You know how they tell you real life isn't all roses and rainbows? Yeah, I thought that too—until he came along and turned my life upside down. Daksh Nanda.

We first crossed paths on the first day of college. I'd been counting down to it for weeks. New beginnings, a fresh chapter. I even made an effort—striped black-and-white top, black jeans, ponytail, a swipe of lip gloss (which felt like rebellion after years under my strict mom's no-makeup rule). I was ready to conquer the world—or at least spot the cute guys in class.

The class was...meh. It was an engineering college, so my hopes weren't sky-high. But I did spot three potential "list-worthy" guys. There was this tall Kashmiri guy with sharp features, a shorter one who had the same angular look, and then there was him. Daksh. Tall, black glasses, a killer smile. The kind that made my brain think "Wow, he's... pretty". He wasn't just handsome; he was irritatingly perfect. I didn't know how irritating at the time, though.

It started with the chemistry practical book. A group of us went to the copier after class to print the manuals, and it was chaos. One of the guys suggested heading to the copier near the girls' hostel and was unnecessarily rude about it. My irritation skyrocketed. I was ready to hate everyone in that group by association, and somehow, in my brilliant brain, I decided Daksh was part of the group. He wasn't. But I didn't know that yet. So, the next time I saw him, I was already glaring daggers at him like it was my personal mission.

The worst part? He started glaring back. Looking back, it was only fair since to him I was just a random girl in class who was glaring at him for no reason at all. But since I didn't know that, I just knew that the hate was reciprocated.

One particular day, during our electrical class, our professor asked Daksh a question. He answered it with such casual confidence, like he knew everything. I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. I hate it when people I dislike are also smart. And Daksh? Frickin' Mr. Perfect.

Then there was the soft skills class. It was this ridiculous activity where we had to call people to the front by saying, "I like you if..." and then something generic like, "I like you if you're wearing black." I got called, of course, because why wouldn't the universe put me on the spot?

I stood at the front, scanning the room for inspiration, and my eyes locked with Daksh's. Big mistake. He was glaring at me so fiercely it felt like lasers. And then he instantly looked down and didn't look up once. Around sixty pairs of eyes on me and I was consumed by the one looking down. Great, right? My brain froze. My stomach twisted, and suddenly, I was nervous. Why was he glaring at me? He had no reason to hate me! Except he clearly did. I panicked and called my friend Apoorva, who was wearing pink. She came to the front, saving me from crumbling under the weight of his stare, but the damage was done. I was flustered, embarrassed, and my hate for him burned brighter than ever.

It wasn't just the glares or his maddening confidence. It was everything. The way he walked into a room like he owned it. The way people seemed to like him for no reason. The way he existed so...effortlessly. Every interaction, every look, every moment felt like a tiny battle between us, and I was determined to win.

But then came December 18, 2022. The day Argentina won the World Cup. That was the day things shifted—just a little. It wasn't intentional, and it certainly wasn't planned. But for the first time, we talked. And it was...easy.

I didn't know it then, but everything was about to change

The next day, when he came to class he looked hungover. Definitely supporting a headache and a lack of sleep. He had said something about how people are being unnecessarily mean towards Ronaldo fans and I agreed. I casually said that I thought the Messi fans were being a little bit too much.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, led to our first proper conversation. A conversation that made me realise he wasn't that bad. And maybe just a teeny bit fun to talk to. For real, I didn't have to put any effort into the conversation, it just flowed. And so began a friendship.

After that, I didn't hate him anymore. In fact, I might've started to like him—just a little. But life doesn't pause for your feelings, does it? By January, Daksh had a girlfriend. A girl from our class. I pushed whatever I was feeling deep down into the "No Entry" zone of my heart and decided he was off-limits. He became "Dilli Brotha" to me—a name I came up with on the spot. I don't even know why, but it stuck. And no, I'm not that lame. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

In January, we had another moment. Our entire friend group found itself in the most ridiculous debate about whether chips could qualify as dinner. Naturally, I was the voice of reason arguing against it. But Daksh, along with Sidhant and Chowpow, was passionately arguing the pro-chips side. What started as a silly disagreement spiralled into an all-out Instagram war, complete with stories, memes, and accusations flying back and forth. It was ridiculous, petty, and honestly, the most fun I'd had in ages.

May 2023 marked the beginning of something unexpected. Life was steady—I was in my second semester, attending classes as usual. But the one thing that added a spark to my routine was the dramatics club. I had been cast in a street play, and our practices ran late at night or early in the morning.

Night practices were a privilege in college. Most students had to adhere to strict hostel timings, but club members with special permissions were allowed out. I was one of those lucky few, and, as it turned out, so was he. Though I didn't know until that night that he was part of the Bulls and Bears club.

That particular night stands out in my memory. Our practice session had gone terribly, and the directors, sensing our frustration, decided we needed a break. Their solution? Improv.

The challenge: create a full play in 15 minutes and perform it.

We split into teams of six to brainstorm.

"Romanceee," someone suggested dramatically.

"Chee," scoffed Roshan bhaiya, a senior in my team.

Saanvi, the sweetest girl with the quirkiest ideas, chimed in, "Let's make it horror! Ghosts, drama, the works!"

"I like that," I agreed, intrigued.

And just like that, horror became our theme. The energy shifted as we started brainstorming. Ideas flowed like a raging river—twists, scares, and eerie moments. We decided on a plot about a girl haunted by the ghost of her best friend, who had tragically died in an "accident." The ghost's whispers held clues, leading her to uncover the real truth: the investigating police officer was the murderer all along. A classic spine-chiller with just the right touch of drama.

We even gave it a name: Yeh Bhi Theek Hai, inspired by the officer's catchphrase that punctuated his sinister role. As we practiced and improvised, the story began to take shape. Our small group laughed, argued, and threw out ridiculous ideas until they somehow came together into something we were all proud of.

When it was finally time to perform, the excitement—and nerves—kicked in. The makeshift stage was lit by the glow of the street light above, and the audience consisted of club members, passersby, and a few curious onlookers. I threw myself into the role, letting the character's fear and determination consume me.

And then, I saw him. Or at least, I thought I did. A figure stood on the stairs by the road on smv portico, watching intently. My vision wasn't the best without my glasses, but something about the posture, the way he stood with his arms casually crossed, made me think it was Daksh.

The thought sent a jolt through me. Suddenly, every line, every expression felt amplified. I wanted this performance to be perfect—not just for the audience, but for him, if it really was him out there. By the time we reached the play's dramatic conclusion, I felt a strange kind of exhilaration.

But when I looked back to the stairs, he was gone.

A wave of disappointment hit me. Was it really him? Or had my imagination just run wild? I brushed it off, telling myself it didn't matter. Yet, later that night, as I stood chatting with friends outside, I spotted him again. He and a group of his friends were leaving the building, heading back to their hostel. My eyes zeroed in on his T-shirt, and there it was: Daksh.

So, it was him. He had been there. The realization made my heart do an embarrassing little leap.

That night, I got a snap from him. It was a simple message: "Just saw @asmigemini perform." Seven words, but they made my face light up. I replied instantly, and our conversation flowed effortlessly. What started as casual banter about the play turned into hours of chatting—about everything and nothing.

From that night on, something shifted. Our friendship grew stronger, easier, warmer. I started sending him random jokes at odd hours, I knew they were lame, but i also knew he would reply and tease me about them and that we would both laugh.

One of those jokes, sent on a whim, ended up being the turning point.

It opened the door to conversations that were deeper, longer, and more meaningful. Conversations that, looking back, changed everything.