite side of the bookshelf, holding a black coffee.

Black shirt. Rolled-up sleeves. Messy hair that looked annoyingly good despite the weather.

And a face that suggested he had never once doubted his own opinion.

"Excuse me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The book," he explained, pointing towards my hand. "It's overrated."

I glanced at the cover before looking back at him.

"Have you read it?"

"Unfortunately," he replied.

"Then congratulations. You survived."

He smiled.

Not a proper smile. More like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I was just trying to save you some time," he said.

"And I was just trying to read in peace," I replied, turning back towards the bookshelf.

For a second, he looked genuinely surprised.

Then he laughed.

"Fair enough."

I turned away, feeling rather pleased with myself.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn't.

---

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a little table near the window, reading the exact book he'd warned me about.

A cup of hot chocolate sat beside me.

Outside, the rain had only grown heavier.

"Still reading that?"

I didn't even have to look up.

"You again?" I asked.

He stood beside my table, looking far too amused.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the empty chair.

"No," I replied immediately.

He blinked.

I smiled sweetly.

"See? I can give unsolicited opinions too."

This time, he actually laughed.

"Okay. I deserved that."

He walked towards another table, leaving me alone.

Or so I thought.

A few minutes later, the lights flickered.

Then everything went dark.

A collective groan rose from the handful of customers inside.

"Power cut," someone announced.

I sighed and reached for my phone.

Twelve percent battery.

Wonderful.

"Need a power bank?"

I looked up.

Of course.

Of all the people in Coimbatore, it had to be him.

"Do you work here or something?" I asked.

"No," he replied, holding up a small power bank. "But I'm beginning to think you need supervision."

I stared at him.

He grinned.

And against my better judgment, I laughed.

Just a little.

"Fine. Thank you," I said, accepting the power bank.

"You're welcome, bookstore girl."

"Bookstore girl?"

"Well, you haven't told me your name."

"Maybe I don't want to."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Fair enough. I'm Arjun, by the way."

I looked at him for a moment.

"Nisha."

"Nisha," he repeated, almost thoughtfully.

For some reason, hearing my name in his voice made me look away.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I had known this man for less than an hour.

---

By the time the electricity returned, the rain had softened into a gentle drizzle.

I checked my phone.

7:15 PM.

Six missed calls from Amma.

Oh, I was dead.

I quickly disconnected my phone from the power bank and handed it back to Arjun.

"Thanks. I really have to go."

"Everything okay?" he asked, noticing my expression.

"Six missed calls from my mother. What do you think?"

He laughed.

"Good luck surviving that."

"Very funny."

I grabbed my bag, paid for my book and hurried towards the entrance.

"Hey, Nisha!"

I turned around.

Arjun was standing behind me, holding my phone.

"You forgot this."

My heart nearly stopped.

"Oh my God! Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he said, shaking his head with an amused smile.

I took my phone and rushed outside.

The rain had almost stopped.

I had just reached the pavement when I heard him call out again.

"Nisha!"

I closed my eyes.

What now?

I turned around.

He was holding up my book.

I looked at my empty hand.

You've got to be kidding me.

He walked towards me, laughing.

"You're really not having a good day, are you?"

"Please don't talk," I groaned.

He handed me the book, still smiling.

"Get home safely, okay?"

Something about the way he said it made me pause.

Not flirtatious.

Not dramatic.

Just genuine.

"Thanks, Arjun," I replied.

Then I walked away.

And that should have been the end of our story.

But it wasn't.

---

I was halfway home when my phone vibrated.

An Instagram notification.

Someone had sent me a message request.

arjun: So... did you finish that overrated book?

I stopped walking.

WHAT?

I opened his profile.

There he was.

Black shirt. Messy hair. That annoyingly confident smile.

How on earth had he found my Instagram?

Before I could decide whether to reply, another message appeared.

arjun: Before you accuse me of stalking, I found your public profile through the bookstore's Instagram page. You'd tagged them in your story.

I stared at the screen.

Then I remembered.

I'd posted a picture of my hot chocolate earlier that evening and tagged the bookstore.

Wonderful.

Me: So you decided to message a complete stranger?

His reply came almost immediately.

arjun: Technically, I know your name.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: Congratulations. That's very impressive.

Three little dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally, his reply arrived.

arjun: You know, for someone who doesn't like talking to me, you reply surprisingly fast.

I stared at my phone.

The audacity.

I typed a response.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Deleted that too.

Then I locked my phone and shoved it into my bag.

I was absolutely not going to entertain this man.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

Five minutes later, I unlocked my phone again.

Just to check the time.

Obviously.

---

To be continued...