The JIPMER campus was huge and buzzing with a chaotic energy that was equal parts exciting and overwhelming. While we girls got actual hostel rooms, the boys were all crammed into the Community Center, sleeping on mats on the floor.

I followed Anjana and Neha into the Community Center. There was this weird smell - damp and musky, with a strange, vaguely familiar undertone I couldn't quite place.

Almost immediately, Koushik, the senior leading our music group, spotted me. "Fiza! Good, you're here. Come with me."

I glanced around for Anjana and Neha, but they had already melted into the crowd. So I followed him.

"Here," he said, handing me a bag filled with dried plants and old newspapers. "Separate the leaves and flowers. Just toss the stems."

I took the bag with a smile. It seemed like a simple, mindless task. Maybe it was for a prop? Something for the dance team?

I got to work, my fingers carefully pulling the fragile leaves apart. After a while, the monotony set in. Bored, I pulled out my phone and texted Alan.

Me: Wru?

Alan: In the Community Center

Me: Me too. Find me

I smiled at the thought of him.

A few minutes later, I heard his laugh and looked up to see him walking toward me, a lazy grin on his face and a crudely rolled cigarette dangling from his fingers.

He knelt down beside me.

My eyes widened. "Are you smoking?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. I had heard all the rumors—the drugs, the alcohol, the wild parties. But seeing it right in front of me was different.

He took a long drag, then blew the smoke directly near my face. It didn't smell like tobacco. It was earthier, sweeter. "It's a joint. Want to try?"

My heart sank. Disgusting. "Don't do that near me," I said, swatting at the air between us. Eww!

I forced myself to focus on the task, separating the leaves frantically while trying to ignore him.

Alan stubbed out his joint on the concrete floor and sank down beside me. Before I could process it, his hand was cupping my face, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line from my earlobe to the corner of my mouth. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it sent a jolt through my entire system. His face was inches from mine, his eyes glazed but intensely focused on me.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "So beautiful..." He gently tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering, his gaze holding me completely captive.

I bit my lip, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure he could feel it. I should have pulled away. I should have slapped his hand. But the idiot that I was, I stayed frozen. The moment stretched and I felt myself dangerously close to leaning into it.

I cleared my throat. I had to break this spell. "Rule number six," I stated softly, my voice barely steady. "Never interact with me when you're intoxicated. Unless you need help."

I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not surprise, but a familiar resignation. Then, a smirk twisted his lips.

"Maybe," he said, his voice laced with a dark amusement as he pointed at the pile of plants in my lap, "my close friend should know that she's sorting bang and ganga for us to roll up later."

The words didn't make sense at first. Then they did. Bang. Ganga. Weed! I wasn't sorting props. I was sorting drugs! The stunned, horrified expression on my face cracked him up.

After a good laugh at my expense, he winked, stood up, and walked away, relighting his joint.

I anxiously completed the sorting and handed the bag of leaves and flowers to Koushik without meeting his eyes. My skin crawled.

The walk back to the hostel was long and dark. Shadows seemed to move around me, filled with the sounds of raucous laughter, slurred shouts, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol and smoke. Fear prickled the back of my neck. I felt a surge of anger. Everyone seemed to be having fun.

Except me. Never me. The most joy I felt was while singing. Everything always seemed like a choice between anxiety and relief. For some reason, I had thought medical college would be different.

A tap on my shoulder made me jump. It was Neha, her face pale and her eyes wide with the same unease I felt. "Call me when you're moving from one place to another," she said, her voice urgent. "We shouldn't be roaming around by ourselves."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "These are medical students. They're going to be doctors. Why are they doing this? Why are they behaving like this?" I gestured wildly at the scene around us—the couples making out against walls, the groups passing bottles, the shouted profanities.

"They're adolescents," Neha said with a weary sigh, as if that explained everything. "For most of them, this is their only chance to let loose."

But I couldn't let it go.

And I couldn't shake the memory of Alan's touch. The intimacy of it, the way his thumb had felt against my skin.

When I finally got to bed, the images wouldn't leave me alone. I closed my eyes against the darkness and allowed myself the dangerous, secret thought: Had he felt it, too? That electric current? That pull? I let myself imagine him doing so much more than just touching my face, a flush of heat warming my skin. But he was my friend. I shouldn't have these thoughts.

But just tonight, I would give in to it. Tomorrow, I would be his friend again.

The next morning, I woke up with a resolution plastered on: everything was fine. I was fine. But the image of Alan, eyes glazed, blowing smoke in my face resurfaced. The way he had touched me. And worse, the way my own heart had leapt at that touch. I shoved those thoughts down, deep.

I had promised to be his friend. And I, Fiza, kept my promises.

I spotted him in the cafeteria, sitting alone. Summoning every bit of false cheer I possessed, I waved, picked up my tray, and slid into the seat next to him.

"Hey!" I said, my voice a little too bright. "Did you get some sleep?"

He just nodded, staring intently at his dosa as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Do you want to practice today? Or rest your voice?" I pressed on, determined to bridge the awkward silence.

He shrugged, a non-committal lift of his shoulders, and continued eating.

So I sat there, in the uncomfortable quiet, mechanically eating my dosa. I didn't know what to do. Should I keep talking? Or should I distance myself, show him that his behavior was unacceptable?

Eventually, I gave up. I stood to leave, and that's when I heard it, so faint I almost missed it.

"Sorry."

I turned around. "What?"

He was still looking at his plate, but he repeated it, his voice low. "Sorry about... yesterday."

My breath caught. I didn't know what to say. It wasn't okay. Touching me like that? Coming so close, saying I was beautiful? None of it was okay.

But giving him a lecture felt wrong, almost silly. Maybe for someone like him, touching a girl's face wasn't a big deal. Maybe it meant nothing.

While I was still grappling for a way to respond, he stood, picked up his tray, and dropped it off. A minute later, he was back, sitting down beside me again.

"We good?" he asked, finally looking at me.

The words came out automatically. "Yes. I'm your friend."

He chuckled. "Yes, you are my friend."

"So," I said, picking up my tray again, needing to move, to do something. "Do you want to practice today? Your voice seems a little hoarse." It was a feeble attempt to steer us back to safe, familiar ground.

"I'm thinking we should sing something else," he said casually. "Maybe 'More than Words' by Extreme?"

My jaw nearly dropped as my anxiety skyrocketed. "What? No way! We can't change the song now! The competition is tonight!"

"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm just a little bored with singing 'Happy Together.' It's been several weeks."

I looked at him. He seemed serious. He was not just trying to provoke me. The part that loved having a plan, was freaking out. But the friend part, the part that had seen the shadow in his eyes, wanted to make him happy.

"We can try it out," I conceded cautiously. "But it takes me time to learn lyrics, and I'd rather not look at a cheat sheet on stage."

We walked together in comfortable silence. And when we reached a secluded park bench, I took out my phone and pulled up a lyric video for the song. The first chords began to play. It was a soft, acoustic melody that was a world away from the upbeat Turtles. It was more intimate. More complicated.

"Saying 'I love you'
Is not the words I want to hear from you
It's not that I want you
Not to say, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
'Cause I'd already know"

I looked at him. "I like it," I said, and I meant it.

I listened to the song on my phone over and over, my eyes closed, trying to find the harmony, to let the words settle into my bones. To my surprise, Alan already knew it. After just a few tries, his fingers found the chords on his guitar as if they'd always belonged there.

We figured out our parts, his voice a low rumble that mine could weave around. It felt... right. Different, but right. I placed my phone on a tree trunk to record us.

When we played it back, we both fell silent. It wasn't just good. It was perfect. A shiver of pure, undiluted excitement ran through me.

"I think we should take a break and just practice it a couple more times tonight, right before the show," I suggested, my voice buzzing with energy. He just nodded, but I saw it - a flicker of genuine happiness in his eyes. My heart tightened. He was my friend. He could only ever just be my friend.

Authors note

Where does fun end and responsibility begin?
Is anything all right or all wrong?

What do you think about the story so far? Do you like Alan? And Fiza?

Please let me know your thoughts.
Don't forget to vote and comment!

I've attached the link to my favorite duet cover of "More than words".

❤️ Naina