5th July, 2025

"YOU WHAT?" Maya’s voice rang through the girls' common room like a fire alarm that didn’t believe in volume control.

Kinza winced and shoved another piece of macaron in her mouth just to avoid answering.

"You picked a fight with Zaheer Farooqui?" Noor chimed in, clutching her bubble tea like it was the last one left in the whole of London.

"It wasn’t a fight," Kinza mumbled around the mouthful of the sandwiced cookies, eyes flicking from Maya’s wide eyes to Noor’s judgment-filled gasp. "It was more like… a territorial disagreement. A parking misunderstanding. An unfortunate sequence of miscommunicated events."

"Ohhh," Maya folded her arms dramatically. "So when you basically told him to move his car from the Forbidden Spot… the same spot he owns… that was not a fight?"

Kinza groaned and slumped into the couch. "I didn’t know he was Zaheer. He didn’t have a name tag on!"

"Girl," Noor said, dropping into the seat beside her. "He doesn’t need a name tag. His name is basically a campus legend."

"And now it’s all over the Uni gossip groups," Maya added, scrolling her phone and shoving the screen in Kinza’s face.

There it was. A blurry, candid picture of her, finger pointed at Zaheer. The caption read:
“New girl takes on The Phantom—Kinza vs. Zaheer. Who’s braver, who’s dumber?”

Kinza covered her face with both hands. “I want to dissolve. Like sugar in coffee. Just… gone.”

"Zidan was enough of a problem," she groaned, peeking through her fingers. "Now I’ve got two of the Z-squad as walking, talking bad karma? Great. I’m going to change my name. Move to Iceland. Open a bakery for puffins."

Noor snorted. Maya didn’t. Her eyes were on the screen again. “Well, you might want to do that before this becomes even bigger.”

***

The buzz in the classroom was the usual—half-hearted greetings, crumpled assignments, and professors arriving late enough to justify a second nap. But today, the air was laced with a tension no one could quite put their finger on.

Except for a few who knew.

Zidan walked in, tall and unmistakably Zidan—sharp jaw, stormy eyes, and the kind of energy that warned people to stay out of his way.

He stopped mid-step.

Because sitting in the back row, like he owned silence, sat Zaheer Farooqui.

The Phantom.

Back after a year.

Same posture. Same expression.

But something in his eyes… flickered.

For a split second, both stared at each other—time rewinding, showing flashes of shared laughter, late-night drives, and promises that weren’t supposed to break.

And then—
Just like that—
It vanished.

Zidan walked over, his footsteps echoing across the tiled floor louder than the murmurs starting to spread.

Without a word, he grabbed Zaheer by the collar and pulled him to his feet.

“What are you doing back here?” Zidan growled, teeth clenched.

Zaheer didn’t resist.

Didn’t flinch.

His hands stayed by his sides.

And his voice, when it came, was quiet enough to freeze fire.

“Let go, Zidan.”

Zidan’s grip tightened.

Zaheer, ever so calmly, reached up and peeled Zidan’s fingers off his shirt, one by one.
“I’m not here for you. Or anyone.” He emphasised on the last part as if silently conveying a secret message, which only they were supposed to understand.

He stepped back, slung his bag over one shoulder, and began to walk out.

Zidan turned. “You don’t get to just vanish and come back like it’s nothing!”

Before anyone else could react, Shahan moved forward, trying to wedge himself between them. “Zee, chill. Not here—”

Zaheer’s hand went up, palm open, and Shahan instantly stopped.

“I’m not here to fight,” Zaheer said, eyes locked on Zidan.
“I just want to finish my degree. Quietly. Without history. Without friends. Without drama.”

His voice dipped lower.
“Pretend I don’t exist. Like you did last year.”

The words hit harder than any punch could.

And then, without waiting for a reply, Zaheer turned and walked out of the classroom.

Muaaz, who had been watching from the corner, immediately followed him.

In the hallway, Muaaz jogged up beside Zaheer. “You really think avoiding him is going to fix this?”

Zaheer didn’t stop walking. “I don’t want to fix anything.”

“He still cares, man. He’s just—”

Zaheer paused mid-step and looked at Muaaz.
“Don’t.” His voice was flat, tired. “Don’t make me care again.”

Then he walked off, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost slipping between shadows.

Back in class, Shahan slumped against a desk. “What the hell was that?”

Zaan rubbed his face. “Two legends. One battlefield. No peace treaty.”

Zidan didn’t say a word.
He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out.

***

Kinza had practiced her lines in her head a hundred times.
I’m sorry, I didn’t know who you were.
I wasn’t trying to cause drama.
I just want peace.

Armed with the most peace-offering beverage known to mankind—coffee—she spotted him under the campus tree near the football ground. Alone. Unbothered. Wrapped in the kind of stillness that made her nervous.

Here goes nothing.

She walked up, holding out the coffee like it was a white flag.

“Hey… um…” she cleared her throat. “Look, about earlier—”

Zaheer turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers. Steady. Blank.

“I just… wanted to apologise,” Kinza said, extending the cup. “Didn’t know I was stepping on Phantom turf. Thought you were just another—” she stopped herself, chuckled nervously. “Never mind. Here. Peace?”

Zaheer stared at the coffee.
Then at her.

Then simply said:

“Nevermind.”

And walked away.

Didn’t take the cup.
Didn’t say anything else.
Just left.

Kinza blinked after him. “Okay… weird. But whatever.”

She shrugged, sat on the nearest bench, and took a sip from the coffee she had just offered him.

“Hmm. Still warm.”

From across the lawn, Zidan watched.

He had come out looking for air, maybe calm his head.

But what he saw instead was Kinza.

Approaching him.

Zaheer.

And the way she looked at him—like she was sorry.
And Zaheer, for once, not barking back. Just… calm.

It burned.

Something irrational. Something primal.

Zidan clenched his fists.

He hated the way that moment looked.

He hated the fact that Zaheer still had the power to steal attention without trying.

And most of all—he hated the flicker of jealousy he felt watching her offer him coffee.

His eyes narrowed.

Kinza, who had just taken her third triumphant sip of the coffee heard footsteps approach with the energy of a brewing thunderstorm.

She looked up.

And nearly choked.

Zidan.

Hair a little messier than usual, eyes dangerously unreadable, and that infamous jaw doing the clench-unclench routine like it was warming up for a fight.

Not again, her brain whispered.

“Busy making friends?” he said, stopping in front of her, voice calm enough to be unsettling.

Kinza blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That was Zaheer, wasn’t it?” he asked, not needing confirmation. “You brought him coffee?”

“Yeah?” she replied, slowly standing, chin lifting a little. “Because that’s what normal people do when they accidentally insult someone—they apologise.”

Zidan scoffed. “You think coffee can fix history?”

“I wasn’t trying to fix your history. I was trying to fix my own mistake,” she said, her tone sharpening to match his.

Zidan stared at her. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that made your spine itch.

Kinza held her ground.

“Why does it bother you so much?” she asked, genuinely confused now. “I’m not on a team here, Zidan.”

He took a step closer. “Maybe not yet. But you’re starting to act like you’ve picked one.”

Her brows shot up. “Because I gave someone a peace coffee? You’re seriously gatekeeping caffeine now?”

He didn’t respond.

Because it wasn’t about the coffee.

It was about her.

Talking to Zaheer.

Looking at him.

Seeing him.

Zidan didn’t like that.

Not because Kinza meant anything. (At least that’s what he told himself.)
But because the thought of Zaheer finding someone—anyone—on his side again felt like betrayal all over again.

“Stay away from him,” Zidan said suddenly, the words dropping like cold steel between them.

Kinza stared. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t know him.”

“And you don’t get to control who I talk to.”

For a beat, neither spoke.

Then Zidan leaned in just enough to make her breath hitch. “He isn’t what you think.”

Kinza narrowed her eyes. “And you are? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one constantly picking fights like it’s a sport.”

That hit. She saw it in the flicker of his expression.

Good.

Because she was done being the weird third wheel in a fight she didn’t sign up for.

“I didn’t come here to get tangled in your drama, Zidan,” she said, stepping back. “I have classes. I have goals. I don’t have the emotional energy for your drama.”

Zidan’s expression changed—just slightly.

Not anger.

Not sarcasm.

Just… quiet.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, almost like it was for himself.

“Then help me understand,” Kinza said, voice calmer now. “Instead of lashing out at everyone who tries to exist within ten feet of you.”

Zidan was silent.

For the first time since she’d met him—really silent.

Then he said, “He left. Without a word. After everything we’d built. After everything we were.”

Kinza's breath caught.
Because in that sentence, layered between the anger and pain, she heard it clearly.

Loss.

Zidan turned away. “Just don’t get pulled in. Trust me, it never ends well.”

And with that, he walked off.

No dramatics.

No shouting.

Just… silence.

Kinza stood there, coffee still in hand, heart rattling against her ribs.

She wasn’t sure what stunned her more—
Zidan’s raw honesty…

Or the fact that something inside her wanted to know more.

***

The warm lighting of the room made everything feel a little softer—softer than Kinza’s reality at the moment.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, hair piled in a messy bun, as she recounted the day’s disasters to Sharmin, who was perched on the floor beside the dresser, attacking a jar of Nutella with surgical focus.

“I swear,” Kinza muttered, “this university should hand out a hazard map on the first day. Red zones for Zidan. Phantom zones for Zaheer. And an emergency hotline for emotional damage.”

Sharmin snorted. “Girl, this isn't a university—it's a live-action soap opera. All you need is a dramatic background music and one solid slo-mo twirl.”

Kinza groaned. “I tried to apologise. To both of them. One stared at me like I broke a peace treaty. The other just told me to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Sharmin licked her spoon thoughtfully. “Sounds healthy. Classic men.”

Kinza let her head fall back against the wall. “And now I’m stuck in the middle of a cold war I didn’t sign up for. Honestly, at this point, I’m about three seconds away from taking a transfer.”

“Don’t,” Sharmin said, poking her with the spoon. “Youre supposed to collect material and write a novel on this. It will be a hit I promise!”

“I swear you care more about the non-existing hit novel than my emotional survival.”

“Facts,” Sharmin said with zero guilt.

They both laughed—finally—a moment of lightness.

And then the door creaked open.

Amaira.

Beautiful. Composed. A literal walking Pinterest board of grace.

She stepped inside with the quiet confidence of someone who's used to rooms falling silent upon entry—and sure enough, the room did.

Sharmin straightened. Kinza sat up a little.

Amaira offered a warm smile. “Hey, girls. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Just came to drop off these outfits for the upcoming event.”

But just as she turned toward the closet, her ears caught it.

Zaheer’s name.

Amaira stilled.

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable but… off.

“You were talking about… Zaheer?” she asked, her voice light, but her posture a little too tense.

Kinza hesitated. “Yeah, um—just… the usual campus chaos. The fight earlier. I sort of… accidentally picked a fight with him.”

Amaira didn’t smile at that.

In fact, something in her jaw tensed.
A flicker. Barely visible. But Kinza saw it.

Amaira walked over, hands folded. “He’s… back?”

Kinza nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think it’s his final semester.”

Amaira looked away for a second, lips pressed together.
“Hmm.”

Kinza exchanged a glance with Sharmin, who raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t expect him back,” Amaira added, more to herself.

Kinza spoke up gently. “You… know him well?”

Amaira was silent for a second too long.

Then—finally—she said, “I did. We all did. He was once very close to our family.”

Kinza leaned forward a little. “What happened between him and Zidan?”

The question hung in the air like a string pulled too tight.

Amaira’s expression flickered. Something sad. Something haunted.

“It’s better if it’s not spoken about,” she said quietly. “Some things… they don’t survive being retold.”

Kinza frowned. “But it’s clearly not over between them.”

Amaira looked down.

And that’s when it happened.

Her eyes landed on the ring around Kinza’s neck.

The simple platinum one. The one Kinza always wore like a quiet afterthought.

But Amaira wasn’t just looking at it.

She was studying it.

Like she recognised it.

Like it meant something.

Kinza, suddenly self-conscious, curled her fingers around the ring.

Amaira snapped out of it, blinking.

“I should go,” she said quickly, voice softer now. “You girls rest."

And just like that, she was gone.

Door closed.

Silence returned.

Sharmin looked up from the now half-empty Nutella jar.

“Okay. Did it just get ten degrees colder in here or was that just me?”

Kinza didn’t answer.

She was still holding the ring.

Still thinking about the way Amaira had stared at it.

And wondering—

Why did it feel like this ring, of all things, had just changed the temperature in the room?

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