I am not thinking about food.

Really. I'm not.

Okay, maybe I am. Just a little. But it's not my fault—everything in the canteen smells like fresh heaven, and all I've got is a lie about fasting. Because apparently, telling your best friend, "I forgot lunch and also have no money" feels too tragic for this Monday.

The canteen buzzes with a steady hum of laughter, trays clattering, and footsteps, but I can barely focus. My stomach gnaws at me, demanding attention, but I pretend it isn't there. I shouldn't have rushed out without packing something—a piece of fruit, maybe, or even leftovers, but I overslept and when I woke up there was little time to do everything. So, I crucified my lunch. And here I am.

Don't think about it.

'Are you sure you don't want a bite?' Sakshi asks, her voice full of concern and suspicion, all wrapped up in a sweet little bow.

I wave her off, trying not to stare at the crispy edge of her pizza puff. 'I'm sure. I can't.'

'Is it Sixteen Mondays for Mahadev? To get a better husband?' She wiggles her eyebrows, teasing.

I push her casually as she stuffs her mouth with the heavenly puffs; its crunch an invigorating ASMR. 'Stop it!' I laugh, 'it's... for a family thing. You know how it is.'

Lies. My empty stomach knows it's a lie, especially as it decides right now is the best time to let out an embarrassingly loud growl. I glance around, but Sakshi is too busy scrolling through her phone to notice. Thank God.

I distract myself by watching the others around me. Everyone is laughing, eating, enjoying the break. There's a group near the far corner of the canteen, joking loudly. Some guys from the cricket team, Shlok among them, are loudly making fun of something, probably at the expense of some poor soul who had the misfortune of catching their attention. I roll my eyes.

Before another waft of freshly baked bun could tempt me, I leave the canteen on a lousy pretext of going to the washroom.

I head straight to the classroom. By the time I'm back in the classroom, I can't stop thinking about the canteen. Or food. Or how much this day just... sucks. I tell myself that studying will help. That it'll distract me. That I don't need food, I need focus. That's the trick. And sure, it works for approximately ten seconds, until my stomach rumbles again, this time louder.

'Perfect,' I mutter, flipping through my notes and pretending they hold the answers to life's greatest mysteries—like why I thought I could survive on nothing but sheer willpower today.

And then... something weird happens.

A bun. A carton of strawberry milk. Right there. On my desk.

For a second, I actually wonder if it really came from God, who after finally hearing my thoughts and stomach rumbling decided to grant me a meal kit. I look up, no halo of light above. I blink. It wasn't there before. And it seems to be definite that it didn't just materialize out of thin air because I wished hard enough.

My eyes dart around the classroom, and that's when I see him. Romil.

He's strolling back to his seat, completely casual, like nothing at all just happened. Like he didn't just put food on my desk without saying a word. He's flipping through his book now, zero eye contact, zero acknowledgment.

What... just happened?

I glance down at the bun, then back at Romil, then at the strawberry milk. Did he notice me in the canteen earlier? Did Sakshi say something to him? No, she wouldn't. And Romil—well, he doesn't talk to me. And surely never puts a bun and strawberry milk on my desk.

It hurt me to deliberate taking a bite out of an exquisite, near perfect bun, but I turn around again. My eyes flick back to Romil, who's still pretending like he has absolutely no idea what just went down. He's too cool, too nonchalant. It's suspicious. I clear my throat. No response. I clear it again, louder.

Nothing.

'Did you put this here?' I ask, finally breaking the silence. My voice comes out more surprised than I intended.

Romil glances up briefly, his face is unreadable, as always. 'Hmm?' he hums, all casual indifference, like we aren't having the weirdest non-conversation of my life.

I point to the food. 'This.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Is it not good enough? I can take it back.' He makes a half-move like he's going to grab the bun, but some sort of reflex kicks in and I clutch it to my chest like it's my firstborn.

'No!' I blurt. 'I mean... it's fine. Good. I was just... wondering why?'

Romil shrugs, leaning back in his chair. 'You didn't eat lunch.'

'I didn't eat lunch,' I repeat, half-expecting an explanation. Or maybe just an awkward pause. But nope, he's gone back to flipping through his book, leaving me dangling in the middle of the sentence.

'How did you—?' I pause, realization dawning. 'Were you watching me?'

He looks up again, this time actually smirking, the faintest lift of one corner of his mouth. 'Your stomach was pretty loud.'

I feel the heat rise to my face. 'Oh, God. You heard that?'

'Everyone heard that,' he says, leaning his elbows on his desk, still that same infuriating calm. 'Figured I'd save you the embarrassment of going rest of the periods without food.'

I don't know whether to be grateful or mortified. So naturally, I settle on both.

'Okay, but strawberry milk?' I ask, raising the carton. 'That's oddly specific.'

Romil shrugs, like he knows exactly what he's doing and is just playing along. 'You look like someone who drinks strawberry milk.'

'What does that even mean?'

He doesn't answer, but that hint of a smile is still there, playing at the corners of his mouth, as if this whole conversation is more amusing than it should be.

I pick up the bun, not sure if I'm supposed to thank him or interrogate him further, and take a small, hesitant bite. It's soft, warm, and exactly what my mouth was watering for. 'So, this isn't a trap, right?'

'What kind of trap can you imagine is disguised in food?" Romil says, deadpan.

'Anything. Ulterior motive.' I say, shrugging.

He scoffs. 'From you?'

I grimace, wipe my mouth, and shrug in acceptance. 'Fine then.'

There's a pause. He's watching me now, the nonchalance dropping just enough for me to notice. And suddenly, I'm not sure if this is about the food, or if there's something more happening beneath the surface. Something I didn't see coming.

'You're welcome,' he says, like he's read my mind.

I bite my lip, not quite sure what to say. 'Well, thanks, I guess!'

He gives me one last, knowing glance before looking back at his book. 'Don't get used to it.'

I take another bite, giving his kindness a benefit of doubt. But it's hard when Romil's smirk lingers in the back of my mind, making me wonder what the hell just happened—and if maybe, just maybe, I kind of like it.

*****

The second we're out of the principal's office, I feel the day stretching long behind me. Romil and I have just been tasked with announcing the arrival of the Shreyas Patel, celebrity career counsellor. You know, the guy with the perfect jawline and a following of wide-eyed teenagers who believe he holds the secret to their dream lives. And we're supposed to spread the word to everyone like it's breaking news.

The hallway is quiet, the day slowly winding down as Romil and I make our way to the locker room. Our footsteps echo in the almost-empty corridor, the teachers' offices still lit behind closed doors. There's something oddly serene about the school after hours—like the building itself exhales a sigh of relief once the students are gone.

'Counselling sessions, huh?' Romil's voice breaks the quiet, his tone light but awkward, like he's forcing the words out.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He's got his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his stride casual. Maybe too casual.

'Yeah,' I reply. 'Shreyas Patel. Should be... fun?'

He lets out a short laugh, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'Fun? Really?'

I shrug. 'I'm trying to be positive.'

We fall into silence again. I focus on the soft thud of our shoes against the linoleum floor, trying not to think about the way his presence feels too noticeable today, like a spotlight hovering over both of us.

When we reach the locker room, I stop in front of mine, twisting the combination lock. Romil hovers nearby, leaning against the wall, watching me with what looks like mild curiosity.

'So... did you like the milk?' he asks suddenly.

I pause mid-turn, glancing at him. 'What?'

'The milk. Strawberry. From earlier.'

My fingers freeze on the lock. I stare at him, unsure what to say.

'Yeah. It was nice. Thanks,' I say.

'Good.' He gives a small nod, like that was the only thing he needed to know.

I turn back to the lock, finally opening it with a soft click. But as soon as I pull the door open, my stomach drops.

Eggshells. Cracked and smeared, half dried against the pages of my textbooks. Pieces of shrivelled-up vegetables, long past their prime, scattered across the borrowed books from the library. The unmistakable smell of rot wafts out, hitting me like a slap.

I freeze, staring at the mess in disbelief.

'What the—' Romil steps forward, peering over my shoulder. 'What happened?'

His voice is sharp now, the easygoing tone from earlier completely gone. He steps away from the locker, palms clasped against his mouth, tugging at my hand as he guides me away from the mess.

I don't say anything. I can't. My throat is tight, my mind racing, trying to process how—and why—someone would do this.

Romil walks beside me, his expression unreadable. 'I am reporting it the first thing in the morning.'

I can't answer. The stench and the shock twist together inside me, and suddenly, I'm not just thinking about the rot—I'm thinking about how much this day has spiralled. Before I know it, my stomach lurches. I double over, the milk I had making a sour return, spilling out onto the floor beside me.

Romil's there, closer than I ever imagined he would be. His hand rubs soothing circles on my back, and when I lean forward again, he pulls my hair away from my face with surprising care. He whispers something—maybe comfort, maybe reassurance—but the words slip past me, drowned out by the rush of everything that just happened. All I can feel is the quiet steadiness of his presence, the strange way he's not disgusted, not pulling away, even when I am.

For a moment, I don't know what's worse—the mess in the locker, or the way his kindness makes me feel like I might break.

*******************************************

A/N

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Love
Shailey