"Spandan!" It was finally time for the inter college fest.

I had proactively gathered notes and requested lecture slides from every professor. My backpack was stuffed with study material I planned to review on the bus journey to Pondicherry.

But then came the fashion intervention. Priya, our Delhi-style icon, had descended upon my wardrobe. I tried not to take it personally as she discarded one item after another. She brought her own collection of dresses and tops, laying them out on my bed.

I was raised with certain restrictions—no short skirts, nothing sleeveless—which always limited my options. But then I saw it: a simple black dress. It fell just an inch above my knee, with a scooped neck that revealed the barest hint of cleavage. It was a little outside my comfort zone, but as I looked in the mirror, I smiled excitedly. I looked... fabulous.

"You have to take it," Priya insisted, seeing my expression.

"I think I will," I said, still turning to see the back. "Thank you!" I hugged her.

"Your pants need to be higher, and your tops need to be shorter," she declared, as if stating a universal law. "You can borrow my stuff for now, but when we get back, we have to go shopping."

I didn't think I dressed poorly, but my style was casual and safe. Nothing that would ever turn heads.

"And please," she continued, her nose crinkling, "use an eyeliner and mascara. Stop using kajal under your eyes. It's so... gavaar. And use a lipstick instead of gloss."

I rolled my eyes dramatically, but a part of me was already filing it in my brain for future use.

After saying a quick goodbye to the others at the hostel, I boarded the bus. I slid into a window seat next to Neha from the Indian Music team.

"Fiza, sorry, but Anjana is going to sit here," Neha said apologetically almost immediately.

"No problem," I said, gathering my bag and moving to an empty row a few seats back. I stared out the window, watching everyone else board, a feeling of solitude settling over me.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was Abhishek. A wave of immediate discomfort washed over me. How many times did I have to say it? I'd told him clearly, outside Mahajan's Tea Stall, that I wasn't interested in dating anyone. Yet here he was, smiling shamelessly at me.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, already starting to put his bag down.

I hated confrontation. My mind raced, searching for a polite but firm way to say no, to make him leave without causing a scene. And then I saw him.

Alan was just stepping onto the bus, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, looking vaguely bored.

I caught his eye and didn't even think. I waved him over, my voice a little too high. "Hey! Over here. I saved you a seat."

It was a lie, a complete and utter lie, but it flew out of my mouth with surprising ease. My heart hammered against my ribs, part panic, part something else entirely. I just prayed Alan would play along.

Abhishek turned around, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Alan. His smile vanished, replaced by a tight frown. "Is he your boyfriend?" he questioned, his hands clenched like he was ready for a fight. What was wrong with this guy?

"No!" I said quickly. I glanced at Alan, then back at Abhishek, doubling down on my defense. "I'll only date the man I plan to marry." I gave a small, deliberate shrug. "I'm very old-fashioned. Boring. Trust me, you'd have more fun making out with a fish."

A loud, genuine laugh burst from Alan. The sound seemed to startle Abhishek even more than my weird analogy. He gave me one last utterly confused look, shook his head, and finally walked away.

Phew!

Alan lifted his bags, easily stowing them in the overhead compartment before reaching for mine. As he stretched up, my eyes unintentionally wandered to the sliver of skin exposed between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans. It was more than a sliver; it was a defined, taut panel of muscle. He definitely worked out. My eyes roamed up his body to his face. How tall was he, anyway? I quickly snapped my gaze back to the window, my cheeks warming.

He dropped into the seat beside me, manspreading, his thigh pressing firmly against mine from knee to hip.

"You occupy a lot of space," I commented, looking pointedly at the invasion of my personal area. I suddenly felt incredibly warm. Were all the bus seats this ridiculously small?

He just shrugged, a lazy smile on his face. "You asked me to sit here. And since you don't seem to need much space, I might as well spread out."

As the bus engine rumbled to life and began to move, the vehicle erupted in cheers, whistles, and shouts. The festive energy was contagious, but I had a plan. I pulled out my laptop, determined to use the travel time productively, and opened the first set of lecture slides I'd miss.

"You've got to be kidding me," Alan remarked, laughing as he peered at the screen.

"What?" I responded, instantly defensive. "We are missing a lot of classes. You're welcome to review them with me."

He gave another one of those infuriating shrugs and looked out the window.

I smiled smugly and turned back to my notes, determined to focus. But after a few minutes, an unsettling wave of nausea washed over me. My stomach lurched, and I gagged, clapping a hand over my mouth.

"Are you okay?" Alan asked, his teasing tone gone.

"Just feeling nauseated," I managed to whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

He shook his head an closed my laptop, carefully slid it into my bag, and stood to stash it overhead. He sat back down and, without a word, began to gently rub slow, firm circles on my back.

"Stupid girl," he said, but his voice was soft, almost fond. "Don't you know you'd get motion sickness by reading on a moving bus."

The feel of his hand on my back sent a cascade of goosebumps skittering across my skin.

The nausea was fading, replaced by a different kind of dizziness. My head felt heavy, and without really thinking, I let it rest against his chest. It was solid and warm, and the steady thrum of the bus engine seemed to sync with the beat of his heart under my ear. I had never done anything like this before, never been this close to a guy. But somehow, with him, it felt almost natural.

Then his arm came around my shoulders, pulling me just a fraction closer, and he rested his head gently on top of mine.

Uh oh.

I could feel his chest rise and fall, a little quicker than before. The rhythm of his heart wasn't so steady anymore; it was accelerating, pounding against my ear.

What was I doing? This was exactly how it started. This was how you became just another name on a list, another story for the guys in the back bench to snicker about.

I pulled away abruptly, slipping out from under his arm.

"What?" he said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was gruff. "What now?"

"I want to be your friend. Your good friend," I said, the words tumbling out. I could see the perplexed look on his face, the confusion that furrowed his brow.

"I wasn't looking for anything else," he responded, but he sounded irritated, not relieved. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking at his temple.

"I know," I assured him quickly. "I'm just saying that... even after 'Spandan' is over, I'd like to hang out with you."

He kept staring at me, but the tightness in his face eased just a little.

I rambled on, trying to sell him on the idea, on me. "I'm a good friend to have." I forced a smile, looking up at him. "I'll support you, cover for you, and..." I paused, taking a breath and turning to gaze out the window at the blurring landscape. "I won't judge you if your choices differ from mine. But I will offer my opinion."

No response. He seemed to be intently watching a small group across the aisle trying to play charades, but I knew he wasn't really seeing them.

I tugged at his sleeve to pull his attention back to me.

"Well? Will you be my friend?" I asked, looking up at him through my lashes. I felt awkward. Shy. The question sounded so childish the moment it left my mouth.

He just glanced at me, his expression completely blank.

"Fiza," he said, his voice flat. "We're not in LKG."

"I know," I replied, aiming for nonchalance, like his chuckle hadn't sent a tiny, unwelcome thrill through me. "I just like to define things. You should know this about me. I need to categorize, color-code, and label everything. It's how I deal with the world, okay?"

I could almost see the gears turning in his head, picturing him mentally slapping labels on all our classmates. He chuckled, and I fought the urge to smile.

"It's not funny," I insisted, my voice firming up. This was serious. "If you want to be my friend, my close friend, there are rules, too."

"Let's hear them," Alan said, a clear note of amusement in his voice. But he turned fully toward me in the bus seat, giving me his complete attention. That intense focus made my carefully prepared speech falter for a second. I cleared my throat, regrouping.

"Well, rule number one: you cannot fall in love with me."

"I'll try my best not to," he responded, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes.

"Right. Anyway," I pushed on, "number two: no sexual favors or benefits. Number three: no physical violence."

"What?" he interrupted, the amusement vanishing from his face. A shadow seemed to pass behind his eyes, something dark and fleeting.

"My aunt was killed by her husband. Accidentally, during a fight," I confessed, the words coming out softer than I intended. I stared down at my own hands, avoiding his gaze. The aunt I had never known. The aunt whose spirit, everyone said, lived in me. "I was named after her."

Silence. He looked... tense.

I cleared my throat. "Number four: open communication. About everything. Number five: trust..."

"Okay," he interrupted again, this time smiling. "Do you have these written down somewhere, or are you making them up as you go?"

"Oh, I have them written down. In a different context." I had a list for everything. "So," I asked, softly, suddenly feeling shy again. "Do you want to be my close friend?"

"Yes," he said. Short. Abrupt. But the word hung in the air between us like a promise.

The whole thing felt ridiculous and profound all at once. I let my head fall back onto his chest, closing my eyes. His arm came around my shoulders again, tentative at first, then sure. I caught a faint, clean scent of his soap.

A quiet sigh escaped me. Why did this feel so right? It was a dangerous thought. This was just friendship. Yellow, I told myself.

But as I felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath my cheek, a part of me, the part that didn't live inside a planner, wondered what I was truly getting myself into. All I knew was that I had to make sure I didn't mess this up. For reasons I couldn't fully explain, I wanted him in my life. And if this was the only way I could have him, I would make this work.

Author's note

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